Categories
Writing

May Not be Art At All

So many other projects and skyward goals laid themselves out to him, but he could not bear to surpass them. He hadn’t wanted to surpass. But the life of a saboteur chose him. He was built to consider only himself–support only himself. Humanize no one.

Instead, I looked to finding ways of believing the dream was a farce. At this moment, I closed my two wet eyes, forcing my energy into a charged fence around him.

The woman smelled of limes and some other spice my untrained nose was unable to pinpoint.

“He’s going to ruin your life.”

“Who?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

Her last letters rounded like a dog’s tail in its slumber. I may not have known the smells because I hadn’t had enough meals, but I knew her. A grandmother of mine, but not mine. Of skin, but not quite the undertone. She was unmistakably Dominicana. This statement (outside of feeling and knowing and knowing I knew who she was speaking through) slapped me in the mouth as a paradox on its own. But without smells and sounds and ways of hands and other loud whispers, no one can be quite any one tribe. But I knew.

Thursday morning, I had a pimply whitebump in my mouth. I resisted getting out of bed, telling myself it’d still be there when I got up. No rush. I brushed my teeth after some red wine. As I pulled the bristles back toward the front of my mouth between ragged breaths, I noticed the brownblack bottle of peroxide nearly wobbling on the sink’s edge. It all comes back to guilt, sloth, and lust. Hassle-free addictions. Often not even requiring extra stops to pick them up. And so hard to drop. Afterward, eventually looking up and asking, “But haven’t I always been this way?”

Can you imagine my surprise when the Twitter app force-quit on me each time I went to draft a tweet? It is still the best possible PR for me, honestly. The last account I had was a shitposter’s dream. I wouldn’t dare attach my name to it. Or “couldn’t bear”–you choose. Whatever fits your idea of who you believe is writing this. Assume you know anything about the writer of what you’re reading and you’ll see yourself soon enough in the patterns. Going into patterns like that. Until you become an example of an anxiety-riddled bundle of chaotic, untrained ‘potential.’ So the audience is what determines the meaning…writer’s fallacy… Too bored to unpack it.

Ah! Then I happen upon a tweet I feel too ashamed to share, but I felt the keenest connection to— What I enjoy could offend someone. So then what happens? I hide my opinion in the lower crown molding of the small wall I get in the gallery of my life’s work? Because the other perspective is that it might not be art at all?

And I cried and woke up crying again. The tear on my nose one moment and then my pillowcase the next minute.

What is the weakness with him?

Going in patterns like that.

Categories
Poetry Writing

So Normally

Now I am supposed to grip your hand back

Otherwise you’ll try checking my pulse

Be alive. Stay present.

I was supposed to lean against you

but splashed Slurpee in your frozen lap and now you’re bluish

How long was I squeezing your hand?

Like a doula, you let me realize when the nerves were gone

And simply didn’t call me again.

Categories
Poetry Writing

Futility

resistance is futile.
thinking of us daily
prepared you for me
since before you’d heard
of resistance.
and still
you have wanted it.

Categories
Writing

The Few Bushes on Fire

Had I known there would be arguing, I would have stayed indoors. To be fair, it hadn’t quite been sanctioned by the governor for us to be out at all. At least not in our state. All uncovered and in close quarterers, seeking answers.

Arizona was still practicing a far from heroic form of social distancing.

But there was something I needed to smell. Before men arrived in bright colors to extinguish those same, bright hues. I needed to smell the almost cologne of tree leaves after all of the water has steamed away. I thought of bracing myself against the blaring sirens to come. It instilling in us a sense terror to follow terror. For a construction site had just burned down less than ten days prior, ten square blocks away.

What was left of the clear air, I felt guilty soaking up for myself. Somewhere, a parent who never wanted to be one, takes gleeful relief in the recommendation to save oneself before the children. And a young boy unwanted by his parents isn’t old enough to be grateful he can finally die today. I nearly let my worry of the world consume me. That was until my eyelids struggled to push back a film penetrating the oil and water of my corneas.

The battle for noise and confusion was being won by nature, but man was not far behind. The noxious air gave way to shouted questions, directed at no one in particular. Here was now a reason to be heard by the selfsame neighbors we’d each avoided since moving in.

I stood outside watching… becoming transfixed thinking of a medical clinic I passed five days earlier. The signage stood out—its contrasting colors calling my immediate attention. Burnt orange and violet combined for such displeasing imagery; there was no choice but to let it burn into my memory. They called it Fast Med, but it looks like the sort of place where you spend hours just waiting to be seen.

An older, grandpa-type brought a bluish tarp to the front. Ambling himself into the cut-out of a porch his wife spent a winter morning turning into a garden. “They’ll need to get used to it eventually,” I immediately thought the better of suggesting. He stared at me for a little while anyway, turning back to his garden and spreading the crinkles out before draping it over the gathering of Chicago Peace and Mister Lincoln roses.

My belly laughed a bit, the chuckle dying out in my throat. Him hearing me in English and recalling it in Spanish, I realized he probably would be struck by few extra layers of hilarity and grimness. Save Mr. Lincoln. Save the peace in Chicago. Yeah, he could go ahead and throw that tarp away. Or leave it covering those roses like corpses until the next fire a week from now.

So I stood still, my right hand on the cool, uneven trunk of a tree in the park some meters from my front door. Closing my eyes to the greyish air, I focused on remembering each fire I’d witnessed, lest they be forgotten altogether. I soaked in the noise like rancid CO₂. Doing my best to translate it. Modeling myself after the unaffected trees surrounding the bushfires twenty-two miles northeast of Mesa, Arizona.

On the morning of June 21st, Alan Sinclair reported, “The incident management team has assumed command of the Central Fire.”

Noting, “Cause: Human-caused” and nothing furthermore than that clipped mention of man’s influence.

Categories
Poetry Writing

Romans 7:11

Thanking fading sins

Doubt of consequence is seeping in.

Each one shaking with feeling, but wouldn’t say, “And the commandment, which was ordained to life, I found to be unto death.”

The wind hinting-hurling at a tempest mind says to the emptiness in waiting…

Though it was to be filled with faith—

Being whole unknown to us—wholesomeness unknown to us also, “May I wonder?”

“For sin, taking occasion by the commandment deceived me, and by it slew me.”

Until, in some way worthy of your grace.

Your giving of it making it so.

May I believe there is nothing more to abhor of myself if you have found something worth loving?

Or have I once again shown my brazenness?

Categories
Poetry Writing

At Sea

If Calypso could keep Odysseus ashore
and stare at oceanic expanses knowing everything before the horizon belonged to her

Could clasp her arms around the breastplate of the warrior of the world

If Odysseus could gaze at her holding peace


at black hole sun, spattered gold in shining shadow 
and still gaze

If Calypso could imagine Odysseus was hers without poisoning the sands with leaden tears,

then refreshed and tirelessly agile,


I can keep you from turning outward your shadow heart.

From telling nonsense lies to my canvas ears.

So will I sit betwixt Calypso’s legs as she threads seashells into the curls–between my tendrils and coils. 


And she can tell me where Odysseus went wrong.


If Calypso can beat down doubt of why he did not stay

Then we can say you drowned at sea.

Categories
Poetry

Out of Me

Out of the tumbling of earth,
The fall
Has become me
And swallowed what was once stumble. 
Loam

Categories
Confessions Poetry

Put Out What You’ve Set Ablaze

The scent in those leaves is yours

The heat of the tangle we share

The hit of this tango we’ve skipped

Long lost in the jungle we wait

Four limbs to be strangles in “yes”

Head light from the toggle and twish

I’ve longed to be headstrong and wrong

Five eyes to be open and melt

You’re mine from the tangle of trust

Knee-deep–

I’m yours from the break of the day

Put out what you’ve set ablaze.

Categories
Poetry Uncategorized

Utopia Was Real

Utopia was real
At one time
It was not new
Was not unlikely 
Was deserved
At one time 
Till then, again
Endure this hell

Categories
Uncategorized

Should Not Even Be A Word

What is not gradient?
What flow of time isn’t eventual memory loss?

What remembrance wasn’t each day feeling the real thing less and less and then transferring sensation into delusional perception—for the sake of not fading?

What isn’t gradient?
It should not even be a word.

What catatonic love wasn’t daily forgetting why anything was worth the efforts?

Who is born as man?
Who is born, skin already taught?
Flesh nearly ready to burst?
Ready to give up into deadly

nothing but still


Floating into air like interpretive dance and all muscles pulsing?
Who is born man?

What song isn’t transition from now until the end?

Categories
Uncategorized

“A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst”

( This piece was recently published the Hawaii Pacific Review. That enough was reason to open it & I was more than pleasantly surprised❕💬 )

by Hosho McCreesh (from A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst) At the chalet and you’re guzzling down bombers of Farmer beer, and the occasional measure of …

A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst
Categories
Poetry Uncategorized

Let It Not Be

The chosen ones made idols.

Statues of gold and genies right below the present, True and Living God.

Stay far from gold.

Whatever you should decide to arrive in, let it not be gold.

Too oft does gold stimulate hungry pupils readied with greedy hearts waiting to make of you a statue and symbol of meaning in their eyes.

A symbol of something foreboding. Coated completely in matte armor.

Turning shiny in the sunlight

Then back to its lusterless base.

Categories
Uncategorized

Fall Is…

Fall is a lanky hipster.

A lanky hipster with a Brooks seat on his bike and a fedora on his head.

A fedora on his head and an infinity scarf draped over a perfectly creased American Apparel collared shirt.

An American Apparel collared shirt not currently found on Amazon.

An original. Cared for and with pride.

Fall is that same hipster, gliding down the street made up of only bike lanes

Grateful for the social distance.

Categories
Poetry Writing

Warmest French Bread

I am the River Moldau collecting beneath crossed ankles.

I am the sideways push to get out from your path.

I am you, stained grey-air ash.

I am warmest French bread and condensation on the plate.

Me and the droplets waiting for spreadable Everything’s Better Butter.

Categories
Uncategorized

A Thoughtful Way to Get Writing While Utilizing Your Stationery for Marketing

from “DIY. Postcards as a way to promote your literary works” — https://kadr.vip/alex-markovich-marketing-tips

What a lovely idea that captures the ephemeral nature and resilience of literature. Keeping this written word airy, kinetic, and also tangible!

Will give it a go!

“…literary postcards where I place abstracts from my stories.

Where do I send these literary postcards? To cafes, libraries, museums, and to my blog readers on their request.”

Categories
Writing

Sour Daze

An original prompt from GigiInRealLife on Instagram

I melt right down to sticky glaze thinking those sweet cherubs had to be consoled of me. Seeing those faces in the yearbooks past, I wonder if I’ve done my job well enough.

Old friends I’ve tormented tell me it made them stronger — made the smiles afterward longer lasting.

Over the years, these dear little snots got softer around their edges.

Posters reading “you are beautiful” and “it gets better” went up.

The board said it warmed some certain groups of students.

“Which ones?” I spat.

“Well, all of them,” they declared. Setting up undue refuge from me.

As in wartime, the sour times do not simply cancel out the daydreams. On the contrary!

They’re complementary.

I alone embedded memories in them with the tools of emotion. Pathos my only lesson plan.

My methods remain tried and true!

Those little suckers pained and stretched and waxed greater.

The biting complements the saccharine.

My old friends, they tell me, “Everything in my life comes back to my times with you. What I wouldn’t give to taste the daze again –– sour, sweet, then gone.”

Monday May 11, 2020

Categories
Poetry

Proof by the Faults

In bed without solace of rest
Each sand of the day falling 
In poring over the text of ages. 
Like bed-light under comforter
Many moons ago. 
Still a similar warmth of spirit
And text of ages in hand:

A letter. 
From father to long lost love
Not mother. 
Proof of an everlasting trial. 
Secrecy by the fault lines
Which brought forth death
In the form of children. 
A text for the ages.

Categories
Writing

In Search of Specificity on Twitter After a Nine-Month Hiatus

By Gabrielle Pearson

For nine months, I attempted pressing reset on my resolve for social interaction online. When I unable to push my business any further without it, I returned not only to Instagram, but Twitter and Facebook. Both Twitter and Facebook required a true reset of my account; there was nothing to resume or refresh. I had to start from scratch. After this amount of time, Twitter is by far the hardest environment to recreate. Informally known as the “hate app,” our controversial little birdhouse is where the… let’s say “truest” essences of users are magnified.

It isn’t all bad, of course. It just is not formulated to focus purely on the positive or appealing. It’s where we go to get personal, get real, and get used to making it feel like a soundbite amongst so many identically formatted blurbs. It feels so comfortable that we almost feel cloaked. Or maybe a more accurate descriptor is “free.”

When we started our journeys, every last one of us began chronicling our lives in play-by-play format. That’s how MySpace and Facebook trained us to understand a text post. “What are you doing?” “How are you feeling?” Twitter, however asks, “What’s happening?” In the creation phase of each tweet, the interface beckons a wider perspective and in turn suggests the attention of other users isn’t so keenly focused on the I. You’re free from introspection by design.

If every kid is thinking of their own outfit on the first day of school, it means no one is looking at your outfit. That’s what Twitter whispers into our ears before we walk into class and a twit pic of said outfit garnishes 87,000 likes with the caption “What are thooooooose? SMH” But by then it is too late to turn around and we are hooked. Even when it hurts.

This effect is also a fraction of what turned the platform into a news hub. Realtime. All the time. That was and is the key.

Leaving, then, for nine months is like missing a lifetime of thought. Shortly after returning, you’d eventually find yourself unable to reconnect with suspended accounts of those you grew to love. I never felt embarrassed following anyone that others hated. I never felt afraid I’d be persecuted for what I read. I never held my tongue. I never had a split-second thought about how my content would affect my life off of the platform.

I never shared my name.

“But by then it is too late to turn around and we are hooked. Even when it hurts.”

When I got back last month, I went searching frantically and joylessly for mutual followers of my most cherished accounts. I attempted pinpointing similar accounts by combing through buzzwords and statements I thought they would publish in their own voice. I’ll save my thoughts on the the superior aspects of Twitter compared to other social platforms. For now, I will simply say the search tool is a giant in this space.

I found that long-lost account I pined for. It had been suspended with three others popping up soon-after. All ending in suspension. I should let you know an actual tear of frustration coated my eyeball and I was intent on keeping it from falling. Seriously, though! I had spent time hunting down accounts in a stage of my Twitter infancy that was supposed to suggest endless possibilities. So what drove me to this place?

Specificity drove me here and sped off with my belongings still in the car. Specificity of content I found on my feed and of the ones I followed.

What I found appalling, they’d already expressed distaste in. What I found inspiring, they’d already presented a twelve-tweet how-to guide for. Subjects that had me in stitches, I found gif reaction tweets for on their feed.

We have a difficult time making friends of others with whom we agree on nearly everything. It would be difficult finding them, quite strange and uncomfortable wanting to make them our friends based solely on that, even unlikely that they’ll automatically want to make those friendships just as much. I argue it should be difficult not only because it’s unnatural, but also because it can be dangerous seeing our reflection and wanting it to surround us in every way.

Twitter, however, is the exception. Some of us bend to the will of our preferences. The environment is toxic because we like it that way.

Categories
Uncategorized

To Six To

Some have never counted down, only
counted up


Counting up:
what is done when teasing tolerance
and testing patience
From one and three and twenty-nine
they, desperate to be stopped
Proven wrong


Relieved are those who depend
on counting down.
Basking in surety and an end.
Promised and provided.
From twelve to six to one.

Categories
Uncategorized

Mr. F. Ocean

The first time I got high

Mr. Ocean released an album

Someone smashed my bed and ceiling together

Just so I would be cozier

And on Pua Lane

The humidity was just right

Hugging me the way my teachers always did

At the end

When the high was over, the jokes stopped being so hilarious.

My classmates had to get back to their work; no one wanted to bring an assignment home if it could be done at their desks.