Sometimes I hold liquid in my mouth for so long I forget
When I swallow, it startles me.
Gagging on the tepid sour juice, be it water or wine.
If it stays too long in my mouth it always turns to bile.
Red puckered lips
plant a single kiss on his stubbly chin.
The chosen one.
Elected from a crowd of thousands.
She puts their brilliant love on display.
Limbs dance exotic numbers,
painted up in glamorous shades,
gold, tangerine, rust.
A lady’s temporal passions
divest him with from tip to toe.
Soon all the poplar gents will know,
she’s the reigning Queen.
Ass plastered on my stoop.
Watchin’ the world go bye.
Jaw slack, slopping down the stairs.
Hair pickin’ up soot.
My Darling Tuesday
I picked fruit today like generations of los Garcia before me who squatted with bent necks and curved backs.
How does this subjugated posture fit inside my refined form?
My childless, childbearing hips, my long arms, agile fingers.
All promote a historically proven economy of effort.
Revolutionary postures gone arthritic, indigena blood long ago thinned by the sexual slurry of conquest. LA CONQUISTA.
Unfed children and thirsty abuelas,
docenas of los Garcia huddled in the backs of pick-up trucks. Fingers stained with the red ink of berries, not the Black Ink of Revolution.
The powdery ink did little to convey the ferocity of her fingers
misplaced and cut red by ROYAL keys.
Guided with one eye open, the other plucking through the grey field of keys
She strikes out to find a balance between the revolution and the poetry:
“¡Que Viva La Revolucción!”
We become more dangerous the closer we get to our ego. We feel truly actualized when we reside in the power of our own expertise, wisdom, and experience. Only at that moment does the threat of being consumed by the majority become neutralized. The sacred exists in that moment. We look and listen for the first time and hear our own voice as the loudest, truest, and most righteous. We come to voice.
Seated across from the closed window the revolutionary sees not herself reflected, but
La Senorita Mondragon
The Dragon Lady
Coal black hair with a flower wilting behind her ear
Lips red and ready for passion
Pen poised and ready for seduction
The Dragon Lady
For one day.
My Darling Tuesday,
I’ve written this letter a thousand times. When I imagine you reading it my pen becomes orgasmic. Black ink squirts. Paper becomes confetti. I celebrate only you.
How can you know my deepest thoughts? The ones that get mangled on the way up and out? The ones I write in the dark of Monday’s mind? You ignite a desire in me that crawls from my guts into my fingertips and is only abated when I feel you rise around me. You push the life I create to the edge. You capture the overflow and hold it hostage at the horizon. I must confess. I love you.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Today I rode a little cyclone
Up and down along extremes
On Tuesdays, my crazy comes out in streams.
My love wears me under his fingernails
Ten delicate black crescent moons.
I cling to him like hot tar.
Oil and skin mixed with tobacco, meat, wine, salted butter.
I am the rests of our feasting.
Held hostage in 10 tiny cells.
His teeth and lips release me
Only to gnaw at my mean.
I’m more savory the second time around.
I’m the tar, baby.