.

i apologize for sending you
the news how i did,
in a box
with your name
harshly scribbled on it,
separating our things.

we were fools to think it would work
we were fools to play grown up

i implore you to consider why
and how
and when
these occurrences defined
our mortal sins.
yours in lacking respect for me
and mine in lacking love for
my body.

we are both corrupt.

title?

i must admit, lately
i’ve become quite
fancied
with an idea of
your spit
swishing in my mouth.
your tongue laced
in remuline.

oh god.

it seems like candy to me.
i think about it &
find myself
sucking
on my tongue
pretending its you.

my eyes turn to sex
crazed slits trapped
in fantasy & 
the line it wears
between reality.


i open my mouth like i want it
i close my eyes like i need it
i use fingertips to feel it
and confirm my existence.
my primal need to feel.

yeah...this is totally about what the impression leads to. i need to revise definitely but i dont know how. . . 

consciousness.

c o n s c i o u s n e s s to ponder on what this entails: thought on what words this brings in meaning, connotes through definition - is to actively be conscious the state of being awake and aware of one’s surroundings be aware of what it is to think on what this means, open those two beady looking gaps in front of your face interrupting your forehead from a nice chat and cup of tea with your nose and cheeks, and be awake in a state of your surroundings, aware the awareness or perception of something by a person maybe instead, close your eyes and just feel the soft wisps of air cut through blades of the ceiling fan, the thud clamp clash bing of the other single living in a single lifestyle duplex cooking dinner for one    that smells good enough to invite someone else to eat    wonder wonder why they are alone, yet no not really, thin walls and vents, transparent are the only things separating all us ones the fact of awareness by the mind of itself and the world engage in it ponder on your place sitting in an old chair handed to you by a friend for taking care of her that one night she got so fucked up she starting talking to god, then place perspective as to why that little chair matters and how the wood was once a soul, not like the souls we defined with white robes and crowns of piety with this awesome guy in a beard leading us, no not that type. but rather a piece of the whole, just as we all are     what does that mean? how do we live day by day completely dependent on a strangers face?

here’s news to you:    we are all. 

subjectively experience how aware you can be in your ability to experience feelings, awake in your sense of selfhood and executively stream your consciousness to guide the systems of your mind.

I wrote this a while ago. The bolded words are different definitions i found of the word consciousness, integrated into what i was venting about i assume. i dont know what this is...some sort of prose, but i'm not sure what.

Inspired

“Everyday you play with the light of the universe.”

You coaxed Saturn. He gave you his rings.

You melted them around your arm, singed 

flesh perfuming the room.

If you should feel famished

the moon melts, to spoon

feed you until your belly swells.

At night, I extend my arms up 

toward the midnight quilt

rocking us to sleep. Wishing
to feel your rough skin
sanding my own smooth.

Your skin smells of Mars

crushed granadas, tasting red:

A culinary confection yielded by Marte.

If you grow parched,

the stars lactate.

Their nectar is sweeter

than any on Earth.

They deem you worthy

of their flavors 

and so, you

inspire me to strive

to be the taste that lingers

on your tongue

long after 

I have left your bed.

Show me the worth of your crisp breath,

cutting through the universe.

First line taken from Pablo Neruda's poem 13 (20 love & a song..). everything else is me :)

bonnie&clyde

Outside, the thrashing sky began to drown the sun in bitter beauty. Jane felt an intense tugging deep inside her belly sitting next to Serge in his dank-smelling 98' Honda Accord. She looked at him - his head cocked at the oddest angle as he striked a match with an awkward, twitchy flick of the wrist. A cloud of thick smoke curved upward in S shapes, slowly, like dancing cobras brought to life by the hoarse, slick voice of this dangerously seductive man of hers. 

"Hey beau," Serge pulled out from under the driver's seat a 44 Magnum, "Remember why I'm giving this to you.” He looked nervous taking another drag from the joint he rolled after packing the kit of tools he used often on jobs like these. The dimming light from the setting sun struck the bloodshot in his eyes and made them look strange, the sort of strange you stayed away from at the park, the strange that looked at girls and taped women's privates in public restrooms. The strange that watched you when you swore you were alone. 

"Yeah babe, got it." Jane grabbed the gun and placed it on her lap, the dead weight felt cold against her thighs as Mr. Twitchy Hands jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car.

The desert felt endless, a river of sand that fucking Christ couldn’t walk across without eventually sinking. Jane looked down at the weapon resting on her lap. She lightly fiddled with the safety. Don't fuck this up, Jane. The moon watched her, big bloodless eye stared. She felt it judge her, a huge naked eyeball in the sky refusing to blink staring right at her. It knew. You can’t hide anything from the moon. It sat in the sky knowing that they were going to break into someones home and take everything for all it's worth. Trade it for cash. Money that would be lost as soon as Serge got his hands on it. Don't be a little bitch, Jane. Between the booze and the drugs and the gambling, Serge always found some way to loose the money. Jane's nerves grumbled inside her gut and nausea began to fester clawing it's way up her throat. 

"Babe" … groan…. "pull over." A salty liquid began to ooze uncontrollibly up her throat and a sour-tingling sensation occurred, symmetrically, on either side of her jaw.

Jane didn't wait for Serge to completely stop the car to vomit. A putrid stench filled her nostrils as the heat from the bottom of the running car hit her half digested stomach contents. 

Jane spat bile from her mouth as blinding light cut through the darkness and the sound of an old truck parking echoed in the night. A towering robust man made his way out of a vintage creme colored Chevy. 

"You well, miss?" He asked cocking an eyebrow up at the sick on the street. 

He reminded her of a Titan, strong with an air of integrity trapped in a bubble around him. Jane felt the heat from the engine spread across her cheeks. She couldn’t get her gut to stop wrenching long enough to answer.

 "He with you?" The stranger asked looking in the direction of the scrawny figure smoking what looked like a cigarette. Jane glanced at Serge eyeing the man's pricey paint job and big ticket rims through the rear view mirror, wicked grin stretched across his face and nodded. The nerves in her belly were moving about wildly as the gears in Serge's swindling skull began to move, stimulated by the sight of such spoils. Jane retched. The Titan took a mere three immense strides before he was next to Jane patting her back with his large hand. "It's ok miss, just let it out, it'll make you feel better." Heat radiated from his body like magic. The way his kind touch tingled and his sweet, dark voice sounded - it was nothing she's known in her world before.

A faint click and the automatic hum of the passenger window rolling down interrupted the soft moment between this kind stranger and Jane. "Yo beau, you alright? Come on, get in the car, we have shit to do." Serge, grew slightly insecure and slightly more inpatient by the Titan's kindheartedness. Come on Jane, stop. Don't mess this up. The Titans big blue eyes gleamed at her as Jane retreated into the cloudy Accord, the stench of puke lingering in the air. 

"Shit beau. You really know how to make a mess of yourself. We'll have to pull over somewhere and get you cleaned up." Mr. Twitchy Hands was having a fit, shaking white knuckled and tight on the wheel. Jane was grateful, she could tell Serge was desperate enough for a fix, and she too could use a little something to sand away the bumps of nerves growing on her skin.

Jane closed her eyes and rested her slightly damp forehead against the frost bitten window. She imagined herself growing further away from the fact that she was on her way to some pretty neighborhood with white picket fences to steal something that may really matter to someone else. The two pulled into the parking lot of a run down bar. "Be right back." 

As Jane opened the door, the hot scent of men and booze offended her nostrils. In a room just under a pink wooden sign reading 'Broads', Jane began to rinse her face and swish water in her vomit flavored mouth. Two slutty looking girls slam giggling into the restroom, one with a scarlet colored mane and the other a brunette with Monroe’s mole. The drunk Monroe wannabe stalked Jane as she wiped her face with a harsh brown paper towel. 

"You look lossst, girl." The tipsy Mole slurred. 

"No I'm good." Jane replied, trying to keep to herself. 

"Hmm." The Mole scooted toward Jane. 

"Naw, girl. You are…so lost. It's a little sad!" A hyena holler followed the drunken insult followed by the splat of naked ass landing on a hard floor. Jane smiled wryly at the girl too buzzed out of her mind to stand straight. That's what you get bitch. Jane tossed the crumbled towels in an overflowing trashcan and opened the door. 

"You find yo'self ok?! Nothin' sadder than a lost gal." Jane slammed the door, cheeks hot with the smell of men and booze.

The sight of Serge's white-lipped smile angered his girlfriend as she climbed into the car.  

“Let's have a little fun beau." Serge blindly pulled out of the parking lot. 

Jane figured Serge didn't quite care if he slammed into anyone. After all the car he'd slam into wouldn't be his, she knew for a fact the one he was driving wasn't either. 'Tickah tickah tickah' The right hand blinker made Jane smile, mmhmm fun. Only half an hour from the town where she lived in, was a little blue adobe house with black curtains and a red Ford pickup. Inside this house were little scales and baggies full of green, white and best of all dark, sticky brown. Suddenly, Jane's heart began to skip and she leaned over and kissed Serge's scruffy cheek, hard. The couple blissfully pulled into the hacienda painted like the afternoon sky.

"Yo, I'm outside… I got thirty on me man, cool? Great! I'll be here." There was nothing like the way Serge looked when he was about to score. Its almost like Christmas, snow fills his eyes his cheeks get rosy, Sr. Fucking Nicholas. Nothing like the way his face freezes when feinding for a fix. It lacks life, the stillness of fresh snow after the blizzard, when you know it’s still not safe to go out yet. A short stumpy chola opens the door to their Honda. 

"Hey, thirty right?" Jane's heart thumped at the sight of the small chunk of nirvana. 

"Yeah, who the hell are you? Where's Rick?" Serge asked, shifting his eyes back towards the house and to the girl again. 

"Don't mind who I am. Rick sent me, that's all you need to know." Stumpy didn't look like she took much shit from people. 

"What I need to know," Serge muttered fanning himself with four fives and a ten "is the name of the bitch selling me my shit." What was first a gaze suddenly festered into a glare on the face of the stump. 

"Look, Culo. I got this shit" she said holding the little bit of sweetness in between her thumb and pointer, squeezing it. "You may talk to your chick like that but fuck no if you think you can pull this shit off with me!" Stumpy shoved her open palm into the back of the drivers seat with enough force to bob Serge's head forward towards the steering wheel. 

"Shit, alright. Here, my bad" Defeated, he extended a twitchy hand with crumbled bills and exchanged them for the little lump of happiness. Jane was wide-eyed and amazed as the stumpy girl left, head high into the darkness.

The old Honda chugged its way through the highway as Serge tossed the small bag and a black torn leather pouch. Jane unzipped the pouch and took out a thin glass tube with black electrical tape wrapped tightly around the middle. She readied the piece, rolling the sticky tar between her thumb and pointer into a tight ball then carefully pushed the ball into the end of a glass pipe about the size of a straw and handed it to Serge. He grabbed the tiny tube with twitchy hands and placed it between his lips, pursing them while striking another match twitch twitch twitch holding it to the end of the tube. Mr. Twitchy Hands extended his hand, steady as a rock as he passed the pipe to Jane. Jane sucked in the sweet smoke numbing her lungs instantly. The highway lights sparkled like the twinkling of holiday lamps strung over picture perfect homes. Each minute a light flashed by; forty flashes flew by behind clouds of sensuous smoke.

“Gotta take a leak.” Serge pulls over to a park. Mr. Twitchy Hands began to unzip his pants and a small dog appeared from under a wooden picnic table and began to growl. Jane winced as she watched her boyfriend whiz on the pooch. The animal, infuriated, charged at the ankles of the man who urinated on him. "Little fuck!" Serge kicked the dog's face in and a striking 'crack' echoed deep within Jane's throat. Poor thing. "Heh heh." Serge grabbed the miniature corpse by one of it's legs and flung it into the darkness. Hot tears begin surface on Jane's face as she sees a little figure holding anothers hand approach her boyfriend. 

"Hey man," the big figure spoke, "have you seen a little dog anywhere around here?" Jane's eyes flashed at her lover. 

"Did you lose your dog? Oh no, that's horrible." Serge leaned forward matching the little one's height.  "Oh I'm sure you'll find your puppy, I wish I could help look but my girlfriend and I have a long trip ahead of us." Serge flashed a sympathetic smile. 

"If you see him when you're driving will you bring him back please mister?" The innocence of the child's voice made Jane feel unworthy of hearing it. 

"Sure thing princess." As Serge waved goodbye and made his way into the car, Jane couldn't help but want to spit.

The emptiness of the highway soon dwindled into a variety of buildings and roads with fancy streetlights. Jane closed her eyes and counted the last ten minutes of their trip second by second fumbling the heavy gun from right hand to left. The sound of the 'crack' of the small dogs neck and the sweetness of the little girls voice rung in her ears. Serge pulled over a few blocks from their ending point. He reached over to the backseat and grabbed a duffle bag. Jane was disgusted by the look of excitement on his face. Don't fuck this up, Jane. The gun in her hands tugged and the 'crack' of the puppy's neck sounded once more. 

"Alright I'll be back in a few. Don't let go of that gun alright, and keep the car running." Serge opened and slammed the door, twitchy hands grabbed onto the black bag. The gun pulled once more as Jane remembered the little body holding hand of the big figure searching for her poor little pet. Don't fuck this up, Jane.

The click of the automatic lock slapped Jane's ear drums as she opened the car door, clinging to the magnum. A blur of streetlights spun Jane's head as the crack crack crack banged inside her skull. Mr. Twitchy Hands turned back, looking confused. The image of the limp body of the puppy lingered. Jane blinked and aimed the magnum at Serge and with one swift motion pulled the trigger.

Conversations (buelo-te amo)

Conversations

There’s always conversation going on about death.

The widow gardens.

She sprouts mint and sage, raises mums and peonies

variably.

They perfume the porch; and they distract you

while she weeps over and over, reaching

for you. How can she feel close,

when all those years she slept one room over

as if the hallway could heal.

No wonder you left in the manner you did,

afraid to be alone, the widow

like the 13 steps it took to walk to your room.