Foggy Notion

I made this lamp stool out of a wine box and newspaper. XD

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.

=(

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?

Its A Sight To Behold

lalala