Telling her how to be and when to be. “There’s a time and place for everything.” A predicament inherent to being. Everyday reflections remind her where the power lies. Photographs in the subway. Photographs in the cinema. Photographs in the phone. Attention doesn’t equate to better treatment. “Smile, honey” becomes “fuck you, conceited bitch.” Every dismissed stranger presents more risk of danger. “Can I buy you a drink—no?—you’re not that hot, anyway.” Standard procedure: projection after rejection. Discomfort aroused from desires denied. Holds it against her. Eyes on thighs as she walks by. Her words responded but he just wanted her mouth. Rational reactions often halted, in fear of another attack. But she no longer holds in her expression for his convenience. Someday he’ll never expect again.
Left alone in time, memories harden into summaries.”
Ongoingness: The End of a Diary
3 am, can’t sleep. Don’t want to think about it anymore. Him, her. Is it possible to care and be happy? Considering place. I don’t want to label and critique every moving object. Get into debates in a digital web of 1s and 0s. So reactive by surroundings. Neurons scanning a screen won’t fix the anthropocene. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about what I think on that podcast. Me, me, me. I, I, I on the byline. Why even put it in a book? Thoughts keep coming anyway. Maybe someday I’ll write them away. Mental predispositions mix with chemical compounds. Exposing patterns in unseen conditions. Role play the foreplay ‘til climax; the end. A crisis, the meeting point. Rather read and listen. Get high and take notes. Entering a stealth mode to heal head and heart. Still migrating physically and mentally. Something I don’t take for granted. Something all humans should be able to do. Freely.
what used to seek
what used to pierce
what used to sear
but please don’t look away
Mixed thoughts and feelings from the last few days. A prose poem about the Kavanaugh hearing & repressed memories of sexual assault.
Drinking parsley tea, watching the hearing. Disgruntled by the dirt in the details. The shit in the obvious. Read this, mister. You should be worried we don’t believe lies like they did before. Muddy the facts and make it about his résumé (cool), his basketball practice (well done!), his grades (congrats!), and wait, his faith (still his, not this). But sir, one thing does not lead to the other. Let us explain in simple logic. Boil it down for you. Heat up the water please. I need some more tea for this anxiety. If he lied about that, then would he lie about this? Distract from the past. I don’t even wanna think about him anymore. Maybe buying a new bra will help me ignore. Can always fall back on this capitalistic bliss. Our small is their extra large and it’s starting to seem like we’ve bitten too much. “Oh you don’t like underwires?” laughed the salesperson, “that’s cute.” This isn’t working. Flashback. Manhattan, 2011. 2012? Couldn’t even tell you the year, let me check my calendar. Flashback. The guy who drugged me, pulled down my pants, and threw me in a room with his friend. Woke up on the bed, from open eyes to open eyes, with him behind me trying to do something. Still not sure what he did. Fuck that kid. Fuck all of you. Few of my exes too. The one who wouldn’t take no and the one who told me to go. To be quiet. Who gets to show rage in such a high place? Oh wait, can I show my emotions now or should I hold off a bit? Please oh please keep telling me how to be. Ha. “Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.” Truth and lies can both cry. It doesn’t matter if you “like” or “don’t like” politics. Let’s call this place the divided states. Rewrite the compromise, draw a new line. Really wouldn’t give a damn, just preserve the land. Or let it burn and I’ll escort you to those fiery gates of which you believe, but don’t worry, you’ll still wake up in your bed tomorrow morning. Smash open the eyes on your head. Everything will be the same. Welcome to yourself. May that face never change; no one will ever know your name. This was not written for you, or you. But, you. We see you.
The sign of her existence is the mournful writing in the messages she sends to herself. She tests herself in her new language and weighs the man’s corpse on the scale of her heart.”
A Musical Hell
Three hundred years ago he moved from Bern and changed his name from Aebi to Avey to sound a bit more neutral, a bit more American. I’ve been thinking more about what it means to be American. Who, how, why. I have some reference points. It was easy to move to Germany. Music I know is everywhere I go. My Colombian father-in-law told me to hide my passport because it might get stolen. I underestimate that blue cover. The public schools and libraries. Hiding a heritage of human sorrow and potential. Somehow still allergic to this land. Poison oak forms a resistance on the trails we blaze. Oozing with red bumps, making me question the way. I’m the non-native species. Make it more American. But how? From the jazz to the mundane. Paint the spectrum black or white. The distance between what you know and want to know lies in what you create. Between places you’ve been and places you can’t imagine. How could it be so hard to write under your parents’ roof when they gave you every neuron? Drive north on the 1. A loud bed and breakfast might be awkward. Let’s take a quarter and go explore. Another pioneer couple walking on a boneyard of tree branches. Looks like beach cheese. Sitting halfway up a Monterey cypress. Staring at the setting sun with the moon to our back. This place makes me sleepless. I heard a man inside the wall with a pickaxe. Crumbling down the structure from the inside out. But then the mother of slumber blacked out my vision with her placement of fill-in-the-box. I’m home. Horace Greeley might have told you to “Go west, young man,” but I’m called by the wild poppies and cortaderia. Those here before us. Junipero Serra paved the way, killing with faith. Priests on a mission overlook young women. Left out of the literature. I’m pulled in by the Pacific, the way redwoods hold on to their neighbors’ roots. Prioritizing nourishment. A church turned grocery store. Looking at another “All Are Welcome Here” sign made Sam ask what that says about other places. A bold statement against a dark reality. But damn this place is hard to reach.
The urge to preserve. Keep my few things organized. A pink case for my fineliner and gel pens, separated from the pencils, separated from the markers. Within the case, a small bag for my eraser and sharpener. Everything in its proper place. Set aside to ~save~ some future time or ease this high, racing mind. Compartmentalizing thoughts into objects. What’s the point? It’s a Thursday morning and I don’t know what to do with myself. I could open an app, any app, but they all give me the creeps right now. I could read, I should read. I could pack. We’re picking up and going again in two weeks. But I can’t be bothered to pack. Maybe another bowl. I don’t feel drawn to anything in particular, just pulled by various keys I type into this board. Launching sites and distractions to new stimuli. So much to know. So much to see. So much to hear. But right now I just want to turn it all off. Airplane mode, wifi off, just a notepad. Maybe a book. Why is it so hard to turn it all off and focus on the words in front of me? Others take their place. Sentences keep lining up into endless thoughts. Of what? Mush. This to that to this to that. People places things. The music in the cab home last night. Some concepts of reality and insanity. Things keep moving and I don’t know why. “Slow down, try meditating.” If I had more or less to do would I think less or more? This strain of weed doesn’t work well with me. Override. Overkill. Overthrown. It was free, and it works, so I can’t complain. But it must be an indica. A weird one. Prefer the way sativa rearranges my mind and tricks myself into thinking everything I’m working on is the most important thing I could be working on. Illusory efficiency in doing. This high makes me want to melt into a sandwich or watch HBO or mindlessly think about what to do next, until there is too much or nothing to do next, until I spend an hour, or one minute, thinking about what to do next. Uncertain. Where’s Sam? Maybe if we were both high we could figure out what to do next together. Instead I’m just looking towards west-side Medellín and wondering if I’m capable of reading this book in front of me. One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m nearly half-way through, but I haven’t picked it up in a while. Read others since. I don’t remember where I was on the family tree. Which generation? So many characters. Trying to find where I left off in lines and names across time.
Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where it all comes from and where it is leading? You well know you are in a period of transition and want nothing more than to be transformed.”
– Rainer Maria Rilke
Letters to a Young Poet
the letters of
write my spine
and rearrange reality
side by side;
spell it to me
one more time
as if I don’t
know your lines
behind closed eyes
curves and shapes
bend til they break