one kiss, thinking of the name. i don't want something like "kelly" or "rachel" or "jennifer". those names are good enough for some people, in certain places, born to a certain kind of parents, but i want a name that reflects the both of us. especially if he'll have my eyes- and you know he will. i propose nicolas. you consider, thoughtfully, your eyes pacing with the permutations of possibilities running through your head. to further my case, because you are silent, i bolster my argument with your family history and accounts of your ancestor the famous Spaniard general. it won't do, you say.
and why is that?
because that is my father's name, you say.
i acknowledge this by moving my head onto your chest. the light above our heads burns too brightly, and i contemplate getting up to turn it off, but i don't want to disturb the comfortable equilibrium we have established right here. there are only so many moments like these we get to own before the illusion disassembles and we're left clutching a pillow while we try in vain to get to sleep at 2 am. i hear your stomach growl.
i'll make breakfast?
what time is it? you ask.
7:30.
might as well. i don't think we're going to sleep anymore.
i get up, the perfect excuse to turn off that god-forsaken light. you perch yourself on an elbow and watch me dress. your brown skin looks a little crisper next to the pure white of the comforter and i enjoy the way your torso twists.
can you bring me some orange juice? i hear.
of course. hold on.
i gather eggs, cheese, onions, garlic, butter and peppers and dump them on the cutting board next to the stove, then glide to the cupboard and grab you a small mug. i need to start living like a grown up with real dishes-- families don't drink every beverage from mugs. upon delivery of the juice you thank me, as a good man should, and gulp it before rising to find your clothing. it's cold in my room.
the pan is hot and i toss a pat of butter in. it sizzles and swishes around. in a shallow bowl i combine the eggs and cheese with a splash of milk and beat these with a fork, adding a pinch of pepper for flavor. pepper's better than salt. sauteeing small chunks of garlic and onion takes no time, and the diced green pepper is added to my egg mixture. you walk from my room, tucking in your shirt, as I pour the eggs into the pan.
What did you put in them? You ask.
You’ll see. I smile.
It smells good. Can I have more juice?
Why are you asking? You want juice, have juice.
I didn’t want to be rude.
You wouldn’t be.
Wait, were you asking so I’d get it for you?
You hug me from behind. Maybe, you whisper in my ear.
Let me get these eggs done. I don’t want them to burn.
Come on, woman, multitask!
I give you my Look, and you saunter off to the couch to pick up the Time graced with Putin’s face.
There is no kitchen table in my apartment. There isn’t really even a kitchen. Most of the lights don’t work because my roommate and I just haven’t bought lightbulbs in awhile and I choose to heat my house via the oven because the landlord pays for the gas. It’s a long step down from your hacienda in cuernavaca.
The eggs are done. I take the pan off the burner and grab a plate. Today I actually have corn tortillas. I heat a couple over the flame and toss them on your plate, scraping the eggs next to them. Take some Valentina, some Tapatio, a fork and napkin, and head over to your nook on my couch.
Orange juice is forthcoming, I say, as I hand the plate down to you. You look up, as though you didn’t see me standing there, and move to put the magazine down.
Thanks, babe.
Tell me if they need anything.
It’s too silent in the apartment and I’m still thinking of names when I start to wash the dishes.
Baby- you aren’t going to eat?
No. I’m not hungry.
You have to eat something. Make some eggs.
I’m really not hungry.
Yeah, but, that’s not… it’s not good.
I know. But I really just want to lay down.
You shouldn’t do that, either.
Oh my god. Stop dictating.
I’m just saying you should stay active.
I know that, but I’m tired. My back hurts.
I walk over to the couch to pick up your empty bowl and you grab me around the hips, kiss my stomach and look up in my eyes.
29.11.07
you're dark blue
you hold hands in the rain and trip lightly over puddles. the collar of his raincoat is raised to shield his bare neck from the drippings of an icy sky, and he gazes from deep eyes full of awe thinly veiled as emptiness. hard to imagine that his eurocentric demeanor could be concerned with the recent spike in mexican deportation, you lean in to kiss him for no other reason than you like the fanning of his eyelashes as he stares unblinkingly at the exquisite shape of your eyebrows. bourbon and cigarettes linger on his lips, his fingers are bony and long. he bites his nails to keep dirt from getting beneath them.
inaninstant! you're off! and running! your coat traaaails behind you, eagerasitis to catch up. for some it might be difficult to break into a sprint in three inch heels but you think nothing of it, shrieking with delight as you hear him mumbleyelling in spanish "loca" this and "que demonios estas haciendo?" that. your heel slips and for a moment you appear to lose your footing until you're surprised by actually hitting the sidewalk. "you see?" he shouts after you. he breaks into a light jog as he comes to the rescue. your skirt's wet, stockings ripped. "easier for me" he says with a laugh. he takes the bags from your arms and pulls you up in the crook of his, assisting you in your limp homewards. "que pasa mamita? que pasa?" you shake your head and smile the "i'm okay" smile. he kisses you on the nose.
home and between the safety of flannel sheets peppered with bold snowmen you're welded to one another in the most natural of manners. you move in one fluid, unceasing motion, a sentient counterpart to the aggressive and relentless and inn.finn.it pacific. outside, the clouds have stopped wringing their hands and little fingers no longer drum on your windowpanes. the indigo of predawn is setting in, traveling its reverse path through the spectrum, and you two are still enjoying the undertow. high tide approaches, threatening it's arrival with a delicious rolling back of the eyes, more spanish mumble, the tide's coming in and if you don't move you'll be drowned, devoured by sea creatures, those carnivorous anemones and sneaky cnidarians, the tide brushes your toes and the window in which you could have stopped it has closed, leaving you tossed! about! the waves!
he has stopped moving: succumbing... at last. bits of energy, full of pluck and entrepreneurial ambition, linger within you.
intertwine as you untangle
and drift into the pleasant silence of sleep.
inaninstant! you're off! and running! your coat traaaails behind you, eagerasitis to catch up. for some it might be difficult to break into a sprint in three inch heels but you think nothing of it, shrieking with delight as you hear him mumbleyelling in spanish "loca" this and "que demonios estas haciendo?" that. your heel slips and for a moment you appear to lose your footing until you're surprised by actually hitting the sidewalk. "you see?" he shouts after you. he breaks into a light jog as he comes to the rescue. your skirt's wet, stockings ripped. "easier for me" he says with a laugh. he takes the bags from your arms and pulls you up in the crook of his, assisting you in your limp homewards. "que pasa mamita? que pasa?" you shake your head and smile the "i'm okay" smile. he kisses you on the nose.
home and between the safety of flannel sheets peppered with bold snowmen you're welded to one another in the most natural of manners. you move in one fluid, unceasing motion, a sentient counterpart to the aggressive and relentless and inn.finn.it pacific. outside, the clouds have stopped wringing their hands and little fingers no longer drum on your windowpanes. the indigo of predawn is setting in, traveling its reverse path through the spectrum, and you two are still enjoying the undertow. high tide approaches, threatening it's arrival with a delicious rolling back of the eyes, more spanish mumble, the tide's coming in and if you don't move you'll be drowned, devoured by sea creatures, those carnivorous anemones and sneaky cnidarians, the tide brushes your toes and the window in which you could have stopped it has closed, leaving you tossed! about! the waves!
he has stopped moving: succumbing... at last. bits of energy, full of pluck and entrepreneurial ambition, linger within you.
intertwine as you untangle
and drift into the pleasant silence of sleep.
18.11.07
you can rely on me honey (or can you?)
WHAT kind of fuckry is this?, you ask. wedged between rocks and walls and no one to hear you scream your repentance. the sun is still rising behind those glitter-lined clouds and you don't know who to call first.
While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:
*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer
What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?
In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.
...
And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.
...
In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.
Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.
(jesus, etc. and radio cure by wilco)
While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:
*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer
What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?
In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.
...
And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.
...
In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.
Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.
(jesus, etc. and radio cure by wilco)
16.11.07
rellaumb
i have a habit of leaving.
perhaps it's a bit more serious than that. perhaps it can no longer qualify as habit and is now chronic. perhaps. perhaps perhaps maybe perhaps. mayhaps. mayhaps an obsession with chiapas brought the latino to the forefront of my mind and kept him around. no, he didn't wear a mask, and wasn't the sole owner of subcomandante marcos's finger... but. his attitude just screamed chiapas. his accent, torréon. A/X was never mine to leave. Somehow I left him anyway, yelling mash it up, jesus! every step as i descended from the pedastal mexican men tend to place their women on.
...
he'll find a new woman to mother him. someone who can get by without bothering him.
the space between you... and i... is filled with geometric shapes of undetermined sizes and bright colors. you're an earth tone, it's filled with earth tones, too. we're not too circular: our space isn't bubbles: it's lines and rectangles and graphic design with SIMS characters that look nothing like us but throw great tantrums that include the swinging of arms around the head and a great stomping of feet. if i had a code in which i spoke the alphabet would be lauryn and bob's command to turn your lights down low. our words sound better in twilight.
perhaps it's a bit more serious than that. perhaps it can no longer qualify as habit and is now chronic. perhaps. perhaps perhaps maybe perhaps. mayhaps. mayhaps an obsession with chiapas brought the latino to the forefront of my mind and kept him around. no, he didn't wear a mask, and wasn't the sole owner of subcomandante marcos's finger... but. his attitude just screamed chiapas. his accent, torréon. A/X was never mine to leave. Somehow I left him anyway, yelling mash it up, jesus! every step as i descended from the pedastal mexican men tend to place their women on.
...
he'll find a new woman to mother him. someone who can get by without bothering him.
the space between you... and i... is filled with geometric shapes of undetermined sizes and bright colors. you're an earth tone, it's filled with earth tones, too. we're not too circular: our space isn't bubbles: it's lines and rectangles and graphic design with SIMS characters that look nothing like us but throw great tantrums that include the swinging of arms around the head and a great stomping of feet. if i had a code in which i spoke the alphabet would be lauryn and bob's command to turn your lights down low. our words sound better in twilight.
6.11.07
not easy. being green.
the sounds of sleep coming from that mouth include but are not limited to a faint whistle, the grinding of teeth, and the slightest "pop!" like the sound of the bubbles bursting in the room of the fizzy lifting drink. fiz zy lif ting drink. little pops, the snap and crackle of good dreaming, of a leftover desire after spending it all on raspberry cookies and a little bit of sweat.
egos aside, this was pretty decent.
egos aside, i can't get you out of my head.
egos aside.
ears feel like the bendy rottweiler ears you used to fold back, but are soft and plump to the lips and nibbly to the teeth. nibbly is what you'd do if you had the day to spend doing nothing else. you'd nibbly. i'd eat sugar straight from the packets just to keep going just to connect just to have that time, whenever that time can be gotten. fleeting fleeces of pieces of self and service that come with the sweetness no one else gets. it's easy to trip down that canyon path, with just a little goat to lead me.
san timoteo or reche? not the one where tina's buried, the one that's always aflame. orange groves and the bodies of missing girls dug up halfway in brilliant neon rose sunsets. air pollution makes the prettiest colors and we. sure. have alot of it. everyday is a winding road. that leads to ice cream. and car accidents.
breathe man, breathe. and kiss like your life depended on it. breathe until you can't anymore, until i can't anymore, until it can't. anymore.
spilled juice of a life wasted and forgotten by all but those of us who see it play in our heads at night. theory says you're one of a million thoughts that run through the cinema of my brain at night, that you're one of a billion thoughts that occurred noticed or not through my head during the day. theory says. the ory sez. i saw you tell me you were okay. was this my brain's feeble attempt at something comforting? wrapping itself around and through a concept it couldn't quite grasp while conscious and so had to latch to while resting? or was it, could it have been, like the first lady's ouija board, a glimmer of what is constantly being reached for sought after, hunted. was it... it can't have been. you're burning in hell. or so the evangelists say.
egos aside, this was pretty decent.
egos aside, i can't get you out of my head.
egos aside.
ears feel like the bendy rottweiler ears you used to fold back, but are soft and plump to the lips and nibbly to the teeth. nibbly is what you'd do if you had the day to spend doing nothing else. you'd nibbly. i'd eat sugar straight from the packets just to keep going just to connect just to have that time, whenever that time can be gotten. fleeting fleeces of pieces of self and service that come with the sweetness no one else gets. it's easy to trip down that canyon path, with just a little goat to lead me.
san timoteo or reche? not the one where tina's buried, the one that's always aflame. orange groves and the bodies of missing girls dug up halfway in brilliant neon rose sunsets. air pollution makes the prettiest colors and we. sure. have alot of it. everyday is a winding road. that leads to ice cream. and car accidents.
breathe man, breathe. and kiss like your life depended on it. breathe until you can't anymore, until i can't anymore, until it can't. anymore.
spilled juice of a life wasted and forgotten by all but those of us who see it play in our heads at night. theory says you're one of a million thoughts that run through the cinema of my brain at night, that you're one of a billion thoughts that occurred noticed or not through my head during the day. theory says. the ory sez. i saw you tell me you were okay. was this my brain's feeble attempt at something comforting? wrapping itself around and through a concept it couldn't quite grasp while conscious and so had to latch to while resting? or was it, could it have been, like the first lady's ouija board, a glimmer of what is constantly being reached for sought after, hunted. was it... it can't have been. you're burning in hell. or so the evangelists say.
30.10.07
there is nothing subtle about this.
he's rigid, heavily lined. a perfect little rectangle with a domed skull- a talking legoman.
leggo, man. your grip is painful.
there comes that time for self-preservation. you find it easier to drift off at dawn next to a pseudo-stranger than climb into bed next to the person who knows you inside and out.
whom you know in-side and out.
smoke thick and hazy blurs what little vision you have already and makes you more susceptible to lightheadedness and shortness of breath.
there should be a pill for you. to get rid of him. to let him flit from your brain while you sleep so you can finally awaken and be refreshed. really refreshed.
it's complicated, you scream over the phone above the traffic and sirens while looking over the crosswalk and seeing only the endless Pacific and serenity of a west coast sunset.
leggo, man. your grip is painful.
there comes that time for self-preservation. you find it easier to drift off at dawn next to a pseudo-stranger than climb into bed next to the person who knows you inside and out.
whom you know in-side and out.
smoke thick and hazy blurs what little vision you have already and makes you more susceptible to lightheadedness and shortness of breath.
there should be a pill for you. to get rid of him. to let him flit from your brain while you sleep so you can finally awaken and be refreshed. really refreshed.
it's complicated, you scream over the phone above the traffic and sirens while looking over the crosswalk and seeing only the endless Pacific and serenity of a west coast sunset.
23.10.07
musings on a voracious wildfire
you're consuming all of me. charring my soil and throwing sand as though it's yours to throw. anger at profound betrayal of your people, the bitterness of stolen land being inhabited for so long with plastic people fuels your furor and forges you on.
in your wake you leave skeletons of imprints formerly laid as you taunt the people to resist. what began as a novelty, as something we took time out of our day to watch with leisure, has turned into a nightmare. my memories are on that land you're foraging. my memories are of that land and in that land and are that land. and you, in all your glorious reds and oranges and golds, are rendering those memories rubble.
if only you generated rebirth. my tall eucalyptus, weighted down with images of warm afternoons spent romping behind the blanket-curtain of mike's room, pictures of nate and me swimming in oceanside, and dozens of other candids that surface in salt-watery recollections, is reduced to embers that shine long and luscious from the oil in every thread of my being. if you encouraged reincarnation i'd come back as a skyward palm, untouchable but for those with enough skill to conquer my steep exterior, my fronds blessed and holy. or an orange grove, the scrumptious fruits fertilized by your mourning ash and made more delicious through your pain.
alas, you are only destruction. until the cold waters of the pacific tame your passion and rage, you will exert your wrath on everything and anything in sight. your smoke signals have been seen and duly noted by the gods. end your fight; there is no honor in devastation.
i have oodles of people all over southern california. please keep them in your thoughts.
("sing for absolution"-muse. and also, "at least that's what you said" by wilco)
(photos from yahoo.com u.s./national news)
22.10.07
manic. depression.
here's why:
pigeons in lockers. log-rolling to "when doves cry". sitting on little pillows. "I'M TRYING!". christmas trees tied to the side of a car. santa tied to the chimney. the dead raccoon in the locker. the toilet on the front lawn with a light shining on it. "that was cruel". cleaning the game closet. passing out in the front yard. cleaning french doors with a mop.
their legacies must live on through me.
dream beautiful and unusual. my heart will live through you.
okay. and what i really opened this window for:
It's easy to be angry when you live in a vacuum and you forget that we've all been through varying degrees of the same shit. But it's also difficult, when you know the reason behind the actions. Behind all of your Marlboro-Red-Johnny-Walker-Black exterior is a tired and fragile little boy working up the courage to take a baseball bat to his father's back.
It's okay baby. Someday it'll get better. Someday you'll stop having nightmares about it. Someday the panic attacks at the sight of tall bald men will disappear.
If he'd let you hold him for more than a night you'd tell him this, whisper it in his ear while he slept, unwinding the hypnosis of years ago.
The false sense of romance is what intoxicates. Stubble-faced and slightly drunk he stumbles up to the landing and the plateau where we'll both stop to look and contemplate the fine shaped mouths and noses and how to navigate new terrain before plunging head- and- legs- first into a steep ravine of the unknown.
In the morning
on the sober dawn of Sunday
(and Sunday did indeed dawn soberly)
you know all too well
what you have done.
Love's everlasting bliss and
fidelity is mortal and inevitably fallible, through
thought, word and deed.
("good night"- kanye, al be back, mos def)
pigeons in lockers. log-rolling to "when doves cry". sitting on little pillows. "I'M TRYING!". christmas trees tied to the side of a car. santa tied to the chimney. the dead raccoon in the locker. the toilet on the front lawn with a light shining on it. "that was cruel". cleaning the game closet. passing out in the front yard. cleaning french doors with a mop.
their legacies must live on through me.
dream beautiful and unusual. my heart will live through you.
okay. and what i really opened this window for:
It's easy to be angry when you live in a vacuum and you forget that we've all been through varying degrees of the same shit. But it's also difficult, when you know the reason behind the actions. Behind all of your Marlboro-Red-Johnny-Walker-Black exterior is a tired and fragile little boy working up the courage to take a baseball bat to his father's back.
It's okay baby. Someday it'll get better. Someday you'll stop having nightmares about it. Someday the panic attacks at the sight of tall bald men will disappear.
If he'd let you hold him for more than a night you'd tell him this, whisper it in his ear while he slept, unwinding the hypnosis of years ago.
The false sense of romance is what intoxicates. Stubble-faced and slightly drunk he stumbles up to the landing and the plateau where we'll both stop to look and contemplate the fine shaped mouths and noses and how to navigate new terrain before plunging head- and- legs- first into a steep ravine of the unknown.
In the morning
on the sober dawn of Sunday
(and Sunday did indeed dawn soberly)
you know all too well
what you have done.
Love's everlasting bliss and
fidelity is mortal and inevitably fallible, through
thought, word and deed.
("good night"- kanye, al be back, mos def)
19.10.07
furtive glances in the other direction
alphabet boys is a term taken from young jeezy referencing the FBI.
obviously (or maybe not so obvious), i'm not using it that way.
i'm not sure yet that i'm necessarily writing for publication- my motives are more carnal. not to say i write erotica or raunchy romance, but that when i write something i'm pleased with (rare), i glow a little and have the best sleep i've had in awhile. i'll include musical suggestions with my posts to enhance the experience. it's your choice to listen but i do recommend it.
last, i'll post a play (scene by scene) for review and discussion. i think this will be my first piece. i'd eventually like to hand it to John Ortiz, one of the artistic directors of LAByrinth Theater Co., who's enthusiastic about reading it. we'll see. feedback/criticism is always, ALWAYS welcome!
i just ask you don't judge my intelligence based on my creativity (or lack thereof).
-the TAN of a.
obviously (or maybe not so obvious), i'm not using it that way.
i'm not sure yet that i'm necessarily writing for publication- my motives are more carnal. not to say i write erotica or raunchy romance, but that when i write something i'm pleased with (rare), i glow a little and have the best sleep i've had in awhile. i'll include musical suggestions with my posts to enhance the experience. it's your choice to listen but i do recommend it.
last, i'll post a play (scene by scene) for review and discussion. i think this will be my first piece. i'd eventually like to hand it to John Ortiz, one of the artistic directors of LAByrinth Theater Co., who's enthusiastic about reading it. we'll see. feedback/criticism is always, ALWAYS welcome!
i just ask you don't judge my intelligence based on my creativity (or lack thereof).
-the TAN of a.
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