One. This tube breathes for me and I hate it. I chew on it at night like a street rat.
Two. My daddy was a preacher…I guess he always kept mustard seeds in his front jean pockets.
Three. Once air starts to taste sweet like burnt plastic and your broccoli soup is tainted with crushed pills you know your life turned into some unnatural shell of pumps and pharmaceuticals.
Four. While the congregation dreamed of the holy ghost I danced on stage with bananas round my pretty little waist and entertained my host.
Five. Those silent films are all like rusted silver from a shipwreck in the ocean: lifeless, gritty, fast paced and crackly looking on the screen. That’s not how it was at all. In fact, they had more color and life than the rosy cheeks of winter nipped woman.
Six. He was just the bees knees: mustache slicked down to a “V” and silver cuff links that shone like spears.
Seven. I can’t go to the bathroom without some whore in scrubs following me inside and babbling about the meds I hid under my tongue.
Eight. Yes, I’m that red haired doll with a ciggy in her hand, a pearly hem that rose to her thighs and inconspicuous whiskey bottles stuffed down her dress. I’m that chick who knew all the secret knock knock knocks of the day.
Nine. I saw the gun underneath Jack’s suit when he tried to catch me a firefly by the lake. It was sharp, slim and gave me some kind of fever.
Ten. Jack definitely wasn’t a lawyer. I didn’t really care. We played Mahjong and drank until the sun came down.
Eleven. She’s doing it again. Shoving porridge down my throat like I’m some bird. I try to claw at her.
Twelve. I can’t move. I realize that unfortunately I’m no bird.
Thirteen. Everything around me looks orange and cylindrical as if I were looking at the world through a prescription bottle.
Fourteen. I loved going down to the fields with Jimmy to watch the vegetables punch their fists from the manure in the spring.
Fifteen. More morphine please?
Sixteen. I never loved the sunspots on my hands more than I do today. Only they remember Coronado Beach: the oily faces, the martini glasses with green umbrellas in them, the baby crabs crawling in between my toes and the baby flies rummaging through the seaweed.
Seventeen. My baby brought me flowers and left.
Eighteen. There’s a thin paper on the hospital bed that crumples every time I move. It’s the kind people stuffed in birthday bags to make them look all full, big and beautiful but in reality there’s a pathetic gift resting at the bottom.
Nineteen. I want to disappear and then reappear as a daze, an acid trip, a nightmare, a prenatal dream, a drunken night. Anything at all just not this. Not ninety-six.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Stray
HAD TO WRITE IN SECOND PERSON FOR CLASS. THE STORY SHE GAVE US HAD A LOT OF YOU’S IN IT. I STILL FEEL LIKE I USED TOO MANY OF THOSE ALTHOUGH I TRIED TO EVEN IT OUT WITH BITS OF DESCRIPTION.
You feel your spine, that rugged canyon of bones poke from underneath your sagging skin. You lick your paws and stare at them intently. Bits of gravel and rose thorns stuck in between your them, those raw little things that have walked for what seemed like miles. You stroll along the sidewalk with your head down like the branches of some weeping willow, your eyes filled with crumbs of dirt, you’re still not sure what you’re looking for but you sure miss that little girl who’s hands always smelled like leaves after the rain, the one with hair that looked exactly like the noodles she fed you, the one who’s face you’d kiss until it would shine in the sun like the peach on the neighbors tree. Your nose drinks in the city and you try to churn and absorb those smells until you find your destination. The man in the trench coat and torn gloves scoops some canned beef and holds it in the palm of his hand for you to eat from,
“Here doggy, here ya go.”
Slobber drips down your mouth and you almost pick out whatever is left underneath his fingernails. You want more, your belly feels like its being thinned and wringed into some Norwegian fjord that gnaws and growls at your insides. A warm beam of fire coming from the trash can washes through your weary eyes but its orange arms were soon weakened by light rainfall.
You inhale the leather jacket of the man with the mohawk, the beer flowing down the sidewalk drain, the tacos the street vendor with the scar underneath his eye was selling, the overwhelming perfume on the fishnet wrapped legs of a woman, the smoke curling around the face of an infant. There is a hot dog wrapper in an alley and you press your pink nose against it to lick the remnants of the mustard.
“Mommy, he has to be around here somewhere.”
“Honey, we’ll look but we’ve called everywhere. No one has found him yet. Don’t worry, some girl just like you probably found him and he’s doing just fine.”
Your ears perk up and you see the little girl in a white satin church dress wrap her hands around your well fed waist. You see her tresses fall into your eyes and smell the lemons along the collar of her dress. That same scent passes through the alley in a paper thin kind of wisp. You look at your paw and beg for it to gather up the strength to function. Running on three legs you see the silhouette of the little girl in a balloon shaped dress holding her mother’s hand. They walk slowly down the streets with their backs towards you. Whimpering hopelessly you try to open your mouth to mumble those strange utterances you hear them communicate with. Then darkness overcomes your eyelids and the last thing you see are the ruffled lace socks and Mary Janes of a little girl. You wag your tail, huddle in between the corner of the alley and imitate the shape of the curl that hangs down the little girls head.
You feel your spine, that rugged canyon of bones poke from underneath your sagging skin. You lick your paws and stare at them intently. Bits of gravel and rose thorns stuck in between your them, those raw little things that have walked for what seemed like miles. You stroll along the sidewalk with your head down like the branches of some weeping willow, your eyes filled with crumbs of dirt, you’re still not sure what you’re looking for but you sure miss that little girl who’s hands always smelled like leaves after the rain, the one with hair that looked exactly like the noodles she fed you, the one who’s face you’d kiss until it would shine in the sun like the peach on the neighbors tree. Your nose drinks in the city and you try to churn and absorb those smells until you find your destination. The man in the trench coat and torn gloves scoops some canned beef and holds it in the palm of his hand for you to eat from,
“Here doggy, here ya go.”
Slobber drips down your mouth and you almost pick out whatever is left underneath his fingernails. You want more, your belly feels like its being thinned and wringed into some Norwegian fjord that gnaws and growls at your insides. A warm beam of fire coming from the trash can washes through your weary eyes but its orange arms were soon weakened by light rainfall.
You inhale the leather jacket of the man with the mohawk, the beer flowing down the sidewalk drain, the tacos the street vendor with the scar underneath his eye was selling, the overwhelming perfume on the fishnet wrapped legs of a woman, the smoke curling around the face of an infant. There is a hot dog wrapper in an alley and you press your pink nose against it to lick the remnants of the mustard.
“Mommy, he has to be around here somewhere.”
“Honey, we’ll look but we’ve called everywhere. No one has found him yet. Don’t worry, some girl just like you probably found him and he’s doing just fine.”
Your ears perk up and you see the little girl in a white satin church dress wrap her hands around your well fed waist. You see her tresses fall into your eyes and smell the lemons along the collar of her dress. That same scent passes through the alley in a paper thin kind of wisp. You look at your paw and beg for it to gather up the strength to function. Running on three legs you see the silhouette of the little girl in a balloon shaped dress holding her mother’s hand. They walk slowly down the streets with their backs towards you. Whimpering hopelessly you try to open your mouth to mumble those strange utterances you hear them communicate with. Then darkness overcomes your eyelids and the last thing you see are the ruffled lace socks and Mary Janes of a little girl. You wag your tail, huddle in between the corner of the alley and imitate the shape of the curl that hangs down the little girls head.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Meet Klaus also known as: Baby cats, Klaus Maus, Mr. Cat, Baby bottoms, Klaudius III, Professor Klaus, Mr. Baby, Tiny Toes…The list goes on.
My favorite song right now…=)
Out On The Weekend-Neil Young
Think I’ll pack it in
and buy a pick-up
Take it down to L.A.
Find a place to call my own
and try to fix up.
Start a brand new day.
The woman I’m thinking of,
she loved me all up
But I’m so down today
She’s so fine, she’s in my mind.
I hear her callin’.
See the lonely boy,
out on the weekend
Trying to make it pay.
Can’t relate to joy,
he tries to speak and
Can’t begin to say.
She got pictures on the wall,
they make me look up
From her big brass bed.
Now I’m running down the road
trying to stay up
Somewhere in her head.
The woman I’m thinking of,
she loved me all up
But I’m so down today
She’s so fine she’s in my mind.
I hear her callin’.
See the lonely boy,
out on the weekend
Trying to make it pay.
Can’t relate to joy,
he tries to speak and
Can’t begin to say.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
College Essay
The eyes of a rattlesnake pierced into mine like green samurai swords; we were playing a gunless duel. The sun saturated the red from the stones, intensifying the battle of endurance we were both a part of. Its nostrils begin to flare like those of a Spanish bull excited by the sight of a toreador and the shamanistic rattle of its scaly tail flowed into my ears in a single crisp note of warning………………………………
I was on the track, it was crimson like the sun drenched sand in the desert but clashed against the green astro turf on the football field. I was staring into the eyes of my coach who showed no compassion for our nauseated, purple swelled, sun scratched, anger flowing faces. This was just a psychological game of endurance. Eventually I would learn to be grateful for the challenge. I would become grateful for the many times he would scream at us, twist our perceptions of how far our mental and physical capabilities would take us and I found that my capabilities were capable of exceeding my own expectations.………………………..
I walked away towards the other side of the trail and saw a mound of clay blooming from in between the flat surface of a boulder and Cholla cactus. Fire ants sprouted from the hole in the mound, they were packed in neat military lines as I imagined they marched to the tune of “God Save The Queen”. Vulture feather quills flying in the wind seemed to mistake the fire ants for ink. I noticed, there were a few stray rebel ants that created what appeared to be scribbles and doodles of someone with writer’s block. ………………………………………
I was writing a poem using a red ballpoint pen in my creative writing class. I have a habit of using red pens on occasion when teachers don’t collect the work. The ink always reminded me of a deformed army of fire ants once the ink sank onto the piece of paper. The red grew larger and thicker in form with every movement to finally create a letter, a word, a sentence, and eventually a poem. When I wrote I indulged in every letter and made an attempt to embody it into a fire ant. Writing poetry and fiction is something that I love to do. I always hope that each letter I write stings the paper like a fire ant ……………………………………
The saguaro alongside the mound of ants stood with the graceful silhouette of an outstretched dancer; its spine was straight perfection like that of my dance teacher. Flowers blossomed from the tips of its green hands. It bathed in the setting shadow of the sun, as if it was icing its sore body from the harsh day of perfect posture in the heat. The sun-bronzed moon transformed the saguaro into a set of golden tubes. The prickly instrument appeared to be playing the mysterious jazz of coyote howls to the vibrating beats of snake rattles streaming across the ground………………………..
My saxophone dripped of evaporating Moon Rivers, Charades, Blueberry Hills, and of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It reflected its golden self against the moon in the window. The jazzy melody I poured into it with my breath went smoothly with the beat of snake rattles I imagined I felt against the carpet. The melody oozed out in the form of a desert sand storm. My saxophone taught me how to dream, it taught me how to crush my worries, and it taught me how to listen to things I didn’t necessarily hear before. …………………………..
I learned that the desert creates a psychological setting for a dreamer just as much as it can transform into a mentor, a writer, a dancer and a musical instrument in itself.
I was on the track, it was crimson like the sun drenched sand in the desert but clashed against the green astro turf on the football field. I was staring into the eyes of my coach who showed no compassion for our nauseated, purple swelled, sun scratched, anger flowing faces. This was just a psychological game of endurance. Eventually I would learn to be grateful for the challenge. I would become grateful for the many times he would scream at us, twist our perceptions of how far our mental and physical capabilities would take us and I found that my capabilities were capable of exceeding my own expectations.………………………..
I walked away towards the other side of the trail and saw a mound of clay blooming from in between the flat surface of a boulder and Cholla cactus. Fire ants sprouted from the hole in the mound, they were packed in neat military lines as I imagined they marched to the tune of “God Save The Queen”. Vulture feather quills flying in the wind seemed to mistake the fire ants for ink. I noticed, there were a few stray rebel ants that created what appeared to be scribbles and doodles of someone with writer’s block. ………………………………………
I was writing a poem using a red ballpoint pen in my creative writing class. I have a habit of using red pens on occasion when teachers don’t collect the work. The ink always reminded me of a deformed army of fire ants once the ink sank onto the piece of paper. The red grew larger and thicker in form with every movement to finally create a letter, a word, a sentence, and eventually a poem. When I wrote I indulged in every letter and made an attempt to embody it into a fire ant. Writing poetry and fiction is something that I love to do. I always hope that each letter I write stings the paper like a fire ant ……………………………………
The saguaro alongside the mound of ants stood with the graceful silhouette of an outstretched dancer; its spine was straight perfection like that of my dance teacher. Flowers blossomed from the tips of its green hands. It bathed in the setting shadow of the sun, as if it was icing its sore body from the harsh day of perfect posture in the heat. The sun-bronzed moon transformed the saguaro into a set of golden tubes. The prickly instrument appeared to be playing the mysterious jazz of coyote howls to the vibrating beats of snake rattles streaming across the ground………………………..
My saxophone dripped of evaporating Moon Rivers, Charades, Blueberry Hills, and of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It reflected its golden self against the moon in the window. The jazzy melody I poured into it with my breath went smoothly with the beat of snake rattles I imagined I felt against the carpet. The melody oozed out in the form of a desert sand storm. My saxophone taught me how to dream, it taught me how to crush my worries, and it taught me how to listen to things I didn’t necessarily hear before. …………………………..
I learned that the desert creates a psychological setting for a dreamer just as much as it can transform into a mentor, a writer, a dancer and a musical instrument in itself.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
When The Lights Go Out
Gluttony put some worms inside of my mouth. They crawl along my tongue like the maggots that they haven’t turned into yet because I was alive. Hail began to grope its hands along the earth. I start to suck her thumb and drool comes down from the corners of her lips. I continue to watch them vanish as if the sun licked them and wove them into springtime grass. I find two snails behind the shrine of rocks. One had dark brown stripes swirling alongside light brown; it curled all around its shell. It had “SALT” written on it with fat sprayed on letters. Next to it was another snail with the word “ME” written in the same thick spray paint. I named them Hansel and Gretel, but they had no breadcrumbs to find their way back, they only left behind these two silk saliva webs that they knitted with their snail skin. I followed their trail and was brought to some wall, some dome that smelled like urine apples. I was in the tunnel leading up to a river. It had these bubbled up letters, phrases and words that looked like they were about to pop. The river was no thicker and no deeper than the snail silk. I took out Gretel from my hand and drew a smile with her silk on the wall.
I was born from the tunnel, feet first. It was true royalty, gilded in spray paint brain damage. Then, I’d go to school and learn how to read, and that was when I understood the words written inside. The tunnel unfolded into this place that began to make sense to me. When it rained, my kingdom was drowned and then dried, and then the criminal artists of the moon would repaint it again. Right above the slanted walls of the dried up river, were fig trees. The ripe ones looked like purple onions whose core had swirls like that of a snail except they were red and filled with seed children. Whenever I’d eat them, I’d be terrified that the seeds would make her give birth to fig children so on many occasions I’d pick them out, one by one. I tried to imagine getting pregnant with a fig child and giving birth to this purple fruit baby with leaves for its hair. Adam and Eve’s loincloths would be sprouting from her child’s head. Once I realized I had no home, I knew it was time to walk down the slanted tunnel walls and hyperventilate my life into it to make my tears just another part of the city sewer.
When I got older, Las Vegas glued feathers to my head for the night and lady luck plucked two seashells from the ocean and placed them across my breasts as she smeared her tube of scarlet lipstick across my lips.
The acrylics of lady lust took me by the hand and kissed it. She brought me to a Vegas pyramid where I saw a man who’s black eyeliner dripped down his lower eyelids like it would on mine when I cried. I looked at the leather jacket he wore, and thought how strange it was that same cow that you drink from in the morning to your cereal can be the same cow you’re wearing. His harmonica breathed its blues and skinny lasers of air gorged out from the rectangular holes of the harmonica. He was the man that would preserve his brain not in some scientific tube filled with embryonic fluids. His brain would be preserved in the hole of his guitar: the stories that cupped his brain in musical liquids would leak through to his audience. The radio waves of the world were now curling from his scalp, to replace the hair his skull had lost. I was only a showgirl, with red lips, and duct taped thighs. I was only the jelly-injected love of his life that lay next to him beneath the surface of the desert realms.
One day, the blues man I loved was standing in front of his reflection admiring his beard and leathered shoulders. A hand of acrylic nails reached out from the mirror, grabbed him by the collar, kissed him, took out a Spanish revolver and made his leather turn to raining crimson. I smelled a dead cow in the air. I rest my head on his chest and cry his leather into rubber. His chest became another “SALT” “ME” mural for the earthworms.
The hole then filled up with skin and blood, I felt it rising into this lump of life against my face and the Spanish bullet fell out and with rest in peaceful grace, sunk into my own shoulder.
Now, when the desert mosaic sprouts flowers of snow that wets its once lip splitting and life-dissecting canyon, I’d put on the outfit of a Mirage showgirl and walk across the water-salted dunes. I’d swim in front of my trailer, in the heat waves of the desert, wearing a beaded bikini of clams and pearls, and a red feather headdress matching the Mojave sunset. The trailer was the only home I knew.
If this was heaven, where was the purity I once had, where was the music I loved?
I was born from the tunnel, feet first. It was true royalty, gilded in spray paint brain damage. Then, I’d go to school and learn how to read, and that was when I understood the words written inside. The tunnel unfolded into this place that began to make sense to me. When it rained, my kingdom was drowned and then dried, and then the criminal artists of the moon would repaint it again. Right above the slanted walls of the dried up river, were fig trees. The ripe ones looked like purple onions whose core had swirls like that of a snail except they were red and filled with seed children. Whenever I’d eat them, I’d be terrified that the seeds would make her give birth to fig children so on many occasions I’d pick them out, one by one. I tried to imagine getting pregnant with a fig child and giving birth to this purple fruit baby with leaves for its hair. Adam and Eve’s loincloths would be sprouting from her child’s head. Once I realized I had no home, I knew it was time to walk down the slanted tunnel walls and hyperventilate my life into it to make my tears just another part of the city sewer.
When I got older, Las Vegas glued feathers to my head for the night and lady luck plucked two seashells from the ocean and placed them across my breasts as she smeared her tube of scarlet lipstick across my lips.
The acrylics of lady lust took me by the hand and kissed it. She brought me to a Vegas pyramid where I saw a man who’s black eyeliner dripped down his lower eyelids like it would on mine when I cried. I looked at the leather jacket he wore, and thought how strange it was that same cow that you drink from in the morning to your cereal can be the same cow you’re wearing. His harmonica breathed its blues and skinny lasers of air gorged out from the rectangular holes of the harmonica. He was the man that would preserve his brain not in some scientific tube filled with embryonic fluids. His brain would be preserved in the hole of his guitar: the stories that cupped his brain in musical liquids would leak through to his audience. The radio waves of the world were now curling from his scalp, to replace the hair his skull had lost. I was only a showgirl, with red lips, and duct taped thighs. I was only the jelly-injected love of his life that lay next to him beneath the surface of the desert realms.
One day, the blues man I loved was standing in front of his reflection admiring his beard and leathered shoulders. A hand of acrylic nails reached out from the mirror, grabbed him by the collar, kissed him, took out a Spanish revolver and made his leather turn to raining crimson. I smelled a dead cow in the air. I rest my head on his chest and cry his leather into rubber. His chest became another “SALT” “ME” mural for the earthworms.
The hole then filled up with skin and blood, I felt it rising into this lump of life against my face and the Spanish bullet fell out and with rest in peaceful grace, sunk into my own shoulder.
Now, when the desert mosaic sprouts flowers of snow that wets its once lip splitting and life-dissecting canyon, I’d put on the outfit of a Mirage showgirl and walk across the water-salted dunes. I’d swim in front of my trailer, in the heat waves of the desert, wearing a beaded bikini of clams and pearls, and a red feather headdress matching the Mojave sunset. The trailer was the only home I knew.
If this was heaven, where was the purity I once had, where was the music I loved?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Van Gogh's Ear
Imagine a split skull with a fossil
Of a sunflower seed
On its once sun spotted forehead.
Try to memorize that
We're sick homo sapiens
With razors to our ears
And epileptic suns
In the crumpled minds that
Maddened a Dutch head.
Mad, mad, mad
With tangy thujone* and yellow.
Mad, mad, mad
For the warm, warm, warm
Waist of a rouge woman.
Only a saturated suicide in return
For a canvass to turn into an urn.
Of a sunflower seed
On its once sun spotted forehead.
Try to memorize that
We're sick homo sapiens
With razors to our ears
And epileptic suns
In the crumpled minds that
Maddened a Dutch head.
Mad, mad, mad
With tangy thujone* and yellow.
Mad, mad, mad
For the warm, warm, warm
Waist of a rouge woman.
Only a saturated suicide in return
For a canvass to turn into an urn.
Monday, August 10, 2009
My Draft Box
Car ride to church
With no brake fluid
Mother father silent
Listen to the corrosion, hallelujah
Car ride to church to
A hypocritical feast
Of phantom crosses
I'm a veteran
To a beer can
The aftertaste of a tear
With no brake fluid
Mother father silent
Listen to the corrosion, hallelujah
Car ride to church to
A hypocritical feast
Of phantom crosses
I'm a veteran
To a beer can
The aftertaste of a tear
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Heroes
When I went inside a taco place in the middle of Joshua Tree, David Bowie was on the TV screen singing Heroes and I got so excited. fejwaruwaprewa I have really poor grammar today. Soooo that song will always remind me of the desert.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
villanelle
I guess there was someone I had in mind when I wrote this.
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
Porcelain cows from their mouths spit bile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
A spoonful of that fountain youth lake
Pastille my world, if only for a while
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
The cardboards stained, its fake
Cigarette needles and dollar pills beguile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
Tainted veins curl round Salems stake
Unscrew me in my sleep, three numbers you dial
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
My bones are detached, so I rake
Them into this wind blown pile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
Pocketknife metal glides along my neck nape
Twist me into some cold case file
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
You all chant of what I didn’t take
Of what I’ve preached for mile by mile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
My earth brains are Land of Oz fake
I wish to see some more lunatics smile
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
And so I’ll find my own escape
I’m only waiting for my last trial
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
Porcelain cows from their mouths spit bile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
A spoonful of that fountain youth lake
Pastille my world, if only for a while
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
The cardboards stained, its fake
Cigarette needles and dollar pills beguile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
Tainted veins curl round Salems stake
Unscrew me in my sleep, three numbers you dial
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
My bones are detached, so I rake
Them into this wind blown pile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
Pocketknife metal glides along my neck nape
Twist me into some cold case file
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
You all chant of what I didn’t take
Of what I’ve preached for mile by mile
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
My earth brains are Land of Oz fake
I wish to see some more lunatics smile
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
And so I’ll find my own escape
I’m only waiting for my last trial
Sorry, but I’ve got a confession to make
Spare me some sober, for god’s sake
Friday, July 24, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
A Salute To Agent Orange
Something I'm submitting to Gemini magazine and some other literary magazines/contests
I drowned and swelled with Agent Orange when I was inside my mother on a ship to the United States. It unfurled around my head like a halo of poisoned tangerine raindrops and they popped one by one like bubble wrap as they fell in the form of an acid, scalding my eyes into bulging white craters. It mangled my head into some Z shaped monstrosity and it thinned my legs to bruised, sickly looking branches. I look into a mirror and see a chemically twisted creature barely resembling a human. Agent Orange thought I was a vegetable so it crushed and strangled me with its plastic grasp. It took a hold of my face with its blistered fingers and skinned my cheekbones raw with its venom rimmed acrylics. So, in the meantime I hid from society in the Mojave Desert. On some days, the Mojave moon would tempt me to hug its shadow down in the dark pits of the canyon.
I had a picture of Nefertiti pinned to the mirror in my trailer. Her eyes were like the layers of a clam. Underneath the heart, the digestive glands, and the stomach there were black rimmed pearls. She had a perfectly sculpted nose and lips like persimmon. She wore scarabs on her slim fingers and flexed them as if she meant to dazzle her sun gods in the sky. Her headdress hung down her naked shoulders like slabs of salmon. I worshipped her beauty and often tried to imitate the way she framed her eyes with a royal black border and rouged her symmetrical cheeks into pink lychees. I would paint my nails in electric blue. The nail polish smelled of an electric blue hallucination that coated the back of my throat in something that resembled gasoline fumes. My stubby and skin picked fingers looked even more hideous, but what difference did it make. I suspected the electric blue would peel off eventually like the glossy skin of an apple. I looked up and saw my Johnny Cash record still spinning with sweet grace along its platform keeping me alive.
My trailer seemed to dissolve in the chunks of this salt rink land of sand, dust and sun. At night the shadows of saguaros would satisfy their thirst by milking the white from the stars. A Yucca lizard curls its military colored tail around a tarantula and presses until it turns blue. These days, I sit in my trailer, now tipped over to the side like a shipwreck and stare at my posters of Goya’s las pinturas negras.
Then the time came when my body began to taste the bitter syringe. Death tasted like unsweetened coffee, it was sharp, stung and made you cringe. In a way dying, was like a bitter lime constricting your entire body, dissolving your intestines in this white foam of hydrogen peroxide that curled around what it mistook for wounds. Then you let yourself crust, and wake up in the same desert with a rusting trailer shriveling in the yellow slices of sun as Johnny Cash’s voice speaks of hurt. His voice comes in a dried up yodel that makes snakelike currents across the sand. Agent Orange would sit on my right shoulder and blow its fungi breath on my face until I would rot into the war crippled child of Agent Orange.
I drowned and swelled with Agent Orange when I was inside my mother on a ship to the United States. It unfurled around my head like a halo of poisoned tangerine raindrops and they popped one by one like bubble wrap as they fell in the form of an acid, scalding my eyes into bulging white craters. It mangled my head into some Z shaped monstrosity and it thinned my legs to bruised, sickly looking branches. I look into a mirror and see a chemically twisted creature barely resembling a human. Agent Orange thought I was a vegetable so it crushed and strangled me with its plastic grasp. It took a hold of my face with its blistered fingers and skinned my cheekbones raw with its venom rimmed acrylics. So, in the meantime I hid from society in the Mojave Desert. On some days, the Mojave moon would tempt me to hug its shadow down in the dark pits of the canyon.
I had a picture of Nefertiti pinned to the mirror in my trailer. Her eyes were like the layers of a clam. Underneath the heart, the digestive glands, and the stomach there were black rimmed pearls. She had a perfectly sculpted nose and lips like persimmon. She wore scarabs on her slim fingers and flexed them as if she meant to dazzle her sun gods in the sky. Her headdress hung down her naked shoulders like slabs of salmon. I worshipped her beauty and often tried to imitate the way she framed her eyes with a royal black border and rouged her symmetrical cheeks into pink lychees. I would paint my nails in electric blue. The nail polish smelled of an electric blue hallucination that coated the back of my throat in something that resembled gasoline fumes. My stubby and skin picked fingers looked even more hideous, but what difference did it make. I suspected the electric blue would peel off eventually like the glossy skin of an apple. I looked up and saw my Johnny Cash record still spinning with sweet grace along its platform keeping me alive.
My trailer seemed to dissolve in the chunks of this salt rink land of sand, dust and sun. At night the shadows of saguaros would satisfy their thirst by milking the white from the stars. A Yucca lizard curls its military colored tail around a tarantula and presses until it turns blue. These days, I sit in my trailer, now tipped over to the side like a shipwreck and stare at my posters of Goya’s las pinturas negras.
Then the time came when my body began to taste the bitter syringe. Death tasted like unsweetened coffee, it was sharp, stung and made you cringe. In a way dying, was like a bitter lime constricting your entire body, dissolving your intestines in this white foam of hydrogen peroxide that curled around what it mistook for wounds. Then you let yourself crust, and wake up in the same desert with a rusting trailer shriveling in the yellow slices of sun as Johnny Cash’s voice speaks of hurt. His voice comes in a dried up yodel that makes snakelike currents across the sand. Agent Orange would sit on my right shoulder and blow its fungi breath on my face until I would rot into the war crippled child of Agent Orange.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)