Denial

Can I have you on your back
For one more night
…would that be alright?
To let your hair spill all over my sheets
and make a bigger mess of things.

Let's take it back
to two stars colliding in some far away universe
generating the ripples that brought us together.
I'll cloak myself in our reality, como La Virgen in her robe,
a reality OF full moons,
bare hearts
and one broken cherub

I want to get high off the scent
that drifts in the crook of your neck
and fantasize…
that you loved me with the truth till the end
that you loved me as your lover
your partner
your friend…
Let's shed our clothes
glide our hands and tongues
along each other’s contours
close our eyes
sift through the memories
searching for the hole to mend.
We'll feel as one lying side by side
making my full-size feel twin-size with our tightness.
You'll spread your legs for me
one last time,
unfold your lips like you used to
and take me in.
I'll cup your chocha with mine
imagine two hot pussies
Drenched in one another!
I'll feel your body tremor underneath me
you'll pull me deeper
open us wider
get us wetter.
The last chapter
our hard fucking melts our pussies
limp,red
into each other
rawness burning up and down our lips
flowing down our thighs.
We'll lay there like two old volcanoes
gasping ashes of our love into the sky
where specs of it sparkle till the dawn-
the ones that fall back down on us,
will make us look aged.
I'll gather fistfuls of our ashes
cram them into my pockets
then bury them at the base of a tree
water it so that the ashes get absorbed into its roots.
Hopefully,
the tree will be a guayabo
and every summer our love that once existed
will blossom
coloring the palette
of those who eat it.

Hijas de Juarez

Mausoleo
I lived in el D.F. when I first heard this word. I’d get up every morning to go to school, would wait on a seemingly abandoned road for the pesero to slow down enough for me to hop on board. By the time I’d get on, people were already hanging from the back door of the pesero. The inside was crammed with men and women slick and scented with clumps of sleep in their eyes, but all set to start their day. I’d wait for it¬–the huge arc with a cherub fastened right in the middle to appear before us–as if ascending out of the earth. From the front, the Mausoleo looked like a dull marble wall hanging from the sky from invisible cords. The gray wall was checkered with metal plaques, with names inscribed like cicatrices. This Mausoleo was right in the middle of sparse buildings, vast parched land, and was surrounded by dusty stones. It stood one mile from my apartment, and one mile from el periferico. I would always think, “What an odd place to lay people to rest.”
Los Desiertos
Los desiertos de norteamerica no son tan deshabitados como pensamos. El desierto del Mojave, which stretches from southeastern California to Nevada, is rich with Joshua trees, while saguaros speckle the landscape of Arizona –but yucca and lechugilla are not the only things that grow in Chihuahua’s desert. El desierto de Chihuahua contiene un mausoleo. It is a lonely mausoleum where tumbleweeds anxiously race across, and cacti stand around like crosses. Strips of different colored cloths, the lace of a dress, the sleeve of a schoolgirl’s sweater, and the ribbon that once interlaced a braid, all flap back and forth like bodiless wings in the wind. There are no plaques on this mausoleum, cause there are no walls; there’s only a roof of polluted air, endless sky, and a floor made from female remains, chanclas, patent leather shoes y huaraches.
This mausoleum is where precious flowers come to rest–flowers that were yanked from their roots too early, and never allowed bloom. These flowers are undetectable to the naked eye. They don’t leave a scented trail when caressed by the wind, but we know they exist because they leave vestiges of their presence knotted in murmured prayers, and in the shape of pink crosses. There are people who’ve had these flowers in their lives; they woke every morning to see their flowers get bigger, because they nurtured them with love. These people look like you and me; they walk to the mercados, get their hands dirty, and enjoy café de la hoya in pensive sips. But, when you come across such a person “buenas tardes,” while crossing the street, you notice they wear a certain look on their face, as if someone is holding them by their soul. That’s the look of someone who had their flower taken in silence, and left with a void that will resonate forever in their hearts. Many people believe that the mausoleum is watched-over by a guardian that stands atop of the mountain. They say the guardian stands tall, with his arms spread, as if ready to catch the disappearing flowers in his arms as they rise to heaven. Many others believe that the guardian is nothing but a mirage–another one of the desert’s false promises. After all, what type of guardian would allow for the flowers to be taken in the first place? The flower mourners have come together, joining their pain and hope; they use these forces to rake over the desert–turning over every ajo lily, desert zinnia, primrose, poppy, fairy duster, and chuparosa, in search of their flowers.

January 10, 2003
In a place called Stevenson Ranch, where a part of the California desert is plagued by the mushrooming of suburbia, a man squatted atop of a 400-year-old oak. It is a massive oak, thick with age, and it roots lie deep–deeper than any of the pro-expansionists’ thoughts could ever go. However, the oak stands inconveniently in the path of a planned highway-widening project. The tree-squatter fixed himself to the tree for ten weeks in support of the tree’s life. The tree was spared. For ten years now the precious flowers del desierto de Chihuahua have been disappearing. Over four hundred have been reported missing. Where do we need to squat to stop el lote bravo from expanding?


Note: Every year the Teatro Friday Kahlo has a run of "las Mujeres de Juarez". It is important for us to support this show because it keeps the death of these women in our conscious...to this day the killings continue, to this day no one still gives a dam. http://fridakahlotheater.org/Juarez.htm

Wise with Me

It’s been almost three months to the day
since the last time I felt your body
naked, and sticky with mine…
still the echoes of our fucking
wash over me in spurts.
At least I no longer smell you in my sheets,
nor emit you through my pores-

I am standing before a mirror and spot
the craters on my shoulders from the times
your fingernails clung to me.
how I wish for something immediate to fill them.
Then there are the three scars
near my lower back
deep and ribbed
hieroglyphs of our fucking
oh how good I made you feel!
So good, you wanted to take a piece of me, a
chip to carry around in your pocket
A chip you can pull out whenever you want to smile
remembering those times when
We overflowed with love
Choked on loss
Those times when I became your…
You became my
Receptacle.

I have since shared my body.
But only after I recoiled from the idea a few times
did I give myself selfishly
shielded my wounds with desire, spilled my secretes,
not staying long enough to find out if they would be kept.
Welcomed one set of open arms
then another
filled the holes in my mattress
With the flesh, juices and moans of otra mujer
only to be alone with my gluttony.

Samaritan

there is no mystery really. no wounds so deep only your kisses and hugs can unearth. I like the pain. plain and simple. Will you still fuck me? Do you still desire me now that you know there’s no one to rescue here…maybe you of course la que me pide que la haga sentir. I will be your Samaritan.