your heart is my art

You know
you know
you a trip!
Hanging with you is visiting
the unfamiliar
not knowing where I’m going
not raising any expectations
and I don’t carry any baggage.
Each visit or ‘art play’ I rack up
air miles, nothing but smiles
as my CV grows
artistically and otherwise.
Don’t take offense but what we
are doing is bartering
each other’s skills to enhance our own.
You know my creative button is always on
you asking me to thread my words to your
installation pieces is nothing but a good reason
to write, so I write you Mistress
write the things that flow
to my head, those moments I feel in my heart.
Your heart, your heart
your heart is my art.
Don’t cry me a fucken river with that mental block shit
I only allow that to happen to my cock
I’d rather walk around all blue-balls
then black ball my art.
Your heart, your heart
your heart is my art.
The chemistry is there, careful with the sparks
our shit is toxic, not like bad
but sick…like when you get off a rollercoaster ride
or the way I feel when you ask me to
I get off
right.
I get off this writing.

I recently learned to embrace the term
“Cause I deserve it”.
But still I, I , I trip
I’m a tripper, I’m tripping over myself
trying to write about shit.
“my creative button is always turned on”
making, faking, stirring shit up
and our collabos keep me outta trouble,
But you say to me “you’re funny”
which = I’m cute
I wonder what “You’re trouble” = to
I’m no trouble at all
really easy, I am
just want you to be pleased
with me Mistress.
I know I’m a shit talker, forgive me
but do know I’m not full of shit
I’m as real as real art can get.

I can’t forget that she asked if you were my girl
my subject… the magical creature I paint
in my narratives, a unicorn of a woman
who knows how to make me trust
trust in love.
I spread my “social graffiti”
on your psyche
my words seep inside your head
like a Mistress gets inside my head
she, the first and last thought of my day
Could I think about her
more than I pray?
No way, that’s just the wrongest
thing to say…
Does it matter?
I can have faith in another.

The Woman Who Looks Like a Tree

Daughter, you’re grown now you should really find someone to love you, respect you; a woman who knows your worth. Daughter are you listening?

Mama, you are my mother and I know it is your duty to worry about me. You won’t rest until you’re certain that the love you have for me, an unconditional love, be not replaced but at least replicated by another. I assure that the news I bring to you will ignite you not with rage but with brightness. For who would’ve ever thought that this other being, this woman would arrive in my life. She is a woman like no other, my, my, tongue stutters, I don’ know where to start. No, I didn’t meet her on some dating website, nor through mutual friends, it was simply one of life’s coincidences. She is known in various places as the woman, who looks like a tree, well because her contour is that of a tree, her long limbs skinny aged branches raised towards the sky like a Russian ballerina. She is my Muse, her visions shoot through her mind onto the canvas like strips of shooting stars. She stirs me, and like a dandelion I lose my shit, can’t control and don’t want to control my emotions.

Her love reminds me of a Granada, pregnant with tiny seeds, packets of wine that bloomed from those little flowers that bloomed on my grandpa’s tree. Remember?
Mama, that is exactly how she is, blooming with love, not seasonal either, she is there for me 24 hrs a day, in me. Although I haven’t relished in her fruit per se I do relish from so many intimacies- the fruits of her labor, her praises. Her praise like her roots, this woman who looks like a tree helps me grow. She lets me know with an honesty as clear and steady as the waters that enrich and nourish, she tells me when I say, do or look good.

She is grounded like a ripe fruit, she grounds me like a weeping willow. She carries the wind in her soul; she makes my soul shiver with her passion. I see her and I really don’t see her for, days, months until I find her again, then I find myself under her umbra- she doesn’t eclipse me she takes me into her world.

The dream continues. Our lips barely graze each other like leaves licking away at your window on a breezy night, with her it’s always a breezy night; laughter, talking and listening. She loves me tender, “if you love them show them,” she told me this one time and time and time after time she shows me. Like a Mistress, she helps me master good habits.

Where did I meet her? I met her there in those cross roads, where paths are passed and crossed over, there in those cross roads, cross she wrote in my skin 2 degrees deep- I think. Ring? No mama she gives me no ring, I AM a ring forever and ever prettified like a Redwood in her trunk. I will be part of her being for eternity, her visions and my words will survive like the constellations to be discovered in ceremonies hosted amongst the tress, surrounded by green, mordant, green, mordant, mort? Strengthens? like the woman who looks like a tree. Mama, trees give shade, shelter, food…they feed us unconditionally. Listen to me little Ms. Hug a Tree. YES! Especially if it looks like the lady that brushes her branches up against me.

I right you Mistress

She walks into the green room
Gives hugs all around then
like a sub who’s had enough collapses
in my arms.
My Mistress,
I can’t touch without permission
yet I took in her scent
pressed her into me,
her hot breaths erasing
anxiety, insecurity that stirred in me.
It was our night
our audience awaited
to see our play unfold
Yes leather, yes dominance, yes submission
and pain
she rummaged through her suitcase of accouterments
looking for that single tail, whip or knife to
tenderize my back with.
We’ve done this dance before
in private and on stage
underneath
the heat of the lights and collective silence of the audience
a deeper intimacy goes unnoticed.
Two pros engaged in creative exchange.
Yes play, but definitely procreating
without reservations
artistic instincts on high
as we set out to inspire
give you something to Tweet about.
She felt my vibe
she had to the way I did hers
the audience, numbed by our chemistry, did too.
Each come up to us one by one, smiles wider than
the black smile on Mistress’ face, eyes dilated
from witnessing artistic souls colliding on stage.

Mistresses come and go
bruises disappear
brandings fade
artistic exchange remains in my core.
She’s the first artist I’ve mixed intimacies with.
I am her first too,
first butch
first pretty boi, first papi
and want nothing more than to
make her smile and call me love
even if she puts me in a corner
silent, newbie voyeur watching
women’s bodies slither over
across each other,
turning the Moroccan
room upside down
to exchange kisses
caresses and finger fucks.
Lips on tits, asses and pussies
my lips dry from heavy breathing
as all I can do is watch and lust.
Shit I don’t give a fuck, put that plump ass on my head,
fuck her brains out on top of me,
ride that bitch hard, grind in my face
tie her to my waist as she sucks on my titties.
Ordered us to manhandle you, more fingers than you can count
crawling over you
till you put us to bed.

You are happy, pleased with the performance
pleased with our performance.
You remember, said so yourself…perfect
Like my ass in those leather pants
like your bondaged breasts
like your ass grinding on my cock
the one you grab so freely
making sure that like your
Slave, it’s at attention
for you.

You wanted me to write you a poem
so I right you Mistress
cause this will be the third…
Carve a cross
Across my chest
Or hit me
hit me back to heaven
through ceremonial play
I’ve discovered
the paint in the dark
the touch all that you eat
the blow beautiful notes side of you.
Ain’t no secret that I think you’re hot
I enjoyed just massaging you
unloosening the knots in your calves
warming up your ovaries,
knotting my fingers around your ass
pulling your toes
being spread over you
getting wetter
as imagined what it would feel
to fuck you
to burry my face in between your ass cheeks
and feast on it.
You said it best
“I love our relationship”
you inspire me
to be creative
to be nice
to be positive and loving
to be sensual and sexual

Enslave Me

Carve a cross

across my chest

I want you to be my Mistress.

Cross, cross,

crossed your heart and hoped to die

by my side my love

but all I FEEL is outside of your

gravitational force

a black whole

My Love.

My sister tells me que tengo a dolor en mi corazon

No, I tell her, I don’t love misery

She’s my muse

she looks soooo good in reds.

Besides

it’s a feeling just like the rest.

…across my chest

Pain is so different than misery-

Pain is like the cycle of water

pours down hard on you

evaporating with time.

Release

…it’s what it is

I want you to be my Mistress…

I need a coach in letting go.

If I already feel lost

what the fuck do I have to lose?

YOU

got my back Mistress.

Have it, have it

Take it

take it!

The more you give it

the more I take

-I can take it

but YOU will have it all.

Have the thumping

of your flogger

against my back

haunt me

days after days

Mistress

cause You have my back…

ass, legs, chest, sex.

Hit me with that sense of urgency

I’ll take it with that sense of Ohmmmm

Ohmmmm…. Ohmmmm

That sense of urgency?

Mindfulness

nothing else.

Who…is out there?

Who…cares?

All the cares

cares, I let go

And I’m there

hovering.

Your flogger

each hit

louder

in my ear

the breeze blows

out of me the wind goes

each thumping against my back

reverberates against my lungs.

Asphyxiation?

Look Ma, no hands.

I free fall into that subspace

Cross, cross my arms

across my chest.

Enjoy the free fall

hold it, hold it tight

make muscle memory.

Mindfulness-

nobody else

not even the stars that have

come out tonight

matter.

We’re all made out of matter.

Then why does shit, little shit matter?

Put me in that corner Mistress

put me in that space

There’s nothing but space

Subspace, subspace, subspace

Enslaved in the…

Enslaved by the…

subspace

created by your

delicious flogging

Mistress

Just let me continue to hypothesize

dramatize

hurt

As I get up again from every breakdown

Mistress

I promise to get up

Just let me remember you there

with me.

Paint a perfect picture

dance your brush against the shadows

Mistress

my Angel of Mercy

stroke on that canvas

stroke on me

enslave me

helpless and vulnerable

not hiding from you

no hiding behind an ego

I breath deeply in

ecstasy and agony

perfectly

filling up

the Black hole.

Mistress

you brought it to me

again…took my trust in your hands

Hurt me the way I like

to be.

Catch You on the Rebound!

Things have to come full circle. I am checking my self here… because back on May 27, 2009 I wrote an entry called “Because I’m Fucken Queer till 2010” and said basically that I will catch you on the rebound. So here I am- one day after Judge Vaughn R. Walker of San Francisco struck down Pro. 8 declaring it unconstitutional. (Yes this post IS late- cause it actually happened on August 4th and today is not the 4th). I’m happy about the results, we know that the battle is not over (rolling my eyes) but we can still celebrate- we have to celebrate the small victories to keep us going to the next one. Small victories that fuel our strategy, fuel our passion. Even though my niece is already making plans to plan my wedding, dolphin themed at that! I am not ready to take that step. Not because I don’t believe in marriage etc I am familiar with it’s chameleon-and-one reasons it’s been institutionalized in societies, I believe in the principal of the thing and of course there is the emotional and spiritual definition the ritual validates as well. The big L-O-V-E! Yeah, I’m down for marriage cause I don’t like how Prop. 8 feels too much like “separate but equal” status. It is the principle of the thing, think about it: not all women or people in general who are pro-choice would go out and get an abortion or support the idea of their loved one getting one. So be against marriage but don't be down for Prop 8 either! Whatever, Down with the bullshit already. Hey but you know what, smart and persistent that was the key to the Civil Rights movement. One victory- desegregating education, desegregating counters. After another victory- boycotting buses and sanitation workers striking. The people kept on keeping on because they believed that change was possible- there had to be a better way to live. I will continue believing because I believe in change. I’ve had my probaditas of cohabitation and I’ve liked it. Nesting, some call it, entangling more and more into each other as the years go by and then maybe have some little chicks. Sure, why not it’s not so bad. Some Queers would argue that why go for marriage when there are so many other pressing issues going on that we can and should address. And I say to those Queers, hey guess what they are being addressed- read the newspaper, read someone’s wall for god sake, post a comment, SB 1070, the fight for a national HIV Prevention Strategy which we finally got, education reform, US out the Middle East and I’m sure we can still hear ‘Free Mumia” shouted across college campuses. There is a cause for everything and everything is its cause. So WHY NOT this one? Cause we should remain Queer and not be forced to morph into straights clones to be treated as equals, we should be equal just as we are, and....? Well you know how the rest of the argument goes. The irony is that Judge Vaughn R. Walker used the whole Queer/Outsider argument to support this case- he argued that gays are a minority group that deserve equal protection! He is arguing that the courts should use what is called “strict scrutiny” when dealing with sexual orientation in the same way that all race-based classifications are subjected to strict scrutiny to ensure that policies are not violating constitutional rights, as in gays having constitutional right to marry. So we are queer, his opinion says so now that that’s settled let’s go and be equal protection Queers. Sure maybe marriage isn’t your thing but look at the political/legal ramifications this case has brought. Look, maybe you’re not wearing the veil but open your eyes man! It’s not just about being accepted in society, as if that were so bad, it’s not just about “gay-lesbian-trans-love” it’s about gaining some sort of political leverage, having the laws work for us when filing for discrimination, leverage for when we as Queers turn to the system and don’t have to still feel disempowered cause the law don’t treat us good neither. Sure it could’ve happened some other way but this is the opening that we have and the lawyers are gonna run with it, try to take it to historical proportions.

On another note let’s talk about gay student suicides, why is it that nationwide, gay youth are four times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual peers? Studies show that 90% of LGBY youth have experienced some form of harassment at school due to their sexual orientation and two-thirds of LGBT students reported feeling unsafe at school.[1] But the problems don’t end there, as a community; we have to deal with alcoholism being an integral part of the gay/queer scene. This friends, has to do, at least partially, with the alienation that many of us experience not only from our families but from various types of social support. Many youth feel like they can’t report their experiences to school administrators- who are they going to turn to? The church, their families…school is already crossed out of the picture. I’m not saying that marriage is a panacea and will make these problems go away but it will set off a ripple effect in the many institutions set up in our society to directly/indirectly provide social support to young/older people alike

Healing; circa 2007 but gotta keep it REAL-evant

I look at my wound

A fleshy calaca

Speckled with pink and red dots where hair follicles

Once existed.

It is my cortada with its rosada edges

an umbra of swollenness.

I look at my wound

Slimy como un gargajo

Me llena de asco

But why does my mouth water when I look at it?

I focus on the pain

Feel it throb up and down my arm

Makes my nails tingle

I feel the throb until my clit tingles.

I ignore my cut for days

Leave it exposed, victim to the elements

Vulnerable to infection.

“Huh I should put something on it. Some ointment or something.”

I research the web under branding and in the process

Learn about the highly infectious nature of burns.

One degree more and I could’ve damaged the nerve endings.

I cover my wound with a Band Aid

To silence the pain.

My thoughts get the best of me

I get chilled with loneliness, paralyzed with irrational fears

My thoughts run wild

ever present

bare

like bones

I reach for the Band Aid

And as I pull it off the stinging mixes in with another type of pain

The pulling of tiny hairs from their root “sssss, uh.”

Pain.

Pains

make me who I am, makes us who we are

Our bodies are screaming with pain

Physical, mental and emotional

Pain brings us together

It repels us

“Get away! You pained me.”

“get away you’re damaged goods.

Look at my wounds.

“Cover that shit up.”

I struggle not to be hostage to my pain

But it is my pain

Fuck you for giving it to me

Fuck you for not knowing it.

“Can you see my wound, it’s only residue?”

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)