Because

for T.H.L. because he knew me so well

Because the dead don’t
wake in a rage,
two silky bones,
chalky fingers
calmly linger
and ask for more.
“Two more please.”
As if Consuelo needs
another drink.

Because the dead
don’t wake with hunger,
two bandit mice
scurry down the table
filled with fruit and
the drops left of
Consuelo’s
Modelo.

Because he had wanted
to savor the dreams
of a well dressed man,
they migrated
from country to city
and adapted to
ambitious conditions
of this land.

Because the uncertainties
fogged them,
they built a meager home.
What once were two
heavy cheeks
are now
fleshless visages
that dart
melancholy.

Because they have drank
each other bloodless,
his spirit wafts now
beyond flasks and cantinas
still singing, echoing
“My love’s consumed
like a cigarette”.
So goes the cliché.

Because he is now
a nameless man,
a busker with
a guitar in hand,
he serenades her with his
drudging charade.

Because the dead don’t
have trouble sleeping,
and
“Because,” his stony jaw exudes
“women were the death of me,
there’s something
liberating
this death brings”.

© Paz

********************************************************************************************************

Today’s prompt: an ekphrastic/ekphrasis poem, which is a “dramatic description of a visual work of art.”

Today also marked a month and a day since I found out about L’s death. I’m sure he’d laugh/is laughing at the dark humor I tried to get in this one–after all, it’s for him. Oh, and the poem is based on a painting he owned (I have no idea who has it now) but I took a picture of it the day I hung out with him during the Superbowl, and though I hadn’t wanted to look at those pictures, I will upload the picture of the painting that goes with this poem tomorrow. It’ll make more sense when you see the painting. Maybe I’ll catch up on yesterday’s Earth Day poem too.

These last two were difficult to get through. Whew.

But the fact that you guys are actually reading them encourages me, really.

Xxx

Advertisements

Milk It

slice the skin.
shed my sin.
peel the layers
of pain
like
onions.

wring the tears.
see how deep
i go.

fury

burn burn burn burn
hot oven
to throw me in,
with the rotten
coven.

one two three four
let it go,
drop,
(red red red red)
flow–
milk my mind
milk my empty
milk my worry
hollow.

© Paz

********************************************************************************************************************

“You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” ~ Siddhartha Guatama Buddha

A Monologue (But Not A Vagina Monologue) 

All sentient beings brought by that omnipotent, omnipresent
God/Universe deserve to live in this green, blue and brown
Earth which is why I decided not to kill you.
You sit there all thin, black and brittle with your
little tentacles, all wet.

The fly was already dead.
I’m beginning to think you’re dumb, deaf and mute
as you inch closer to my drain, little ink splotch, scoot!
I flick and stomp so’s to shoo you but you just jump closer ‘n closer
when I’m trying to cleanse by inner being with the fresh
little fall of water. Clean my ears ‘n eyes out see if the crying spells
will finally drain out of me and let me dry!

Nothing like a shower
to pet the nerves, ’till they lie asleep–sweet lullaby.
But you  ruined it; killed my tranquil moment.
You want a shower too? A broom ‘n a shoe’s what I should give you.
I should’ve let you drown, yeah should’ve stomped you down.
Why are you still coming at me? What I do to you? You gonna
stab me with your stinger?  Don’t you see my burrowed
brows and frown; don’t you see how scared I am?

Oh no, now you’re just rubbing
your ugly, spotted thing for a head down with your front furry
eight sticks for hands, eek, while I’m here scrubbing
my dirty thoughts out all the while looking back at you.
The perfect, omnipotent,
omnipresent must’vemade a mistake;
yeah, erred while constructing you
and the roaches.

Oh god, the roaches!

© Paz

**********************************************************************************************************

The prompt for day nine was to do a monologue. Meh. It needs revision. I’m just having poetic diarrhea guys. It’ll pass.

Squashed fly, bug eyes, what
was your life like before you
lie flat on my floor?

 

© Paz

Thrown rag doll on roof?
No! Mexican jay’s basking
beyond the blurred wind.

© Paz

1.
un-birth me mamita linda.
no te quiero ver!

uncover me papito lindo,
pero no, no te quiero ver!

lo que ocurrió es que
el viento me
robó las alas
y borró
el polvo mágico
que me regalaron
las hadas.

sí, las que cantaban
dentro de mi, pero no las quiero ver!

***

2.
i was spleen-size
sucked out, cut clean from
below your womb,
a piggish wad of pink,
red, purple and blue goo–
grey sack you could’ve
thrown out.

seís meses, they said.
young men in white robes
out of universidades.
they probed and probed
and probed you,
they, youthful men
as fruitful as you
but not as torn.

“six months and her heart
will stop.”
too big for her fragile
chest
they said and laid me–
tiny bag of broken bones–
to rest.

un-birth me mamita linda.
no te quiero ver!

unearth me amor viejo, arrugado,
listo para fallecer
como yo lo he hestado.

oh yes, i remember
the story clearly,
remember it dearly.
how many times
hadn’t i heard it?
you’d resigned
dear papi,

already grieved
my death
with swigs
and nightly sighs,
“mija, déjala,
que yo la cuido
venga duerma.
de un modo o otro
uno de estos dias
se nos irá.”

you never gave up
though,
i guess
that’s love;
that’s hope
mamita linda
and i didn’t go.

but you know,
it’s difficult
to cope.
this heart is still
too crammed in this
barrel chest and one
day, someday
it will stop.

for my dear mother who endured all the poking, the prodding and was somehow able to birth me without a cesarean, and for Sailor Carrie

© Paz

*************************************************************************************************

[my lazy translation; some things will always be lost in translation]

1.
un-birth me dear mommy.
i don’t want to look at you!

uncover me dear daddy.
but i don’t want to look at you!

what’s happened is,
the wind
snatched my wings
and erased
my magic powder,
yeah the one
the fairies
gave me.

yes, the ones that
sang within me,
but i don’t want to look at them!

2.
six months, they said…

blah blah blah…

unearth me old love, crumbled
and haggard, ready for death
like I’ve been.

student doctors prodding you…

….

…hadn’t i heard it?
“honey, leave her,
i’ll take care of her
go on, go on
sleep,
on day or another
she’ll be gone.”

****************************************************************************************************

Guys, I was lucky enough to have lived past the six month mark those doctors gave me and have survived thus far (which sometimes still surprises me considering the crazies I get), but unfortunately, a fellow mental health blogger’s little girl did not; she passed during childbirth.  I can’t fathom what that must be like.

His blog is Salted Lithium. Maybe you can pay a visit and show some love. I’m sure he could use it.

An erect penis!
In snow-caped hands, it quivers.
Impish grins breathless.

© Paz

I Am Not a Poet
a nursery rhyme for Dear Dotty & Ink Anette

I am not a poet.
By now, you should
know it.

I just like to spit.
I like to spit words,
spit words

like swords
and blades
spit words under my
seething shade;

spit when I’m sad;
spit when I’m joyful
reproachful or glad.
I’ll spit on your ass
’cause I’m a crass
little lass.

I’ll spit in my cage
when I silently rage.

I like to spit
shitey shit with shit

when I twitch’n “bitch”
n’ itch
and can’t scratch
my bum
’cause I have to
be a lady!
What am I, a nun?
Hell no.
I’m just somewhat shady
and shaky.

But I’m not a poet.
And none of this is
literal
or literary.

Just so you know it,
I’m somewhat cynical,
maybe even a bit scary.
Sure I like to spit
in the lyrical
with a clitic
or two.
After all, a lady,
a sensitive cynic
with two tiny tits
a clit and no wit.

But I am not a poet.
By now,
you should know it.

And this is not
not, not
a dotty poem
(or noem)
’cause I’m no
longer a sot.

© Paz

**************************************************************************************************

Sure enough, yesterday’s showers cooled down this inferno. It’s a beautiful, cool (even chilly) spring day. Unfortunately, I slept too much again–a little lowly and lonely. And my wheelchair decided to start acting up again. Bagh.

At least I’m following through with the NaPoWriMo deal, right?

*le sigh*