Let's Talk About Desire


The way lust can be the taught veins of a marionette
and love the sharp end of a war rifle.
Dance drunkenly shake and glide across the floor
or puncture and seep
leak black and white
a broken balance draining through a lattice bandage.
Be plastic, or become plastic
carbon chains
the element of all matter, yet nothing
but a fuck,
or a cluster of grey knealt to the ground
trying to piece something together
but the strings are so thin they can hardly be seen.
The bayonet is too far out of reach
and the hands of desire were merely a feather,
floating far from the wrist.

"Sometimes patience is a kick in the head. Sometimes a kick in the head is an alarm clock. Sometimes an alarm clock is a phone ringing in a dream, and sometimes a dream is a little piece of biography trapped inside a snow globe. Sometimes love is 2,000 miles away, and sometimes it's in the mirror. Sometimes we tell ourselves we have found something, but really we were looking the entire time. Sometimes we have the answer but we don't have faith. Sometimes faith pisses on your leg and tells you its raining.Sometimes your stuck in a snow globe and you think to yourself: I didn't know it snowed under water."

A Whirlwind of a Weekend

I suppose like life itself Cervantino brings not only joy, as the opposite lingers not too far behind. Gabby dropped something in street, which is safe to say she wishes she had forgotten. She stepped off the edge of security, released, bent down, and turned up a deer in headlights, frozen in trance, time only for processing, enough to close her eyes and remember as impact was driven into her memory. How her face felt briefly pressed against glass, how her legs fell limp, and the sound of tires creating distance. She awoke in a puddle, pale, blue, and cold, like she exited a freezer from the heavens, preserved, and promptly put back on earth for many reasons. Her face resembles the heart of a saint, shining bright with acceptance of life, thankfulness sparkling in her eyes, the skin on her face a color no one else could consist of.

The man fell from his chair seizing existence, seizing into the arms of a man in the center of Los Lobos, seizing lightly to the ground, seizing for what seemed to be an eternal moment. His hands frozen in time, locked in a shiver, as if trying to grasp light, or air. He was molested in a sense, first the man wanted to remove him from the vicinity. I quickly interrupted, "No puedes hacer nada!" Shortly after a man who worked there approached easily placing a spoon in his mouth, followed by a cloth dampened with alcohol under his nose. I felt for the victim as the taste of cold metal and fumes penetrated his brain. He could not resist either of the two and he shook as if his blood was bound by hypothermia. I could see the desire to fight in the depths of his eyes. He lay like a freshly branded calf, tired, tied, pinned by pain, forcibly receiving that of which at any other moment he would have rejected with a swift kick. His ears may as well have been notched with a knife and tagged with a red flag, as if his freedom hadn't been constrained enough from the reality of epilepsy. However, like the calf, he awoke from his disfunctional state, walked through the doors out into life collected and content.

Yesterday I spoke with a man who is very dear to my heart. The first time we have truly spoken in three years. Unfortunately the words, like the majority of the time these days, were electronic. He spoke from a place only those who have lived it could be able to perceive. He spoke from a place where buildings and vehicles create graveyards and any moment could be the last. I finally understood the difference between supporting the troops and supporting the war on a higher level. I finally understood what the army does to man, as he said he was prepared to die. Tears came to my eyes and I couldn't resist, the complete opposite of the resistance that flows through his veins. The sealed emotion that is locked somewhere deep inside him. I don't pray to Jesus Christ, but I pray for him to wield celestial armor in which he cannot be harmed. I wait for him to return from a place where possibilities are mortars, strong, frequent, and unexpected on a level that is beyond comprehension. I am terrified, proud, worried, and inspired...the first time I can truly say, "caught in a whirlwind of emotion."

The Art of Receiving Information

Breathing through optical lenses to inflate
respirate life deep into cerebral lungs,
an immune balloon fueled by shock
molecules of mystery that build the uknown tomorrow
the unexpected moment of lift
where lids and lashes cease to exsist.
Dialation, breathe deep, can't blink
possibly choke on the essence of existence with nothing to wash it down.
Don't think.
Fear is a head stone, a blank mental slate,
a chisel and hammer are the breeze that blow the blades,
which see more light, that grow
leaving only questions of sediment, bricks of curiostiy.
No light, respiration is pressure,
like compact clay, layers of heat and weight
a state in which lids and lashes are subterranean catacombs
after the value has been plundered.

Owed to Allen Ginsgerg, The Beats, and all who struggled to find themselves in between WWII and The Cold War.

Infinite admiration for the courage that resided within humanity.

A Howling New Historicist



We still see men lose minds to madness of generations.
Hypnotized by tele-screens, black and white propogandic magazines,
Prescribed morphine, and LSD.
Ginsberg saw these things
Post-war products strung on Benzedrine, traumatized from memory,

Poured back into society
Pinned down in a democratic ditch between freedom and fists

Full of ludes

Trying to escape the fight on fascism, control of communism,

Trying to hide from conglomerate eyes peering behind billboards and the tops of glass-precipice

palaces, burning money, sustaining a binary caste.

He saw discriminate palms that held their own cocks slap innocent mouths which held

someone else’s

Heads weighted down by shame for seeking identity

Hidden hand-jobs under bridges, practicing the art of straight-jacket-sutra

Painting white-cement walls

Walking out on euphoric ground until the next fix

Masculine lips

A long pin-prick-kiss

Drawing lives already lost stumbling down walkways

Asphalt-open veins

Red white and blue blooming inside dual kaleidoscopes

Vomit coated shoes

Powder coated pills, eyes wide all night, writing, smoking, scratching gibberish to make a

change

a grey voice for society.

Silent Lightning

Lead is all I have
lead is what we needeed
round soft steel
we could impress our teeth in and never draw blood
sunken line
drug to the bottom
waiting for the strike
the jagged flashes before our eyes
clashing with a turned up saw of pine
eyes bend with thudded tugs
weeds croaking humming tunes
whiskers, scales and piercing spines
blue reflected by a burst of unseen light
giving meaning to the word deadlights.

Hair curves down along your freckled edge
how sharpness frames your perfervid face,
ardent stars that burn into mine.
valleys cut symmetry through your body
defining hills and plains
deltas and streams
contours of habitation
a helix of limbs
meshing skin
rivers from within
clouds of breath
soft-dotted-ardent-stars.

Rudytudylicious, he said, “This Love.”
well, I say this life
a sacred spice
a blend of time and trend
to fold and mend
until you’ve stiched your path
survived the wrath of lessons
it’s more than a profession
what is true
it beats for you
the pace of life.

Jugglers Ball

We dance
slender waist tossed between primitive drum sticks
a tribal tango
where I control and she leads
her red skirt twirling
crimson twists turning black
in a spherical whirl of alternated angles
she planes, lifts off
her hair a straight streak
and at that moment
that second she defies gravity
my bones bend
she touches down again
rolling toward balance
I caress her
try to keep up
one step behind
until she planes to alleviate weight
then falls
we waltz in circles
until the next tango

Bathtub Confessions

wet-rimmed-rum
in bubble spheres
upon rested palms
naked knees
synergy-lit-wicks
shimmering sounds of truth,
she asked,
the craziest place he'd ever had sex
"swirling machines
infectious coins
for the cleanest clothes
scented sheets smothering sweat
liquid twists and tumbling tops."
She confessed,
"second floor from the top
in a crazed cage of lust lit buttons
broken at the seam
in a box of beams
in a descending ride
in
breasts floating
like bubble spheres
shimmering steam
and naked knees.

China Doll

Imagine, as a little girl,
for your birthday
you didn't receive a wrapped gift
instead you received two curved-
tightly wrapped feet
toes curling under
breaking arches
breaking balance
crippled to the world
you so deeply sought to see.

Madrone

a madrone in a thicket of oaks
bending, arching wooden spine,
twisting, stretching for light
searching for its missing element-
in its photosynthetic life.
she is energy
fuel for growth
beautiful brightness,
consent for stripping bark,
smooth revealing skin
a reason for longevity,
rambling bramble-
never to be trimmed
veins reaching for spherical burning
the tasteful combustion of molten memorabilia
reaching for warmth, growth, and reason
she smolders.

Cynacism between the lines

I could squeeze your neck just to see how blue your face could possibly be, a blueberry balloon ready to burst in the clutches of my dwindling patience. Hit you just to see how much damage I could do in one blow. I often wonder because I’m not an aggressive person. A hand slap, crack to the rack to slow your dome. Straighten your eyes! Think before you speak, you ranter! Over excessive comments in the most ear cringing tone, so dull and monotonous, tumbling, stumbling once in stride, on monosyllabic words. Inuyasha-cross around a neck, skewed belief and culture, open your door, be expansive, be realistic, but take a chance, “high school lovers” don’t dance in the fairy-lit-moonlight and how would samurai feel about your words?

Google-e-eyes on la professora, forcible laughter at silent moments, (eyes roll,) keep your head straight, not like a curious dog.

Take your fingers off your chin your not profound! Body language speaks louder than words.

Respect has broken the sound barrier.

Stop drinking mountain dew, it is legal crack and you might choke on your own words. Just calm down, gather yourself. Stop twitching and recycle the habit, renew it for something worth sipping.

“The …dot-dot-dot,” those are called ellipses.

A couple of mice should hook up. He could organize a musical essay, strum the keys on his palm pilot, just for her, while she creates her own cultural dance, the twittipated-shimmy-shake with a geeked out twist, and yellow-5-dye stained teeth.

Vibrant chartreuse, lines like an illusion game, laced up heeled boots, and patch pants, all under a velvet green cloak, keeps the room interesting, lit up like a Christmas tree in a theatrical roll playing game, and I expect her to roll dice for the next thing that she wants to say.

Sitting close to me the next “sane uni-bomber” recites reflections for his new screen play called “Life.” He touches on all the tasteful things, and all the abstract images my mind can handle, and leaves me wanting more. In order to take a stand against what we don’t believe in, violent forcible acts are necessary, and this man should be followed into battle.

Reflections of White

I thought of you today.
It wasn't the bush monster
guarding churchill
and our lives
wide-open eyes
watching every step
and breath
those were gone
they may have left with you
and the spear he held
towering over us
a medium for our breaths
swirling in the light
that was gone too.
It was underneath our tree
the memory leaped from beneath the leaves
and nearly knocked me over
I stood and saw the smoke curling,
billowing out from under the green-golden pages
strewn across the ground,
like a lemon-lime-quilted-patchwork
smothering the smoldering cigarette
yet giving it enough air
and cover from the water
that seeped through the deciduous canopy of light
down through rising bending trails,
like we were sending smoke signals
and maybe we were
it was a magical moment of incomplete combustion
we stood around the hidden fire
as if to keep warm
to stay dry
we were cold
and the water ran down us like sweat
we didn't acknowledge it
we stood in awe
the smoke swirling around us
and we wondered how,
but we knew what it meant.

An old soul with eyes that crawl a few strides then
f
a
l
l
to a convexed-lensed-belly
veins like limbs sprawled out as a slightly melt
ed s
t a
r
neck tucked close to the centered dark pupil heart that's let so little light in in twenty-two years
although it seems they've seen so much in the dark while walking the border between dreaming and reality.

diverged golden boughs
a limb lifted, bowing to its Goddess
a hunch backed shimmering-shady ruffled robe
limp with strength
leaning toward its mothers hand
balancing red balls on every edge-
of every piece of perfect plumage
while holding a silk sewn doyle in it's hand
you could see every thread shining,
breathing with the breeze.
A fly landed on it's shoulder
crawled around for a moment
and was lifted by the breathing

The shadow of the past is the wave of the future
consistent outlines of black chalk;
pictures of omnipresent deviance drawn on the streets by the sun
printed and reflected off the moon
the stars are projectors
keeping the reels rolling
intangible birthmarks of darkness
ubiquitous shadows
irrational inkblots of what morality isn't:
people standing in a resevoir of rebellion with the shade pulled over their eyes.

"Gifted people that take their lives are spirits of the universe simply exiting the world, letting their words be heard somewhere else."

To The Patriots

Tattered flags flap then sag
stained stars and unraveled threads
we represent.
Wisps of wind and rain
we send
symbolize our name
as it descends in the eyes of the world.
Power monsters devour
wealth mongers hoarde
and waste...
away like the stripes that fade
from the solar rays
our people project on the monitor
throughout the days.
If only we'd communicate
paint our names the bright colors
we love to wave
let the people explain
democracy our founders sought
tell the world we're not all monsters
the conquering
the killing must stop
let our stripes be sewn tight
our stars shine bright
and peace be given to all!

A Peace of Kindergarten

Wring the wrongs
from this right wash rag
twisted in my white hands
bleeding bright through dirt
the color of the blue earth
spoken words smeared,
merely inert
creativity colored flesh
this intriguing mess
of smiling faces are contagious
eyes wide and round,
like the rug held down
by fifteen bright paperweights
wiggling, waiting to create.
Days pass like pages turned
and letters traced
squiggly curves trying to replicate
but each minute is different
each mistake is a lesson
we naturally contemplate.