Abandon: HIT ME BACK TO HEAVEN

(sound of voices praying)

I stopped being a Catholic when I was thirteen, but I still can’t stop confessing, professing my shit, yeah exhibitionist to the core, the showing must go on. I was borne to be an artist. I like pain. I do. It’s always lived in me, so I learned how to like it. I learned how inflict it on myself, cutting, pulling the scabs, branding. I’ve always done it alone, to myself the technique growing with time. Why? Uhhhh it feels so fucken good you just don’t know. The next day any movement reminds you of the soreness, breathing alone can cause it to sting. Maybe I’m really a submissive. Submissive. It’s an exercise in letting go. I’m not gonna try to control my life. I have to let it go, like I once did. I’d close my eyes believing in the feeling, the safety I felt in those prayers those fears laid down to rest in between those pages. But that type of faith seems so long ago and the memories turned bible page thin. I didn’t want to stop believing that things would change, that:

(in Prayer tone)

I would not lust otras como yo.

Not be broken down by rejection

Not be so fucken horny

Those prayers ceased, as did the weekly rituals.

(Sound of hand slapping face)

Te va castigar dios. If he was going to do it why can’t I do it to myself? Take my faith into my own hands. I searched for a replacement, not sure how many miles my pedometer has tracked of my strolls up and down the beach, como la pinche llorona trying to figure how I let things get to here. And still I don’t learn that like the waves you have to ride it out. Found a way to some other commandments. S/M felt like a way to command who and what would hurt me. Did I say controlling pain? But if pain is my pleasure then…oh what a tautological bind. The welts, rakes and burns, are they not strong enough to exorcise my demons.

Let me believe in myself.

If I can’t believe in my ability to love and be loved, the most basic of things then how can I succeed, how can I stop being a FUCKEN TOOL! Yeah, I am a fucken tool, look at what I build, you tripping over it right now. Just call me craftsman…I build what I can but sometimes it was hard to build me. Couldn’t jack up myself so I jacked myself up, physically. A tool, beating myself against that hard surface that would never change, never chip and sculpt to my heart’s desire, one so muddled in self-doubt.

Submissive

I feel crazy like I need to go off, fireworks, like the motha’ fucken Drake of theater, only prettier. Bet you no rapper knows this definition of busting on stage,

A black box MC, mistress of cock-inesssss, of cocks and circumstancesssss that keep bringing me back to this place.

Cual de los dos amantes sufre mas pena, la que se va o la que se queda

The one that stays, in that moment, in those feelings, suffers cause when they leave it feels like they’re yanking me from my roots. I struggle to recover and get caught up in the

(in singing tone)

anything you can do I can do better, anything you can say I can be meaner, I can be colder…I can do better, I can do better, better, better. For myself each and every day. My hands are bound and I pray, bound in prayer, bound in play-

Some people measure growth spurts with markings against the wall

Scribbles

The 3rd year, the 4^th year, 5^th year, 5^th scar on my arm. Growth entails making better decisions, they say but all I’m doing is trusting love (huh) seeing where it takes me. And it has taken me to a lot of beautiful places, people have touched lots of special places.

People leave traces

on my soul

And when it’s time to grow you have to, like the roots you have to yank and re-pot. Pick a bigger pot, more soil, water and it will grow.

Blessed is this blood that I shed for my art

Blessed is this blood (chuckles) that pumps from my heart

Blessed is this blood that I shed here today hoping to grow in an amazing way.

No catechism, no communion, just confession, cutting, cicatrizando, caressing, I’m the worst communicator in the world, a writer, a story teller, the worst in expressing my needs. So I write pieces and then I master pieces to make sense out of my life…(chuckles) My life, my life, my life a constant conversation with myself

(sound of voices praying)

pushing me to go and to go and I don’t know where that is. And damn these headaches! a constant halo of heat squished in between my brain and top of my dome. Tension, caused by my apprehension, cause I don’t speak, I don’t speak my mind but my mind speaks to me all the time and won’t fucken shut up and I have no choice but to listen.

Submissive

Clear, honest consensual the basic rules of play, but when it’s for reals, you can’t hear, what I say…I say I’m not topping enough, not good enough, not good enough, not enough.

Submissive

Give up control. I am not even gonna try anymore…acts of kindness fade like cicatrices- it’s only when it’s hot, warm and sore that you pay attention to the wound, then it, I fade into the rest of your skin, the rest of you. And too bad that we only see ourselves from the inside out, not outside in, except maybe on Facebook, seen, seen, oh to be seen.

I am not even gonna try anymore gestures are always left to be misinterpreted and my questions kill more than just the mood. I am not even gonna try anymore, no more of this topping from the bottom, topping with a soft caring hand mistaken for weak but quick bitch feel my grip- as I grab at…nothing, still coming up empty handed.

Submissive

I surrender so that you

MY You

You hear me…

Will one day too

I surrender, I surrender

I submissive

I a tool…. Come- play- with- me

Involve our entire being

Abandon what’s been played

Hit me, hit me, hit me back to heaven

Through ceremonial play

Baptize and purify me

Pressed that hotness onto my skin

Forever and ever not even death will do us part

With this brand

I me

wed

to this life of abandonment

on my journey

doing it for love

doing it with faith.

(photo credit: Raquel Gutierrez)

Exhale...finally

Such a childish gesture
one I haven’t been able to shake.
I, a child
shrugged my shoulders
little mountains,
peaks already icy,
I lifted them
looked over my right one
saw no one there
and committed
to “I don’t care.”
No kicking and screaming
the hurt away,
face didn't turn colors
no trail of tears down
my gumdrop cheeks-
I heaved
all the thinking about you
in one breath
washed away my want for you
with
a solitary
tear.
I didn’t care!
Really…
couldn’t care
any more
that you didn’t want to
see
hug
know me.
Stupid pangs
surfaced
making my heart-hiccup
and I knew I still did
care.

Wanting didn’t help
nine years of wishes blown away
the smoke cleared
you still weren’t back.

My other half
Mi otro yo?
If I am you and you are me
did you abandon yourself too?
I wanted to be more than a bastard
no box full of recuerdos
under my bed to sneak peeks at
when the missing you hurt too much.
Nothing
to remind me of your absence except
you’re absence.
The neighborhood kids’
outings to Dodger games
with their dads,
the rattling of keys by calloused
bread winners making their way home
to dinner with their families served
as sour reminders.

The heart of a mexicano
leaving to another pueblo,
another woman’s arms
another family.
No looking back
Not worried for those left behind.
No heavy heart?
Years of silence tell
me no.

How was your heart able to love
those kids and
didn’t love me.
Was I not worthy?
I believed I wasn't
for a long time
till yesterday in fact.
Wore
abandonment like a lead vest
impenetrability shielding
me from further pain me
the damage was done
and love couldn’t get through

Today
…at this moment
I know
I am not worthy
of this burden.
Want to melt the ice away
relax my shoulders
stop looking over my shoulder.
I have to stop looking
for you
for
love
comfort
to lay blame.

I hear the pangs
I see
that I have been a bastard
to myself.

Mi Gatita

Que bonita es mi gatita Siamés

Con sus múltiples tonos de café

Café tostado

Café quemado

Algunos tonos

De café bronceado

Sus ojos azules claros

Que resaltan como dos

Estrellitas sobre

El mar

Mira la saltar

Tan alegre

Y cuando duerme

Bien estirada

Sus patitas al aire

Que bonita se ve mi gatita Siamés

R.I.P Saira 09/13/2006-12/10/2009

BdSM

(Soft yellow light center stage shining over bench. Bench is draped with a soft throw)

Claudia enters stage right. She is wearing a black tank top, white tight shorts (aka booty shorts) lays down on the bench. BdSM audio and video footage begin playing at the same time.

(Audio is playing and video footage of Nadine is projected on screen. Claudia begins simulating masturbation or actually doing it depending on how she is feeling that day. She occasionally looks up at the image of Nadine projected on the screen who also looks down on Claudia).

To my butch scholar

what is Butch aesthetic?

Is it when you reflect what you see before you into words?

If so then you have to talk about my big boobs.

If so then you have to talk about my tight ass

and how you salivate at the thought

of your fingers

sliding up and down your keyboard

as you recreate me, separate me, turn me upside down

and label me.

ME-your idea!

For you to relive every time you, she, I read.

Butch aesthetic?

that captured by your eyes

digested by your mind

and ends up on everyone's tongue.

If you reflect what you see before you into words,

please include the smells.

Is that hot wax or the smell of hot skin?

Shhh listen.

It’s your heart beating in MHz at the sound

of the whip against my back,

Um, my moans.

Butch mystique?

that surrounding my butch Papi

who stirs fag/boi/tranny fantasies

like you fucking me in your mind

as you witness

gender fucker

fucking

gender fucker

performing Butch identity against what is Queer/Butch.

Gender fuckers gender fucking,

performing Butch identity against what it means to be a chicana/butch

butch violating butch…

This is butch to me…

I feel the marks of my identity

I've been the butch top in this femme-butch matrix

where my desire IS draped in femme fatigues

where my identity manipulates my desires

where I’ve been somebody's bitch

Really, I just want to be ok with wanting to be manipulated by you.

Feeling your cock-hard Domness

makes my cock hard

femme or butch both can top me the same

as long as I get spanked the way I want to be spanked.

The personal is political

but the political is not always written on the skin

I know you see me as a cabron ladies…don't deny it

can you tell I like to fuck boys/bois?

Yes

I am

one of those butches that flew over the coo-coo's nest

the kind that fucks other butchas.

Go ahead and say it "where are all the real butches."

Act surprised that I'm really down with getting down butch on butch?

(Claudia lifts herself from the bench and straddles it, begins gyrating on it (i.e. she is riding the fuck outta that bench, sensually of course))

Hola Papi,

I was thinking about you, how the other day you stretched yourself out before me, slid your hand under your boxers and touched yourself. You scooped some of your juice up! I know cause I saw as you first smelled your scent then ate it.

As if nothing you slid your hand down there again. You face twisted this way and that with pleasure and lips parted with your moans. You got the legs twitching, chest heaving types of motions. I watched until your eyes rolled to the back of your head with satisfaction and closed with bliss.

Here I go again

Talking all that little boy fetish

I like short hair,

peach fuzzed, tittie tottin' cara de niño

The prettier the better

I'll say it

Son mi cochinita pibil

Carne tierna y picosa.

Won't I ever quit

Shed this skin

(Here Claudia thrusts harder)

Step into the post pony-tail dyke

Post-drag king

Post-andro

Post-trans

Post post

Post Pomo (Claudia simulates reaching orgasm, ass tremors she and leans forward onto the bench, breathless)

all I want is to step into my post-heroic masculinity

Stop suppressing mine to uphold others'

Does it make you feel good?

Does it heave your imaginary man pecks

to put me down? To walk around me like everything is cool

even though you didn't play by the rules,

Then I'm down to let you

If you think you're Top enough to top this.

Reflect what you see before you into words….

(BdSM audio stops but video footage is still playing and then fads out. Red light shines on center stage)

(Play track 9 off CD Song: “Only When I Loose Myself” by Depeche Mode )

Nadine enters stage left. She is dressed in a dark button up shirt and tie. She circles around Claudia inspecting her. Claudia is still leaning forward on the bench, breathless, senses Nadine’s presence but does not lift her head. Nadine pulls off her belt, and snaps it once- that’s when Claudia lifts her head and attempts to get up but Nadine pushes her back down. Then the BdSM scene follows, Nadine teases Claudia, with belt, hits her ass a few times, hits her across the back HARD. The scene goes on, more teasing, taunting and slapping.

Nadine ( goes over to Claudia, yanks her by the hair)

Who’s the bad Boi?

Claudia (with a painful look, but also pleased)

You are !

Remnents

Standing with my toes

brushed by the shore

so sure

that I float

in your subconscious

tonight

a night when the moon

has cast it’s shadow upon

earth- swallowed.

I wish for a bottle

long neck, green glass

the color of algae

extra protection on it’s journey.

Una botella para embotellar

estos versos

mandarlos con esperanza

de que lleguen a ti.

Que atraviesen estas

aguas del pacifico

aguas frias, que entumecen

hasta no topar

con las arenas

del atlantico.

Versos que te recuerden

de lo mucho que te echo de menos.

Something Good

“Give you a reading? I will tell you something good.” the lady sitting outside the coffee house said to me as I passed by in a daze. Payday is not for another three days but I was so tempted to give her my last 5 bucks to hear something good. That’s what we all want, just to hear something good even though I know things will be the same, her message of hope was as fake as her powers to predict the future.

Se me pasó

no el día sino la tarea que me había asignado. Pero en fin, celebré en la luna llena, digo en su llenes, no estoy segura que use la palabra correcta pero en fin siento que captura perfectamente lo que he vivido. Llena, como si estuviera empanzada, bloated se dice cuando we retain water- cuando la sal corre como olas por nuestras venas...el agua se veía como sangre, sangre cuajada bien enlunada- digo iluminada

A prayer to Yemaya

Yemaya…

Oh madre poderosa

I surrender!

It is in you

that I place my hurt, anger, and fears

which have burdened my mind

and weakened my spirit.

I toss my problems, insecurities, and distrust

like rose petals

into you waters

and watch them dance

indefinitely on your crests and troughs.

Take them away from me

do as you please with them-

stuff them 1,000 leagues into your core

or let them drift and get tangled in your

jade and golden colored chains of seaweed.

Because I surrender.

I submerge my hopes and expectations

into your blue/black crystalline skirt

knowing that you will harbor them and share

with Coyolxaqhui as she passes you by at dawn.

I come to you on this chilled

lonely night

to have my soul soothed

by your roars,

to empty my body of anymore tears

at the ruffles of your shore

and watch as they are swallowed up

by your hissing waves

that break and shrivel

on the beach,

I come to purify my wounds

with your salty elixir.

Please, Yemaya

take what I give to you tonight as my offering.

No,

not a bunch of flowers or shiny pennies

but mis inquietudes

and my unshakable faith

because I surrender to your depth.