THEY WILL ALWAYS SINK

THEY WILL ALWAYS SINK

 

tonight i sleep with wailing sheep. a plurality and fortress. an auditory ghoul

some mercury for a mass; magnets and quadruple sleep; sunken

how the word was not pure? we and us

arrest and a rest us with plump wet eyes the size of moons for you; a range

that your target practice can swallow in with shell, bite, the crush, the breaking

the uvvhhhhh of breaking breath and some way down our street on los angeles the pale white girl with pierced purple hair grabs her genitals and screams “NOT ME” and the

the solidarity of blinking lights behind the prison cells;

the inmate weep/the guard sleep

the heavy and unpressing; time diagnosed by mustached men who make clocks and the abuela who swallows the clocks for her children’s children’s children’s children: america, sandpaper and muskets

            i get syphillis just looking at you.

            i am aborted trying to love you.

            i am enslaved as soon as one follicle of my hair sees the light of your streets

            i am f*g and butch

and ugly and round

and complicated, and jesus? was weak.

 

my devil has blue eyes. my mother has four tongues. i sleep tonight with wailing sheep who shave their wool for irony;

i know johnny boys who make good catholics. i know zygotes who will destroy this whole thing. the femme, the lonely, the blackened and burnt shrink but

maintain. no longer a tulip in a vase; no longer a pirouette. no longer a gypsy queen for the masculine charade that softly devours; no more looking you in your eye, no more cocking heads, no more muses, no more dream girls, no more daisy dukes, no more aphrodite, no more bearing your sons, no more sharing the food on our plates, no more softness, no more shrugs, no more silence, no more lipstick, no more Chanel, no more shaving, no more upspeak, no more eyelashes, no more lilac, no more lineage.

 

follow my history. find its oil rig and cave and map. find the teeth of my ancestors ground into your the china that your vegetables grow cold on; find my uterus in your freezer; find the bricks of my ambition on your south/east wall and find clawing

find my fingernails on the ground;

find my dykeness in your armoir between the mink and the cashmere

 

abuela does not swallow clocks for you, america; there is no pain of hers that belongs to you, america; i hear her behind my bedroom wall and she is not babbling on the topic of telenovela she is invoking brujeria and she in that crimson river, america

 

she will always float. 

Reviews

[Perdition]

Love reading poetry to and from oblivion.
Few poets/writers inspire me. Few challenge us with the mark of generation. So when I do find myself among the thickets between art and desperation, I always give my best to know the difference. This has all the words immortal. It is fierce with blood, sweat and scarred from battle that I know you must have waged, night after countless nights to get here. Rare in beauty and voice. So I say,"Yes!" to this one
...and Thank You for being here~

[luna rose]

Thank you so much, friend. This means so much for me to hear! Your art inspires me equally and I appreciate you taking the time to stop by

[Sir Drift & Mr. Pulse]

Abuela has no fear, chancletas fly around her, ha! that made me laugh, you jumble of sheep, call it wool, no, no, cotton candy on a hot dog! Yes, now that is something