Archivo de la categoría: English


Sinks in a little deeper

each day slowly dipping

from hanging rings.

The more I train this muscle

the less it hurts to shoulder

a perfect split.

Merciless hour glass ran out of fucks

fresh out of time knocked the wind off my lungs

flawed execution by classical measure

o h ,   b u t   t h e   b o n e s   !

count themselves and their blessings.


Took a bunch of pills woke up soaking wet

a perfect saturated circle under me

so perfect this shadow, how?

bedspread darkened with sweat

the fabric which clothed me, dry as wry

don’t even know what I meant

don’t even think that it meant     anything

«God is the sweat running down his back,

the water soaked her blonde hair black»

I think about that,


Perhaps I sweated out all color

or slashed the walls of the world with all my clawing

and color slowly drained out


Yes, I’ve sweated out all color       feasibly in passion

but this embarrassing hue

striking against the grey.


Twenty five years a teen

so much you ask of me

«would that I could»

age out of wanting you

like I did at thirteen

foreseeable routine

to covet those who’ve misaligned themselves to me

stripping me only for parts they need

that I happily part with

as if I had no value no value

no value at all.

Train’s a-coming, you know

if we won’t meet, I should board

but you stay on your side

I let thunder roll by

we stare each other down

we each mouth something but it hits the ground.


The very first time we met he took me by the hand in the dark

The world poured back and forth between our eyes, too

poorly-lighted, once or twice

Led me through dim rooms

corridors patio now back

rooms left-to-right office to bed-

room gingerly holding my fingers

pulling my hand to where light was

Still love that moment the softest

the opposite of blindness, a gesture

a kindred I instinctively knew

through the tips of my fingers alone

Time changes most but not all

things. I know through it all this keeps true

Even if we fall out

Even in the end

Even as we pack

For I know blindness of all things

and this was razor-sharp.

With both eyes

A mimicked gesture

is the purview of children

however inaccurate

intent is celebrated

I too hurled my whole heart at

wrong pantomime

to great reviews

I search for the memory

of this warm un•failing

never to be felt again.

Camera roll

Reverence for all things past

is a reflex          unexamined

sometimes useful, like scars

often useless, like stored documents

at its most unremarkable, a daily haunting

of futures that have stalled

reaching through the screen

like light from long gone stars.

Identical hand twin

For all my clownery, I’m surprisingly insightful ⎯nay, damn near clairvoyant!

See, I’ve met the boy.
He reminds me of all things I’ve said I needed, verbatim
and some needs I couldn’t voice.
I’ve put off putting it down
here ⎯blog jinx, kiss of death!
But I’m showing.

Kept my geriatric pregnancy a secret, as one does in the early stages,
wishing for clockmaking sunsets,
for a fast-spinning gentler world
to tenderly place me on the right day’s palm.
Yes, I’ll carry this to term day.
Yes, I can tell my friends

When that day came and went, its lack of fanfare
made it all the more special. It was just there.
It was real ⎯we don’t really celebrate real, do we?
We are told we want the tale,
we want to give our hearts away and receive another in return,
one that we now own, and goes the way all property does
obsessively looked after lest it be stolen or lost ⎯and you better not lose it,
because losing makes us losers and nobody loves a loser!
Shut up.
This could all end tomorrow and it wouldn’t diminish what I’ve gained.
Delicate creatures die in hands cupped too tightly.

We don’t celebrate real enough,
we don’t appreciate the reality of being two people together,
who quietly go about their love,
wanting for the other what they want for themselves.
Closeness, travels, personal space,
forgiveness, individuality, support.
It’s the strangest feeling, loving yourself through loving someone else.
I will admit to that.

It’s funny, I thought I knew exactly what my falling in love would look like.
In a way, I did. It does kind of look like what I said.
But he has decidedly put his little spin on things.
And spun I have, around a stubby finger that looks nearly identical to mine!
It’s uncanny, the way our hands look almost exactly the same.
And that’s kind of how it all feels: uncanny.
It looks like something I’ve known forever, like the literal back of my hand
yet still surprises me ⎯makes me nervous?,
because it’s not.
It can’t be, there’s only one right hand of mine!
I don’t know how to explain it.

I’ve always hated the way my hands look, by the way.
Among many other things, as it is the human condition to think we’re hobbling trolls.
Now I’m learning to love that which once I thought was unlovable about me, silly as it sounds.
Not necessarily because he loves those things,
but because he shows me how absurd it is to be afraid or ashamed or bothered by them.
That mending won’t go away if he ever does, so that alone is forever a win.

It’s all quite the journey.
From which I should be utterly spent, yet somehow feel like I’m finally resting?
I’d keep going but his cat, the most loving, well-behaved cat I’ve ever encountered,
is currently stepping on my keyboard searching for love.
I’m both afraid she might delete the whole thing and eager to stop my rambling to squeeze the shit out of her.

So that was the update, whoever you are that still reads this.
You can stream Under Rug Swept‘s underrated healthy love anthem You Owe Me Nothing In Return for a way better take on this particular matter.
Alanis will explain it far better than I can.

The dog

An eight-story French bulldog stares blankly at me from across the street. Not even at me, but in my direction. I can never tell what those crosseyed motherfuckers are looking at. «This is quite the gamble you’ve taken.» That’s my inner monologue talking, not the dog. I don’t hear the dog, I’m not insane. I just talk to myself a lot —what else is there to do. Also, I suspect the dog doesn’t truly give a shit I’ve committed the very last of my life’s savings to this sinking ship.

No, the dog just sits there, waiting. One motionless eye on me, the other one looking off into the sunset, into a deadpan future. It seems to already know the ending, which makes for very dispassionate viewing. Yes, the dog is not invested in my story, I can tell. And who could blame it. I mean, what is this, my fifth attempt at life? We really seem to be circling last-ditch territory this time around, too.

The notion that this dog will likely watch me die and remain just as expressionless as it is right now is unsettling. Why bother, dog. Life is too short to just sit and go through the motions. Get invested, dog! Just don’t bark at me, I can’t stand it, I’m a cat person for a reason —many reasons, in fact, but that is a big one. Actually no, life is long as fuck. I myself have lived and died several times in 35 years. So who am I to tell you shit. Do whatever you want, dog. Just, again, no barking.

«This is quite the gamble you’ve taken.» Ugh, shut up, part of myself. Do you have that, too? That one refraction of your psyche that is so mouthy? There’s always that one. No matter the interface it passes through, however obliquely, the intensity of that one bitch is always off the charts. They just love to run their mouth.

So goddamn preachy and self-righteous, too. Hey asshole, if you’ve got all the answers, how come I keep fucking up! You only show up after the fact, to lecture me on things I already learned the hard way. Get the fuck out of here with that Hermione attitude. At least she had the knowledge to back it up, you ain’t shit. You think you can come all calm and collected and talk down to me in your TV dad voice after I’ve shot my shit to hell? Fuck that.

You know who I really like? Drunk me. That bitch doesn’t give A SHIT. She’s just having a blast, loving everyone and everything. Although I suppose she’s sort of unhealthy. She is a horrible binger. Cannot control her urges. She’s invariably horny and hungry. Will end the night at either Burger King or Grindr without fail. Or both! —unless she bottoms, but that’s been a rare occurrence in the last handful of years. We’ve agreed I’ve gotten too lazy to prep in my old age.

I can tell the dog is bored with us. Still there it sits and watches. It never occurred to me that I might be its penance. The dog might be serving some kind of sentence, unable to look away from the boring, mildly psychotic gay guy’s apartment. Wow. We really are so entitled. I’m sorry, dog. I don’t know what the Powers That Be are lording over you that you have to endure this. Or what you’ve done to deserve it. We’ve all done some shit.

We might just get along now, dog. Bark a little, if you must.
But do try to keep it down. I’m barely holding it together over here.


Heard luscious before, I learned warm
Seen velvet, knew tightness, tasted words
translucent like bubbles
but tension from your skin
stretched to the brim of human
overflowing with blood, alive like a wire
an understanding we’ve lacked
of terms
of bliss
as hollow phrases fill up with juice
grow rinds
give way to fruit
not an apple, but a peach
nevertheless holy and not to be touched.
I am never going to be able to unfeel you under my hands.
I am never going to be able to unfeel you under my hands.
I am never going to be able to unfeel you under my hands.
I am never going to be able to unfeel you nor feel you, again.
The weight of my greed
for each pound of flesh
is utter misery.


My appetites are larger than the width of my mouth.
There’s no biting off more than I can chew, there will be no sinking of teeth.
I got no bite, I’ve given up.
I’m at the point of hunger going backwards
it curls back, it rolls back towards vomit.
Far too small to make a dent, mousey, lousy with craving
fed up with yearning, running amok, running on fumes, going unchecked, going unfed, fall through the cracks, slip through the gaps
between razor-sharp fangs
good as brand new,
sitting unused.
Anything would do, still
not a bite, not tonight.