there are eleven days in a week,
and the months pass by in fiery torrent
with only the moments spent sleeping containing the only clarity
that keeps the eyes of dreamers
peeping for youth.
a transient & solitary sunflower sits
on the broken mass of a windowledge planter box
next to the spot she planted her engagement ring,
hoping to watch happiness and fidelity sprout
into the yellows and violets and sunbursts of
long-lasting fulfilling and matrimonial promises,
but no home can bloom when it doesn’t rain,
and the months have been temperamental
at best.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Claridad
Hoy, yo veo con la claridad
de una prostituta embriagada,
convencida de que el dolor simplemente
es un beso de Dios,
y que la mejor forma de pedir perdon
es con las manos atadas,
de rodias,
con la boca abierta
y los ojos cerrados.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Self Fish
fishing for my self
in melancholic low-tide and the surf
is swimming me in reds oranges & yellows
and there's not enough oxygen
no there's not enough
and i'm running out breath
and there's still so much i want to say
but there's not enough time
and i'm running out of oxygen
and i thought today would be a perfect day
to fish for self
but i caught the high-tide around mid-day
and all the purples and blues and greens
were chaotic
and i can no longer feel my toes
because of the cold
and i can no longer feel you
because of my fishing self
don't drown, kid. don't --
in melancholic low-tide and the surf
is swimming me in reds oranges & yellows
and there's not enough oxygen
no there's not enough
and i'm running out breath
and there's still so much i want to say
but there's not enough time
and i'm running out of oxygen
and i thought today would be a perfect day
to fish for self
but i caught the high-tide around mid-day
and all the purples and blues and greens
were chaotic
and i can no longer feel my toes
because of the cold
and i can no longer feel you
because of my fishing self
don't drown, kid. don't --
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Still-Life Study
file your nails down to the wick,
grow your hair out past your dreams,
try to outrun the fire burning inside of your fever,
bat your eyelashes at the missed opportunities passing by,
close your fist trying to hold on to the last sound of my voice,
listen up for the sound of the last train that could have taken you home.
tell me all about your sunflower’d sighing and tempest coughing,
disguise the obscenity of youth inside that smile you keep on your nightstand,
dress the wounds your past has left with that beautiful dress
you hold at arm’s length as you ask me if I still love the sight of your voice,
grow your hair out past your dreams,
try to outrun the fire burning inside of your fever,
bat your eyelashes at the missed opportunities passing by,
close your fist trying to hold on to the last sound of my voice,
listen up for the sound of the last train that could have taken you home.
tell me all about your sunflower’d sighing and tempest coughing,
disguise the obscenity of youth inside that smile you keep on your nightstand,
dress the wounds your past has left with that beautiful dress
you hold at arm’s length as you ask me if I still love the sight of your voice,
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
i swear
i Swear by the moon with a
tumultuous rabidity and mediocre
Howl; i Swear by the hand
of the seven seas , where veins are
full of the charity of gratitude -- thunderous drapes
that linger with the sound of
the wind;
i Swear by the
nine birds of fate which i do possess
and know nothing about; i
Swear by the whimpers that escape
the corners of my mouth
when you sit on my belly, &
feel the warmth of your
sex
which ignites passion
and disaster; i Swear by the
solemn toes on your left
foot which has not received
any of my attention;
by all of This, i Swear
that i do, in fact, love Thee.
tumultuous rabidity and mediocre
Howl; i Swear by the hand
of the seven seas , where veins are
full of the charity of gratitude -- thunderous drapes
that linger with the sound of
the wind;
i Swear by the
nine birds of fate which i do possess
and know nothing about; i
Swear by the whimpers that escape
the corners of my mouth
when you sit on my belly, &
feel the warmth of your
sex
which ignites passion
and disaster; i Swear by the
solemn toes on your left
foot which has not received
any of my attention;
by all of This, i Swear
that i do, in fact, love Thee.
Monday, December 2, 2013
2.
what a roaming delirium
we are drowning in,
enveloped by the fragrant melodious harmonious
toxic weather — that which does
remind me of your lips
and the way they smell
when you stand behind an
opened door.
O! Delirious nature of Destruction.
Whisper the many colours of
the dreams you had
into my ear
when i’m not
looking;
i know what it means
to want,
everything and nothing.
i don’t want
that. i will give the
Universe everything back just
to touch smell kiss
& entice you with me.
we are drowning in,
enveloped by the fragrant melodious harmonious
toxic weather — that which does
remind me of your lips
and the way they smell
when you stand behind an
opened door.
O! Delirious nature of Destruction.
Whisper the many colours of
the dreams you had
into my ear
when i’m not
looking;
i know what it means
to want,
everything and nothing.
i don’t want
that. i will give the
Universe everything back just
to touch smell kiss
& entice you with me.
7.
a drunken disillusion
to know that you and i
and us and we and them
are nothing more than strangers
and us and we and them
are nothing more than strangers
who have (or have not) met.
i hold my tongue always
when i, i, i, when i am afraid
that you will not hold your tongue.
when i, i, i, when i am afraid
that you will not hold your tongue.
i want to hold your tongue.
xiv.
o, what grandeur, what palpitating
intrusion this chest mine feels,
what weightlessness, what pressure
my heart feels, tripping over its footing
causing the doc to worry, causing the
clock to slow down, and all the moment
to catchup. God!
intrusion this chest mine feels,
what weightlessness, what pressure
my heart feels, tripping over its footing
causing the doc to worry, causing the
clock to slow down, and all the moment
to catchup. God!
Monday, November 18, 2013
Estoy envenenado con las ganas y el deseo
De mil hombres, no dos mil, no diez mil, no…de todos los hombres que han tenido ganas,
Y de un miedo que explica la
Razon en terminos
De el idealismo magico,
El realismo fatigado,
La tortura dulce,
La misericordia divina,
La revolucion cotidiana,
Una paranoya perfecta,
Y un simbolismo embriagado.
En donde te encuentras, y como te encuentro? Me has dejado moribundo, paraplegico,
desolado, desmallado, debil, anonadado, sentimental, y con la sabiduria de un cojo,
que se le ha olvidado como era el
Caminar sin tropesarce con
Sus propias ideas.
Mira, lo que estoy diciendo es que
Al fin me siento completo,
Y es todo gracias a ti.
De mil hombres, no dos mil, no diez mil, no…de todos los hombres que han tenido ganas,
Y de un miedo que explica la
Razon en terminos
De el idealismo magico,
El realismo fatigado,
La tortura dulce,
La misericordia divina,
La revolucion cotidiana,
Una paranoya perfecta,
Y un simbolismo embriagado.
En donde te encuentras, y como te encuentro? Me has dejado moribundo, paraplegico,
desolado, desmallado, debil, anonadado, sentimental, y con la sabiduria de un cojo,
que se le ha olvidado como era el
Caminar sin tropesarce con
Sus propias ideas.
Mira, lo que estoy diciendo es que
Al fin me siento completo,
Y es todo gracias a ti.
To her
What a fecund and glorious yesterday
I will wake up to tomorrow!
Full of the living, breathing, teething,
mesmerizing, rehabilitating memory
of what life brought us today.
I am terrified of the reality that we now live in
but I am willing to fight against
every drunken urge
that they throw our way.
This will not be easy
and it shouldn't be.
When I said you are a type of magic
I meant that you are truth.
The kind of truth that leaves little
memories around town,
on my clothes
in my beard
against my skin
wrapped around a finger
in my subconscious.
I am still finding your hair everywhere.
I have grown accustomed to it,
but it still surprises me.
It still scares me.
I am raving mad.
I am drunk but I have not touched a drop of alcohol.
I am a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing.
I am drunk with thoughts of you.
You are eyes, ears, mouth, legs, breasts,
freckles, hope, stomach, flesh, blood,
whispers, dreams, a fantastic ass,
passion, a midnight tremble, the space between words
in my favorite book, the loud silence
I hear when the world is quiet, a forgotten
goddess, a moment of peace, a fierce wind,
an answered prayer, magic.
You are a type of magic
which bursts with the beauty
of a thousand pregnant suns!
Yearning for desire, passion, knowledge,
sex, flesh, lust, love, a fuck that will leave you
exhausted and sleeping for a couple of nights,
until you wake up,
kiss me again,
and whisper at me with your eyes.
I am left hollow just imagining
what you taste like,
what you feel like,
what you look like,
what you dream of,
what you want out of this,
& what you keep from me
in between smiles and laughter.Don't hold you tongue.
Give in to your bursts!
For heaven's sake,
burst!
I will wake up to tomorrow!
Full of the living, breathing, teething,
mesmerizing, rehabilitating memory
of what life brought us today.
I am terrified of the reality that we now live in
but I am willing to fight against
every drunken urge
that they throw our way.
This will not be easy
and it shouldn't be.
When I said you are a type of magic
I meant that you are truth.
The kind of truth that leaves little
memories around town,
on my clothes
in my beard
against my skin
wrapped around a finger
in my subconscious.
I am still finding your hair everywhere.
I have grown accustomed to it,
but it still surprises me.
It still scares me.
I am raving mad.
I am drunk but I have not touched a drop of alcohol.
I am a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing.
I am drunk with thoughts of you.
You are eyes, ears, mouth, legs, breasts,
freckles, hope, stomach, flesh, blood,
whispers, dreams, a fantastic ass,
passion, a midnight tremble, the space between words
in my favorite book, the loud silence
I hear when the world is quiet, a forgotten
goddess, a moment of peace, a fierce wind,
an answered prayer, magic.
You are a type of magic
which bursts with the beauty
of a thousand pregnant suns!
Yearning for desire, passion, knowledge,
sex, flesh, lust, love, a fuck that will leave you
exhausted and sleeping for a couple of nights,
until you wake up,
kiss me again,
and whisper at me with your eyes.
I am left hollow just imagining
what you taste like,
what you feel like,
what you look like,
what you dream of,
what you want out of this,
& what you keep from me
in between smiles and laughter.Don't hold you tongue.
Give in to your bursts!
For heaven's sake,
burst!
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Exodus I & II
Exodus I & II
i have been asleep for the past few years.
Not physically, but mentally, spiritually, incandescently,
radiantly, gallantly, arrogantly, etc.
i missed the entire era of self destruction, of degradation,
of a time where it was okay to tell people they were
acting like shit eaters! Instead i woke up to a burning
soliloquy of blatant disregard, elegant euphemism, and
drowning hypocrisy. In this era, the shit eaters are
the Kings and Queens and we are merely holding the
electric candles to create their shadows.
All i want is true nihilism. i can't even get that. All i
get are fake tans, bleached hair and bleached assholes,
pseudo social independence, mock class, and a whole lot
of incomprehensible sensitive bullshit. Not even the
good kind. Not even the kind i could tolerate on the
other side of a bottle of whiskey or rum or wine.
There are sights and sounds all around me that coincide with
my desire to sleep and sleep and sleep until i can
sleep no more and then go back to bed and keep on
sleeping, but instead i sit around in my underwear
daydreaming of the last time we fondled the night away
undressing each other in metaphor and we both came to
the conclusion that sex is the only respite and then we
would fall asleep pretending we knew who the other one
was only to realize that either neither of us had a
name or we were incapable of remembering them.
i thought of you again for the first time since the last
time. i thought of you in Black & White, then again in
technicolor.
i thought of you in the same way a moth might find itself
thinking of its pattern of flight, curiously inspecting
the leaf on which it wants to land, or perhaps my
thinking of you is more closely related to the way a
body's radiation might stop to think about the
condensation building on the window dripping water and
lust onto the windowsill.
When i thought of you i got a sharp pain in my pancreas and
my gull bladder started leaking out the naked memory of
you, because that's where i feel you on Monday mornings
when it looks like its about to rain... Perhaps
tomorrow when i think of you my intestine will begin to
function again. Maybe next week when you come to mind,
as i'm crossing the road of some busy intersection
where i don't even bother looking both ways because
thinking of you is really beginning to take a toll on
me, maybe then i will feel the need to have another
bowel movement;
Meanwhile, you might be sharing your precious flesh with
someone else and maybe for a brief moment you will
think of me, maybe you will close your eyes and in that
moment of pure ecstasy and bliss you will mouth my
name, not even causing a break in the still and quiet
surrounding you.
That is enough for me.
where are you now? what have you been doing? are you happy?
is it still winter?
Can he penetrate your bones and hide behind your marrow the
way i can?
i feel as if you just left me here, sitting on this
proverbial bench which could very well be my need for
you to come back. You just left me here and the months
have passed by aggressively, with a subtle resentment
towards me. As if i could control the weather or you or
myself or my erection for that matter.
Perhaps if i could, you would come back to me in the form of
shadows in the rain.
Oh! it is always fucking raining here, even when there isn't
a cloud in sight.
I'm still thinking of you when the guy walking across the
street drops his bag and from within the bag falls
pages of words that hide eternity in their disfigured
symbols. i'll never know what they were or what they
said, or if he wrote them or someone else did, and if
that person wrote them for a lover or for some cunt who
broke his heart. The same way I'll never know what you
think of me.
i think of you now, but not as your own person. At this
point, i'm not even sure you ever existed. You are
nothing more than an extension of me. You are an extra
finger on my right hand or a third leg or perhaps a
second chin. You are my memory.
You have shown me that there is no way to prove the
existence of God, and yet you have inspired me to look
for a theory that explains what isn't there.
A way to explain you.
i can smell the eggs you had for breakfast. That is to say,
i am sitting in some symbolic cafe, listening to some
woman yapping on about her husband's new assistant and how
this young nubile creature might be exactly what
her husband wants, with the sun burning my skin through
the glass and I am picturing you had eggs for breakfast
and i can smell them on your breath. i still remember
your breath. The faint underlying notes of slight
disillusion, and a hint of the mint leaves you like to
chew on at night with your tea. i can still smell the
aroma of what you had for dinner last night. It's
embedded in your skin. i can even tell you the names of
the cross streets of the place you ate at last night. i
can remember the tones of the way your breath sounded
when you breathed heavily after running or fucking, and
believe me, no symphony will ever be able to recreate
such inspired unadulterated morbid beauty.
i haven't seen you in ages.
An eternity really.
And still i see you wherever i go. i'll be walking past the
Veteran's hospital and think of all the wars we never
fought in; the thoughts replaying in my head like the
loudest silent film. i walk past the hospice and i feel
older than the undead statues inside and more calloused
too. i walk by the theatre on Main and my memory starts
to act up again, but this time by reminding of all the
movies we never saw. And yet i know how they all end.
i know how everything ends.
You told me everything ends horribly and i believed you. Is
that what you were trying to prove with this?
Where are you?
The Past & Present have all become obscured by the reality
that tomorrow is going to be the Future, but even then,
this moment, these goddamn fucking words were once my
future, You were once my future, but now this is really
what i'm supposed to be looking forward to? working
towards? Every moment, every insignificant scratch to
my face, every yawn, every meal i've ever had or
skipped, every fuck, every shit, no matter how hard or
soft, or burning piss i have ever taken has been
leading me to these words. This moment.
God! i sure hope i'm using the right ones. i wish i could
say at least two words of this to you in person, but i
have no idea where you are.
Could it be that i will find you under the bed? i haven't
looked there yet. Maybe i'll find you at the bottom of
a cereal box right next to a hooker's smile and a
decaying old man who still has the ability to dream.
i'm writing all of this hoping you'll care, but i know
the reality of this: you've forgotten me, and why
shouldn't you have?
You've forgotten all about the time we waltzed through
museums and aged alongside the crooked taxidermied
priest and the rotting alter boy with his pants down by
his knees, the Mona Lisa and that figure of Elvis that looked
as if he were melting, and then out of sympathy
we started melting too.
We tapped our way amongst the jaguars and the lions, past
centuries of orphans who were too busy looking for
parents to notice us.
We jived past the useless prosaic librarians in their
thriftshop flannel, and we stopped for a cigarette by
the three lovely lesbians who were discussing Pompei,
the wooden cock, libertarianism, chicken noodle soup,
life, liberty, and the existence of the Five Hour
Orgasm, all the while writing obscene stanzas of
verbatim'd vernacular and jibberish on their arms in
the name of post-existential feminism and the sexual
liberation movement.
We lived an eternity in that museum.
We aged like we lived;
with balls, with dreams, with endless swagger.
We remembered our past lives along the hallways; how we
wrote the earliest creation myths, and now people
insist on calling it religion.
You still call it bullshit.
Do you remember when we lived on the moon and we would spend
entire afternoons, days, weeks, months, years, laughing
at all the imbeciles who needed oxygen to survive, when
all we needed was each other? Do you remember the first
time you read Kafka and you cried because you said he
was talking about us?
The last time i saw you you were walking into a sea of out
of tune pianos, all of them playing some baroque garb
on an infinite loop which resulted in this catastrophic
symphony which brought tears to my eyes, and reminded
me of what it means to be human, imperfect & horny,
unaware of all the limitations i will never know, like
my inability to ever use words to express the emotions
my bowels feel every time they think they catch a
glimpse of your silhouette through department store
windows, or the desperate flowers of thought that will
never bloom out of my ears.
All of these are the worst forms of torture God or anyone
else could have imagined.
That was the last time i saw you.
Do you remember when you told me it was okay to be a
bastard, but to always be a gentleman about it? Do you
remember how you told me that it was just fine if i
couldn't believe in God, because at least you do exist
and as long as you existed i didn't have to believe in
anything? That it would be enough for me to breathe in
your eternal youth and to slowly open my eyes to you?
Do you remember any of this?
Where are you?
April 2013
The Last Cannibal (Excerpt)
Ruben Aguilar: stalker of the dolled-up skeletons that prowl the streets by night, renting out their sacred
and lived-in skin to the empty shadows of men, who by day are the geniuses of finance, impeccable bankers, devout Catholics, and alchemist poets.
and lived-in skin to the empty shadows of men, who by day are the geniuses of finance, impeccable bankers, devout Catholics, and alchemist poets.
Ruben Aguilar: lover of film, theatre, literature long forgotten by time and a generation of bastards, arias so beautiful they could resurrect even those who are most dead, mid-day siestas that remind him of a happy childhood he never had, and a faithful client of the local brothels that have more in common with the out-of-town festival meat markets than actual houses of pleasure.
Ruben Aguilar: embittered inveterate, crotchety old bastard, ritualistic loser, and barbaric manic depressive.
All in all, Ruben Aguilar: professional motherfucker.
In his youth, Ruben Aguilar, had been in love with a woman who was, both, married, and a mother to three children. Two of them died in a house fire less than a week after Ruben Aguilar had declared his eternal love to Esmeralda at the end of that radiant spring.
Even though the fire had been caused by her husband's abusive drinking and his incessant habit of lighting a candle for his family's saints every time he opened up a new bottle of tequila, Esmeralda blamed Ruben Aguilar for having spoken words of love and herself for having entertained such beautiful words from a boy who was only a few years older than her oldest son at the time of his death.
Both Ruben Aguilar and Esmeralda spent a summer of hell, feeling a violent void so deep within themselves that they felt, both, every emotion and nothing deep in their gull bladders.
Not only had two of Esmeralda's children died that spring, but a short while after the Holy Fire, as everyone began calling it, Esmeralda's husband had to be taken into the city and admitted into the insane asylum because he had suffered from a nervous breakdown that had left him with severe paranoia.
Esmeralda's husband spent the rest of the twentieth century alternating between clinical trials of electro-shock therapy and experimental, stress-reducing waterboarding. In his downtime, he was strapped to his bed from where he helplessly watched as the Germans he had killed in the Second World War surround his bed with the violent demeanor of demons that wanted to hurt him.
Esmeralda, on the other hand, tried to fill the void left by her two oldest sons and husband with the son she still had. Unfortunately, the young child was more scarecrow than child, and they spent the majority of that atrocious summer in the cineplex, run down by lack of maintenance and overall abandonment watching foreign films with scenes much too violent and pornographic for the young boy, but Esmeralda was so deep within herself, she never saw what they were watching.
Ruben Aguilar, suffering from his first broken heart and struggling through his first bout with depression and nostalgia, found the secrets of the modern man: alcohol and cheap meaningless sex.
Ruben Aguilar, suffering from his first broken heart and struggling through his first bout with depression and nostalgia, found the secrets of the modern man: alcohol and cheap meaningless sex.
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