Prayer on a Rainy Sunday

Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,

is the masochists way

to know that the burning

the blood

busted cells and pus drying

hard, crunchy on skin

is taking it as Jesus did.

Taking this sinful world as it is.

Not as I would have it

never as I would have it

but about how you give it

make me take it.

Blindly trusting that You will 

make all things right,

the space, my head my throbbing wounds 

markers of my  surrender to Your will, 

knees a popping mess on the concrete. 

Concrete proof of doing anything

just so that I may be reasonably happy in this life.

But it's the next one that matters, next time, next opportunity

next night, next breath as long I have the next opportunity to

be supremely happy with You forever

in the NEXT.

Amen.

Spurn the Pain

It is fatal to be a man

or a woman- pure and simple.

One most be a womanly man

or a manly woman.

Be honest!

Can’t lead the soul,

one must follow its journey.

Allow it to be unhinged, squeaky

like a barn door after usage

and abuse. The soul, unhinge it

from the demands of the flesh vessels.

Leave the material world

don’t be materialistic but celestial, moon-like

One face, same face

varied in luminance and darkness

as celestial beings coincide.

Labyrinth,

twist and turn from the static macho

and powder puff cardboard molds.

Fear spreads like ivy in your chest

attempting to smother growth.

And if on the eve of the journey fate wills

that you should run an iron nail into your foot

Spurn the PAIN!

Limp along, don’t crawl away, seek out nurturance

from others; fire eaters, fire walkers, the knife swallowers

who have crossed the same terrain.

4.14.11:49

Grit. That’s what my social location has imprinted in my work. It’s how I do art and what I say with it. Grit is also about how I say things- like someone who is tired of the bullshit and doesn’t want to be another voice in the crowd. Because I am not, there are no crowds around here to hear this Compton poet. I write from the chill in my bones, from the hollow in my heart, from a –dollar- from- broke.

4.14.11:48

Can't believe it's been this long since I plastered my ass up in these walls. Look so barren, like they waiting for something to happen. I a mad dog, dando le vueltas a este asunto.  Chomping at the bit to get at it. Circling it never stops, VOLADORA de PAPANTLA doing it to end the drought. Write to end the silence, create to suspend the lack.  Sit there with your back vertebrae stack one on top on the other-not a fucken sandwich! A ladder to climb up or out, which direction is this kitty headed?

Amor

Amor

Roma

         Mora

                 Ramo

te extiendo un ramo

de olivo

para tu piel

para lubricar nuestras

relaciones que parecen

haberse secado

te extiendo un poco de alivio

ablandándome a tus modos-

rodilla, tobillo

dedo gordo hinchados

inflamados dilo como digas

pero hay fuego. Hay fuego dentro

de mi.

Es mentira que el ardor

todo desmorona

mis nervios son columnas

Roma

rondando dándole muchas

vueltas a esto

debo caerle como

zopilote consumir de tu cuerpo

atracarme de ti

quedar pesada, inflamada

contigo. Pero siento miedo

y me vomito

ayi esta el rechazo

te quedas mirando mi embarro

y me echo a volar.

Amor del bueno

amor del Viejo

como Roma

puro como la blancura

de las estatuas que cubren la ciudad

grandezco e histórico.

así me la imagino.

Amor

tu eres  del bueno

me haces suspirar

palpitar purpura

como la mora

que es mi corazón

convirtiéndose

un

caleidoscopio

de emociones

me llevas contigo

a las orillas

y de repente me jalas

pal centro.

Soy una iris midiendo

la luz ala que me expongo

abrí los ojos, ya veo.

Te veo

Amor

Amor del bueno

amor del Viejo

Amor mío.

So so so so so so Special

Hang ups got nothing uplifting to them

always make me crash. Spirit bent

like an accordion my voice all muffled

gets louder in my head

emotions choke me, my throat an old  muffler that got

miles of stories to run. 

I ruminate on a time we had

one moment that gets me all stuck

like my 12 times tables. Xs flying at me

like an ex’s under-the-table-come-ons. 

Come on! Come on!

Let’s move on the present is not talking

about the future nor the past. Come on! Come on!

I need a bump- bump the needle off

my thoughts on-loop. Admire them

like vinyl on the wall of a greasy hipster joint.

Hang-ups. They slow me down

actively, shut down my imagination.

It’s supposed to be a teenage thing but

hey I still get pimples so why do I think

insecurities clear up with degrees.

You’d think I’d know better. My recall

is terrible, only bring to mind the times

I failed…failed myself.

Need to hear from others the times

that I succeeded. Even then I don’t believe

just feel like a generation X-er demanding

my trophy for showing up.

We all want to be something in this world

there is power in numbers but when I say things

like that it’s just skirting the issue

at least I ain’t lying

coming straight as an A-line

My mouth is scared from secrecy

a scab flaps loosely

loosened by my slip ups.

My tiny jerky

my piece of me rotting from the inside

from not pressing my feelings

my heart, my pelvis on to you.

Punishment for not nourishing on your lips

that I forget how perfect they are until I cant

press up on them. Humming bird lips,

vibrate perfectly

causing a backwards reflection

to the first time I skinned those lips.

Our history.

I know I love you

cause I resisted pulling the skin off

my lip. I didn’t yank that crispy skin

with the tips of my index

finger and my thumb.

I resisted the pain

the pleasure of the sting

flooding my body as the blood

sprouts out my lip down my chin

warm trail. Resisted having

my lip swell from the immediate jolt

instant gratification rather be fully satiated

by the feel of your lips.

I let myself heal for you- my history.