[2010] Hell, My Offering

August 1, 2010 at 12:35 pm (Poetry)
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With the whip poor Will whippoorwill is that a whipper, will? Will.
W
Double you you
how do you do

like a whore

want some more
cows in the field today like clouds did you paint them this morning no this afternoon
I disagree with you you liar tell me what to do I trust you you liar I believe you with the eyes yes you yes eyes yes sey yes eyes wide like saucers dipping into tea is this a tea party why no it’s an unbirthday
I’m Alice
Alice
no I’m not but you are strange I thought it me be bee free o say can you see she said and kissed her like a dog a dog around the tree and down into the hole stop asking questions
you’re insane I believe you
I  don’t know it’s funny but it runs in the blood
like a dove into the fire to thy bidding Ariel and all his quality Shakespeare caws like Poe never nevermore never to be seen again says the girl in red read the book like your face oh diss burn  in hell Dante waits to pick you up at the ferry inflation goes up not two coins anymore you think

ah clip clip clip under requirement I’ll give you a discount do you have boyfriend good no boyfriend want to be a doctor I tell you study hard make good money I don’t care care hair hair care is important stop it doesn’t full stop pull out the stretch out to days and it goes far out dude sick ass waves I ripped
bra oh god that’s big it hurts it hurts just stop oh wait I’m lying but it hurts I don’t want it give it back oh wait you’re running stop running you ass

elephant run around  the room full of politics do you care care hair care gay rights feminism feminine feline famine Egypt burns in Passover like
infernos
tempestuous
oh look Dante how nice to see you Will so glad you could make it
oh that whip poor Will goes down whipping boy you scoundrel go home
I don’t want to it hurts it hurts just leave me alone I like the fairies the fairies like watermelon galaxies I forget but she smiles it’s fun give me a hug I hate you leave her alone oh a dinner party how quaint

let’s go to the mall all you want as you wish Elwes Cary carry me home la la la la la la la la la la Reject you failure but you’re cute that’s funny do you want to see a magic trick okay I’ll hide you’re it no I’m not hey hey now this is what dreams are made of she was blonde I liked her can I be white too no one person to a team is this a bishop to E4 check checkmate clear check testing one two three that’s naughty foul beast of the Bible eats you up om nom nom and a 666 down the road we made bubbles too
I’m long she’s pretty will it work tee-hee I suck no you don’t you liar I believe you

where are my socks it’s rocking how pretty in out breathe breathe seethe like a demon I’m mad real mad real world is different you’ll understand one day but don’t make me do it you crier you liar I believe you

just screw it I need to work are you okay does it hurt I feel alright will you call me call me baby
I throw it in the luggage like him
let’s get married ah I’m pregnant just
let me be myself or something
go go go and he stops at the finish line ka-chooga thanks Lightning
you know I missed you.

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[2010] What is a Good Home?

August 1, 2010 at 12:30 pm (Prose - Fiction)
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One: what is a good home? The snared woods, the drum rocks, the cymbal bang bang bang. José started years ago, perhaps or most definitely before the neighborhood even considered a new presence in their idyllic gated community. He had a lanky frame, more forearms and calves than anything. I liked his hair. When he didn’t wear glasses, it framed his soft cheekbones, dark and rough-cut.

Two: Where are the snared woods? I fell in love with him in the total span of one-point-five conversations. The main one had gone like this—

Him: Do you mind my playing?
Me: I hate your vocalist. Sucks ass.
Him: At least you can shut the doors and listen to your own music.
Me: You’re really good though. You practice a lot at night.
Him: I like to play Hansel in the dark.
Me: Where’s Gretel?

He had turned around and walked back inside to finish cleaning. You couldn’t be a fairytale in a filthy garage, after all.

Three: Can ghosts carry hammers? I met his father later, although it took a conversation with my dad at breakfast to piece it together.

“Dad, who’s the guy that cartwheels down the street at sunset?” I asked one morning at over toast and almond butter.

“Mr. Montoya.” He replied and flipped the newspaper on the table.

I twiddled with the butter knife between my fingers for a moment. “Is… he related to José?”

Dad looked up at me over his glasses. “Mr. Montoya is his father,” he told me, as if I had missed out on some cosmically obvious detail.

“But, but Dad. Mr. Montoya… he’s white. Like, really really white.”

“Your point, dear? So are we.” That, combined with that certain way he pulled at his cuff links while reaching for his coffee mug, told me the conversation was at a definite, or at least momentary, end.

José had dark skin, tan despite his aversion to sunlight, the most he got came from taking out the trash or whatever filtered into his practice sessions in the garage. Apparently his mother was of indigenous and Hispanic Colombian descent. His father traced lineage directly through Spain. So yes, his dad was white.

It was the sixteenth of April the following year when José turned white too, a hammer in his fist going bang bang bang on a Mr. Montoya-shaped cymbal.

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[2010] Movie Star

July 12, 2010 at 9:54 pm (Prose - Fiction)
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I fell in love with a movie star.

Handsome in a classic way, he was the picture of a modern Byronic hero: scruffy hair, strong jawline, dark eyes, and a knowing smirk— or at least, I thought it was knowing.

I fell for his wisecracks at others who obviously had no clue about anything. His solidarity as a person drew me in, the fact that he could stand independent made me trust him. He wanted to be a hero. An agent for the government, a surgeon stitching up guerilla fighters in a war against the oppressors, he strove to save the world. He wanted to be Batman, the anti-hero.

I wanted to be his quiet shadow.

But take him into the light, and find that he has nothing to offer. He is no protagonist from a favorite novel or ‘50s film. Shine a ray and discover nothing more than a fractured mannequin, crystal punctures here and there.

A “man’s man”, he is. No room for sissy games, conformity, or emotions. He can’t stop to cry with a grieving brother, he must save the world! Girls have no place in his symphony, no room in the soundtrack to a hero’s journey.

He needs no shadows, only a pretty woman on his arm to “love”. (Oh, love.) Someone he can champion, the symbol of all that is good in the world, a girl who looks good in the camera.

Shadows have no place there. I can only be there with every step, observe decisions and thoughts. My frame stretches farthest during sunset, when day and night meet together, the line of yin and yang. I cannot understand purity, whether it be good or evil. I only know how it feels to be born of light, yet live in darkness.

I am not her. I am sidekick. I am shadow.

The saddest thing of this?

I love him still. Just enough, just enough to hate him. Hate him because he broke my heart. Hate him because he holds onto a piece now, a hole-shaped piece, and perhaps I will never see it returned to me.

No matter.

Maybe he’ll use it to patch up his own holes. It could be a rod or a cone so he may see the truth. It could be a neuron. Dear god I hope it’s a neuron.

As for me? I’ll use my new hole for other purposes.

Wink.

He might have been a movie star, but this isn’t a film.

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[2010] Conquer Me

July 2, 2010 at 7:18 pm (Poetry)
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“It doesn’t matter, you over.
re: Act.”

Really, now? You really believe that? Or, are you terrified? One day, with all my speaking out and as I erase my fleeting doubts, I will transform the world. Your world.

Scared?
You should be.
Do you feel like a moron?
‘Cause you look like one.
And guess what, me too.
I feel.
Like a moron.
See the difference?
I thought not.

Yeah, I’m getting riled— because these feelings, they’re getting piled, and I feel a little. Wild. Wild, not like safari lions, but like the mayhem of man. The murderous fury of human mind, the power of adrenaline, adrenaline and tomorrow! running through my blood.line the road with bodies that are strong, bodies of true beauty. These forms, what sacred temples that house weak gods! Priests who hide this depravity fall like autumn leaves: one. two. three. Winter.

My arsenal: the arrows you dropped in fear.
In the dark, I tell the truth.
In the murmurs, I am light.

Tell me once more, what you think. When I break your shallow summer, when thousands smile because I chose to over.re:act, when you sat around on your heartfelt dreams because of paper nightmares…

Tell me what you think.
Before I do it for you.

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[2010] Spurts Pt. I

March 27, 2010 at 12:44 pm (Poetry)
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Lock&Key

Sometimes I cry for the people we will never be.
But that’s only because I’m fifteen.
I think I should laugh.
Those people, who will never exist, they will never suffer.
That kind, honest child I could have been;
She can stay that way.
That broken, weak victim I could be;
She can stay away for the moment.
That hero image I can attain;
She will be untouched and untainted.
I dare not be any of these.
Corruption is my fear, and my fear my handicap.
The only problem is…when I lock those pieces away,
When I cease to accept those people I could be,
I…lose myself.

Unspoken Wish
There is a certain skip to my heart when I whisper the word, “Glory”.

Triumph

You know, I like that smirk on your face.
It suits your sad little personality.
Just watch; for every time I trip,
I will smile that much more
When I am on top of the world.

Apology to God

Who needs God when you have found your own path to eternity?
Why rely on that which we cannot see?
God loves those who rely upon Him,
But I will never love myself for being dependent
On anything.
So no offense God, or Allah, or whoever,
It’s nothing personal—
Or maybe it’s all personal –
But I’m roughing it in this hellhole.
Thanks, but no thanks.

Another Apology to God

Well. If you are there, if you are really there,
I think I’m going to apologize again.
You must love getting poems like this.
But I suppose you can’t be the serious,
Angry quackjob some people paint you to be,
But I definitely can’t see you as all merciful and forgiving.
People describe you funny.
I think you’re just…
Well, I actually don’t like to think about you.
It’s a concept a little too over my head.
If you’re God, I suppose you don’t have a personality.
If you did…well, I’ve got a few things to say to you.
But anyway, here’s my final answer:
No.
If you are there, don’t help me,
Don’t watch over me.
I am blessed, and I am lucky, I know.
Go to the unfortunate,
The children of the nations
Who struggle on their own.
They need you— if you are there.
Just leave me be.
I’ll find my way down this path.
I will be fine.
I really don’t need your help.
Oh, and the Devil?
Tell him to expect me in his domain
Some years from now.
By the stories,
He sounds like a riot.

Expect Me

I’m willing to fabricate a lie about myself, if it will make you happy. But don’t expect me to trust you. Don’t expect anything from me if you expect me to pretend. If I decide to run a stake through you as I point to the endless sky, don’t be surprised. Maybe I’ll do it with a smile. Maybe I won’t. But you would, wouldn’t you, if you just let me be?

–

A/N: A different side of the same schoolgirl.

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