old news

the letters of my name are printed in an aged ink on yesterdays paper, they smell like sweat dried with a heavy heat. the touch of your fingers over my bones break into brittle pieces. they fall into the wells left by others' caresses before you, those and how they fell. its a timeless story, with interchangeable pronouns. it reeks like the wretched scent of hot vomit lined with a double of whiskey on a thursday afternoon, in the bathroom stall with someone pissing somewhere not private and near you. like you'd give a fuck and honestly could use a glass of water to wash it down. where's my face playing under your closed eye lids? can you distinguish it and draw my features like your own staring right at you from reflective surfaces, trace them with elementary mediums, pointed fingers on a floating canvas. traces of nothing. we aren't really artists, not yet, how could we possibly claim to know and interpret what it is to be alive? we're dead. holding hands with the reaper himself as we walk day by day, feigning an agenda to survive. we wouldn't know of anything better to do for ourselves. we're just old news. interchangeable you's and i's.

it's hypocritical how you lack taking this situation literal you live off a manipulation type-federal built on the elimination of the minimal driven through tribulation of the criminal minds leaving indentations on the political dime foundations rather analytical fueled by observations of the critical eye opening donations of a truth that's no lie one that as i say i swear my life by as it'll cleanse the mind of every lie stained onto us with permanent dye prisoners we try to escape this state of an imprisoned life. 

no dictionary or anything like that i typed in a "freestyle" type nature. it's dorky and lame but it's my first real attempt in a while.

crossouts

from an article written by cesar milan

and a dog food add.

For a friend.

desiree ingram

we were born brown

several shades different,

yes.

but we were born 

the same.

though your skin is slightly more

cocoa butter

than mine,

we are both

still silk & smooth

under a finger's touch.

the same that strokes your hair

you burn

to make straight

as i mutilate mine

to curl.

we use the same means

to temporarily

destroy ourselves.

               (similar ways)

like me

you speak

with a spanish tongue

like he

and she

you are the same

though to them, you

do  not  look

that way

          - the same.

you are.

you roll them rr's like

your cumbia hips,

mixed

with ancient africana

wonder

it booms in your blood like

crimson thunder

under the sun

i rub oil on my body &

lay beneath Huitzilopochtli's rays

for an entire day until

[ding ding ding]

done!

we are one

we are the same

the same shade of beautiful brown

                   

                        of beautiful brown

the same.