sitting with rainbow pen

ew-white man

2011-04-07T01:30:00.001-07:00

and i can't stop crying.

it maybe too fresh to write,
too real to remember.

i was with six other people as we walked past these white men,
this one white man,
bright blue shirt,
burned skin,
"Ew",
fucking EW is what i am to him.

i didn't hear. for some reason, or maybe i subconsciously zoned out as tactic to save myself from all the grief i am currently feeling. my staff member heard though, came to my defense. i'm grateful for his love--yet resentful.
i thought i dodged a bullet,
just to realize more than one was shot,
bang,
how bloody it feels to hurt this bad.

and i've been called worse--i guess not.
ew,
ew at what?
laying in my twin size bed,
black sheets,
dim lighting,
i sense a headache coming because of all the crying i'm doing.

ew to what?
this body,
a body not mine,
a body that was taken from me at an early age from a father that tuh-tuh-shhhhhh me too much.
fuck ew.

ew to what?
my skinny blue jeans,
handbag,
tank,
members only jacket and jazz shoes,
fuck ew.

if only the white man knew.
i wonder if he knows how much he affected me,
but didn't as he only opened up what i've been trying to keep close this past week.

i'm disgusted with myself. i lost it during my staff meeting.ran to the bathroom and called my sister. what am i going to do without her these next ten days?

---haha i just smiled. the song came up. although he is not mine, i know he looked. they knew he [wanted] to look. i still have a chance. and today was the third day of this battle to win/lose him.

fuck you white man.
fuck you ew.

2011-04-06T17:01:00.000-07:00

fuck this.

i'm nervous. i mean. i have every right to be there. people will probably question my presence but those people don't matter. Him is what i'm there for. i want to be around him. make him feel my energy. my energy that wants him. needs him.. fuck. david. it's going to be ok. you can do it. it's not a big deal. you are a strong capable, chicano that has every right to fight for what you want.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH

2011-04-04T01:05:00.001-07:00

First attempt wont be the last. What attempt I made, I guess.
Chasing the lights at a club I'm running as fast as these two beers allow me to.
I gave one away.
Binged on the other.
There's too much going on,
Too much people,
Too much spilled drinks on the floor.
First attempt I slipped and fell face forward.
Bloody nose,
Chipped tooth,
This pain never gets old.

2011-03-24T04:49:00.001-07:00

There's a pain in my back that doesn't allow me to sleep for very long. Worse, there is you that is with me when the days burn and the nights shadow.

How could this be.
I'm too young to be alone,
Misery is out of my control,
But laying in bed for the past 21 years, alone,
Is not.

I'm following you in my dreams, in my thoughts,
With a sprained ankle,
I can still keep up,
I never wanted this for myself,
And how I've prayed to all the gods I've known for a midday dance.

I keep waking up.

the morning of

2011-03-09T12:39:00.000-08:00

i'm hungover. my mouth feels numb from the moscato and shots i drank last night.
i'm sore.my arms feel bruised and my legs feel beat from running three miles in a stinky ass gym.
filled with creatine,
salty lips,
and men.
tons of men.

i don't know what to make of you,
i sat in a room wtih faces,
texting him,
yet thinking of you,
not in the same way as i use to though. or maybe.
you've been so distant. and i keep hiding in small corners.

your humor sucks.
real, real bad.
i desire your brown, olive skin pressed against mine.
i desire parts of you.
the company,
the hands,
the car,
the uncut dick and the ass i can't remember.
you suck,
i fucking suck.

complicated

2011-02-09T22:38:00.001-08:00

i'm going insane. i don't know where i am at. like i've ran all i could and wound up stuck in the same trail except the cracks in the pavement has worsen and i am no longer able to run, too dangerous, too much effort for the same fucking road.

i hope no one reads this. and by no one i mean no one except for you. i am ashamed of myself. i thirst for you. to see you. to hear you. to make eye contact with you, even if its for a split second or its met with a hateful glare. i miss you.

i want to be in a room with you. i've already played it out in my head. i would feel uncomfortable and the first emotion would come in tears. i would stare at you and begin crying. tears of joy that after so long we are together and tears of pain because of the games you played. fuck. the many games we played. after crying, I would begin to yell at you. FUCK YOU! How dare you motherfucker not leave my thoughts?! fuck you! how can i love you this much?!?! When i still haven't loved anyone?!?! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU!

and for once you'd cried. you'd cried in front of me. showing me that you still care about the nothings we were and still are.

i have no ending to my play. some plays never will.

2011-02-05T12:39:00.001-08:00

Reflecting is painful. Especially when the things you have to reflect on were done to you by force.
I had no say, and I have yet to discover a way to have a say.

2011-02-04T09:47:00.001-08:00

And I wore the purple sweater,
Thinking you'd see me,
Want me,
Need me.

prayer

2011-01-19T02:14:00.000-08:00

"Support, help, and protect, but do it from a healthy distance so that your love is fresh and nurturing, and not heavy or overbearing."

I spilled corona on my shirt today.
Using the smell to distract me from what was done.
Drinking is what I am left with.
Alcoholism runs in the family they say, I’m a testament to the Mexican culture—it lives!
Five cups of moscato, four coronas, whiskey and pinor noir is what I have to show for.

I’m dealing with it as best as I can.
Drunk days and lonely nights…
Wishing it was the first and hopefully the last.

I've been down this road for the past year and a half ,
no desire to keep on going,
except for those drunk calls at 1 in the morning,
yelling how much you hate me,
miss me.

Oselotl,
Haven't we kept our distance for far too long?
Maybe our distance was the wrong type and you needed more.

Oselotl,
I kneel before you,
Merci,
Have merci on these hands,
They write without words and punch without eyes.

[Oselotl,
I keep starving myself,
Thinking that's the only way he'll ever love me.]

Oselotl,
I'm a lonely hunter,
I don't eat much,
Just enough to keep me moving,
But not enough to leave.

Oselotl,
Fuck off,
I rather indulge,
Use my strength to crush,
Hide behind these jaguar eyes,
And shut the door.

Oselotl,
Haven't I had enough?
wine,
games,
bullshit,
poems,
tears,
trying but never trying enough?

Oselotl,
i'm weak,
pissed by what you told me,
and fearful by what i've done...

Oselotl,
I am a lonely hunter,
That snacks and doesn't indulge,
Keeping my distance,
Not to hold on, but to grow
It hurts to watch and not interfere,
But it kills to leave with my eyes closed,
Cause i never go and always see.

Oselotl,
Merci,
Have merci on my soul.

2011-01-18T15:51:00.001-08:00

I wore the shirt you liked,
Shoes you've complimented,
And glasses you believed made me who I am...

I sat drinking a pint of shock top,
With my legs crossed,
Loose woman opened,
Reading a poem that reminds me of you,
Us,
You bring out the colonizer in me,
The holocaust of desire in me...

You can't call me,
I'm trying to get over you,
Don't yell at me,
I'm trying to forget the sound of your words,
Don't write to me,
I'm trying to forget how to read you,
Leave me alone,
I'm trying to believe you don't think of me anymore...

In silence we departed,
Knowing it wouldn't be the last time we'd speak without saying a word.

weho

2010-11-28T11:04:00.000-08:00

last night i drank tequila to pass time.

four comadres,
gold watch,
owl necklace,
all in a piece of shit club---i'm 21, i deserve better.

i danced,
we danced,
on a pole,
stage,
long islands in the air as if the night was young and tomorrow would never come.

i miss(ed) you.

he came from behind and i thirst for his arms,
your arms,
but you---he was there.

he danced,
i danced,
he kissed,
i kissed,
i bit,
he bit more.

i made sure he bit enough,
so i can show you,
that i don't want you,
i need you.

i'm tired of these bite marks.
on my neck,
chest,
shirts.

but i'm not willing to give up.

when i see you tomorrow,
the next day,
even the third day,
i'll make sure you notice,
the same way you forced me.

i'll laugh,
stare,
give you one last peek,
and push you goodbye until the next hickie on my neck.

Unloveable

2010-08-23T01:32:00.000-07:00

of all the things that i am, the worst must be that i'm unloveable.

i don't think im ugly,

stupid,

unattractive,

dull,

awkward,

annoying,

....at least not most of the time.

"A gallon of clorox just found its way into the pool.

I splash for rapid cleanse,

in hopes of getting out alive.

I need to live.

but these battle wounds from all these games have left me untouchable,

i'm dying and the only thing that can save me is the hand of an unlovable. just like me."

Afterlife

2010-08-19T20:46:00.000-07:00

"Love isn't enough"

I'm watching the jersey shore and the relationship between ronnie and sammy is disgusting. I believe their in love yet i also believe that their love is poisonous. Please someone slap the shit out of me if i fall for poisonous bullshit love.

I would die for love. Sacrifice my physical being for my spirit to have a chance at love. But the type of love that set's me free, not the type that cages me and punches me in the gut until i've cried and cried.

Love isn't linear nor singular. It varies, that's why love is an unpredictable game.

no stress

2010-08-18T23:39:00.000-07:00

things are gonna work out. after speaking with tasha i feel a sense of relief. i'm going to enjoy the the last 10 days of summer that i have left by doing what i do best. write. hang out with friends. laugh. listen to music. read. and writeeeeeeeee some more.

i'm done being a hopeless romantic. it's pathetic and at the current moment so unnecessary since love is not in the air.

haha

2010-08-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

ok... i'm getting a little pathetic... this needs to stop

hahahah

but seriously... im gonna surround myself with positive energy and entertain myself with positive things

brb so ashamed... lol

Save me from myself

2010-08-18T14:09:00.000-07:00

"And it hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time"

I'm sitting in our backyard under a tree attempting to meditate and energize my spirit by spending at least an hour outside with nature. I can't relax. I can't stop mourning the love I never had. Why as artist do we torture ourselves? Is it because we know that a broken heart inspires our most impressive work? Or because we've come to realize that love is a torturous/gratifying thirst? Or is it because if love wasn't torturous then I wouldn't be an Artist? Torture-Artist. Artist-Torture.

I'm sitting in my backyard listening to my "when the heart hurts" playlist on itunes. Reading "Desert Blood." Writing in my journal and blogspot about how love is torture. Why must I dwell? I mean, I'm not a melancholy person. I'm quite the opposite yet being deprived from human contact and playing lazy in my house, the only energy left in me just wants to be an artist whose heart and spirit only wants to mourn love that was never love.

Why must we mourn love that was never love to begin with?

Maybe because the love that was reality was never filling and if we mourned something that was never filling it would be a waste a time. Mourning love that was never really love, is the type of love that fills you up to maximum capacity and that isn't a waste of time, as mourning something that fills you up transforms you. The only risk is that transformation does not guarantee a step closer to happiness, just a step closer to multiple realities.

I need to start writing about the happiness of love...

summer

2010-08-18T12:44:00.000-07:00

summer is torture... it's a time where broken hearts bask in the sun, slowly melting away

games

2010-08-17T21:15:00.000-07:00

I'm tired of all these games.

Games and Love.

Sadly they go hand in hand. But why play games? These fucking stupid foolish games that always gets in the way of passion. Every game has it's players. And even though it's embarrassing to admit, i'm a player in the game of love. But how do you stop it? I'm so tired and frustrated. But maybe that's the point. These games set the foundation for either a tragic love story or a happily ever after.... maybe? The chances are so high. Tragic love story or a happily ever after or maybe even both? The thing of about the games that are played in love is that we never know how its going to end. Whether there will be any winners, losers or a prize. You will never know, and thats the scariest part about games and love, you never really know.

Pain is necessary. Especially when it's pain inflicted by love. That's the only type of pain i yearn because I always know that years, months, days, hours, seconds later the pain will transform into the sweetest thing i've ever known.

love

2010-08-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

We're always going to be lonely. That's why love exists because love is never constant, it's always running.

:D

2010-08-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

i'm happy. i'm really happy.

Are You A Bottom?

2010-08-16T13:09:00.000-07:00

Are you a bottom?

Hey boo! How you doin’?

I’m chill, just fabulous as always, you know

So I was wondering…. Someone like you,

Tall

Thin,

Well dressed,

Skinny jeans,

Well-groomed hair

(Don’t talk about my hair)

I mean,

Fem,

All Jeweled up,

Mhmmmm

So are you a bottom?

You presumptuous, self-hating, hyper-masculine, stupid motherfucker

NO I AINT NO DAMN BOTTOM! Ugh

Are you a bottom?

Out since 12,

Sexually active since 13,

Seven years of…

Are you a bottom?

Never given the top or vers option,

Just cornered to the bottom capacity.

Are you a bottom?

Older brown man at the post office,

He was 25,

I was 14,

Riding through the ghetto streets of H.P,

We pull up,

Living in his parents garage,

He sets me down,

He never asks,

Just assumes,

I lay in silence and play the role.

Are you a bottom?

Men for sex now. Com

White top looking for Latino bottom,

I reply,

He replies,

He picks me up,

29,

And I am 16,

His pale skin rubs my brown back,

“que suave”

I giggle at his stupid attempt to speak mi lenguage,

I bottomed,

He topped,

And for the next four pale faces I bottomed,

And they,

Exotified,

Objectified,

And Topified.

Are you a bottom?

Never asked and never assumed,

22,

And I was 19,

He rubbed me down,

And never butchered mi lenguage,

Kissed my forehead,

All the way down to the tips of my toes,

Wait….

Am I the bottom?

Shhh,

Baby it don’t matter,

Close your eyes,

Breathe,

And go with the rhythm of our spirits making love.

Are you a bottom?

6 years,

And I will never be a bottom,

Nor a top,

Vers maybe,

But fluid always!

Are you a bottom?

Pale face of 21,

My brown face of 20,

He calls me “papacito”

I call him racist,

NEXT,

Mexicano de edad 20,

Yo Chicano de la misma edad,

He doesn’t dare to ask,

Nor assumes,

I lay, never in silence and never playing the role.

Are you a bottom?

Hey boo, how you doing?

I’m chill, just fabulous, as always you know,

So I was wondering,

Someone like you,

Tall,

Thin,

Skinny jeans,

Well groomed hair,

Oops! Sorry I won’t talk about your hair,

I mean,

Fem,

All jeweled up,

Mhmmmmmm,

So you fluid tonight?

You inclusive, conscious, self-loving, street smarts, motherfucker!

I’m a free bitch baby!

I’M ALWAYS FLUID!

sinners and lovers

2010-08-05T15:50:00.000-07:00

Dance until your heart wears out. That's when you know you've found your lover because he has taken your breath away

white boy can be a comadre

2010-08-05T15:42:00.000-07:00

"i can't love enough for the both of us"

"If love was everything. If love could conquer everything, I would conquer your addiction for you..."

she think i'm CUTEEEE!

2010-08-04T17:19:00.000-07:00

"Don't toot it and boot it! You fucking stay and love me" -Crenshaw

Loving Like A Mestiza

2010-08-03T12:43:00.000-07:00

For someone that has never had a lover, only fuckers, I sure the hell write about love all the time.

This song is beautiful. Two wrongs don't make it right. It's about loving and respect. Having manners and negotiating the contradictions of love. I'm a mestiza lover. Loving in the borderlands space where as a survivor, love wasn't introduce the conventional way. Father and son relationship extended beyond a platonic to a sexually abusive way of parenthood. Father's aren't suppose to love that way. I'm not suppose to experience love that way. I was a mestiza lover. Loving my father and hating him with just a pen and paper in my defense.

I came out at the age of 12 and started having sex at the age of 13 with older men that never loved me. I knew they didn't, but knowing that they didn't love me never stopped me from dreaming they could one day. I was a mestiza lover. Dreaming of a world where I wasn't the only queer Chicano. I knew they existed but I would only see them when I closed my eyes. The duality between the real world and the world I dreamt was blurred. Both worlds made up the voice inside my head that stopped me from ever cutting too deep with the razor.

In the 'real world' I was battling with insecurities from my father's perverted way of loving; my mother's short tempered, depressed and verbally violent way of loving; the older fuckers that objectified my body and would love me by having me suck their brains off; my eldest brother whose love had abandoned me after a drunk night of driving. I was battling but something about living in the 'real world' was still gratifying. Maybe it had to do with my dreams. I would dream that on father's day I would have a father to celebrate with. That he wasn't doing time in prison because his hand ran freely all over my sister's and I's bodies. I dreamt that my mother told me she loved me every day and when she would arrive home after work I wouldn't fear for my emotional safety because she was glad to see her children. I would close my eyes and picture a line of men just waiting to love me. They didn't want to fuck me. They just wanted to hold me inside their arms and remind me that I'm beautiful just the way I am. Lastly, I would dream that I stopped my brother from ever leaving us. That he found a job and no longer needed to travel to vegas for a job fair. I might have been dreaming but something inside, at the core of my heart told me that them dreams could be my 'real world' one day. I was a mestiza lover.

I was a mestiza lover.

I am a mestiza lover.

When I am mean to you, I am mean because i want a reaction out of you. I want you to care about the words I'm throwing at you. Care because i care about you. The only thing about this is that after a while, being mean hurts too much to bare. Usually when the pain becomes unbearable you have just gotten started and usually unwilling to stop. I am a mestiza lover.

Loving like a mestiza means that I carry my heart on my hand and pass a piece of it every time i shake someone's hand or caress their body. I will love forever. However, loving forever means I put my life on the line. Subject-Object to exploitation, violence, discrimination and abandonment. Loving like a mestiza means everything and nothing. Loving like a mestiza means every second is a role of the dice. Always shifting and always loving but never guaranteeing.

Apart

2010-08-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

"Para de sofocarte. El amor debe de darte aire, no cortarte la vida."

Goodbye my lover. May our hearts only possess the ability to remember how we made and could have made love under mother moon. If we meet again, years from now, we'll fall in love and make up for all these wasted years. But meeting again is a stretch and a possibility that's hard to accept.

con amor,

tu luna

it's coming in less than 9 hours

2010-08-02T15:38:00.000-07:00

I will soon be 21 years old. I'm expecting a lot but like piale would say "don't expect anything." So i am not expecting anything.

I know what I want but do I really know, when what I want is something i've never had? When i was seventeen a psychic predicted that I would fall in love with my lifetime lover at the age of 21. Apparently in my past life i was a gay man with a life partner, however at the age of 21 we wouldn't be together anymore because of society's homophobic ways. My partner committed suicide and I never loved again.

She also said that I would become a famous writer one day. That when I would die I would be remembered for my writing. The thing was, at the age of 17 i was insecure of my writing. I never felt good enough and my creative writing was kept private from the public world. I would write poetry and use a pseudo name of "John Smith." Talk about the whitest most masculine pseudo name i could have picked. lol. Now that I am 20 years old and only hours away from turning 21, there is not doubt in my mind that I will be a writer for the rest of my life. There is nothing more gratifying that putting down in words the ways of my heart, body and spirit. Writing has saved my life. From the time I was eight years old to the present where I go nowhere without my love book. Writing is my oxygen. And like oxygen, I can only live without it for about 30 seconds before my body begins to weaken.

21 will be the year that I learn to love another man. And the year of my best writing

Gifts and Love

2010-08-02T03:08:00.000-07:00

Truth

My truth. My truth that is always mine but rooted in my relation to others. The truth about love is that it is never constant, always torturing, and most likely something you can't live without because love is like cold water on the driest day.

How do I know what love is if I have never fucked someone I loved?

Maybe love comes in fragments and I've only had a handful of pieces.... or maybe love is really not love, but an empty box with beautiful wrapping and nothing at the core.

Two Days Left

2010-08-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

Love and Death.

If I were to die, I would want it to be because of love. The good kind though. Not the kind that becomes an obsession that your life comes to an end because a lover has caged you. But the kind where you're physically incapable of loving that the only way to continue to love is to liberate your spirit from your physical being. That's the good kind. The kind I hope puts me to sleep.

love

2010-08-01T14:21:00.000-07:00

"I WOULD RATHER WALK ON THORNS THAN TO FALSELY LOVE YOU"

Pepe

2010-07-24T19:46:00.000-07:00

cuando me miro en el espejo trato de pensar en lo que nunca voy a poder amar

brown eyes

2010-07-21T07:46:00.000-07:00

Zodiac

2010-07-19T14:03:00.000-07:00

"In dealing with Gemini’s erratic behavior in changing so swiftly from one thing to another will try deeply on Leo’s patience. They will not stand back idly and watch as Gemini disregards past mistakes, moves on after just a minor flaw is noticed with their profession, friends, family or loved ones. Leo won’t stand for Gemini’s lack of decency when it comes to running off to find the next best thing when they haven’t even cleaned up the mess from what they are currently involved in. With the love Leo feels for their Gemini, they will make it a point to grab hold of Gemini, shake them up and lecture them into realizing that what they are doing is foolish and asinine. And, although deep down Gemini knows the Leo is right they will not try to hide the fact that they are annoyed and infuriated at Leo’s words."

what you give is what you get. Dreams and just dreams.....

What to Feel?

2010-07-08T02:38:00.000-07:00

These past two days have been filled with positive energy and beautiful friends... I hope it stays this way...

I am a hopeless romantic. I don't wanna fuck. I will not fuck. I want to make love. And will ONLY make love. dayum, i have a feeling i'm not gonna be laying naked with someone for a long time since my heart is at a still.

25 more days until i am finally fucking TWENTY ONE! 2-1 !

........ i'm so excited

Filter

2010-07-06T03:41:00.000-07:00

Laying,
Confused and heartbroken,
Touching me,
Feeling me and looking at me,
But no different from the rest,
I am no different from him.

Waking up,
Everywhere and nowhere,
Can I escape,
Lips pouting,
Throat drying,
I need a different kiss,
A kiss of my own,
A kiss not like his.

Numb,
Laying and waking,
But always feeling,
The hurt,
And the love that is just like his,
Why,
How,
And when will it be only mine,
And if not mine,
When will it be just ours....

Fouth of July

2010-07-05T21:10:00.000-07:00

I have been starving for the past week. I am over fast food and eating out, but i lack the capacity to cook for myself.

It's like i continue to eat but for what?

I have been going to the gym four times a week for the past two weeks and it has been wonderful actually. I have enjoyed going, i'm seeing results, and i'm spending precious time with friends.

Summer has been one big HOTMESS! God, my life is a hotmess. I can't help it though, my momma is a hotmess by nature thus i am a hotmess by nature. Emotionally, i think that i could be better. I haven't been writing on my journal as much but I think that will change in the next. I definitely have some things to write about, especially after this weekend.

I need to focus on my studies. i need to focus on my studies so I can get into grad school.

Shit needs to happen! and i need to be a HOTMESS but a hotmess with class

Fire

2010-06-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

"Emboldened by love, I ignored the homophobia that constantly licked at my heels like flames from hell." Renee Martinez

"If all these people were my foes, who were my allies? When could I stop fighting?" Renee Martinez

When can i stop fighting? I'm laying in my bed, allowing my physical body to rest as I foresee a long night of strenuous tossing and turning, groaning, biting, punching and scratching once i fall asleep. Reading Renee Martinez's Del puente al arco iris: transformando de guerrera a mujer de la paz-From Bridge to Rainbow: Transforming from Warrior to Woman of Peace made me start thinking about the impact writings by women of color have had on my body, mind and spirit.

It's like every time i read a feminist of color text, someone or something grabs a match from the ground, still damp from last night's rain, and miraculously makes fire with it and lights the candle in my spirit. I feel alive again.

When can i stop fighting? Reading that line was like taking a blow to my heart. I could feel the fist smash my valves against my artery, mutating the physical nature of my heart for the hundredth time, a shape that resembles more and more the shape of my eight year old face. I wonder what that means? When i was eight years old my father raped me. I feel like my eight year old self symbolizes death and life. The death of any memory I had prior to the rape and life because I was transformed into a new being. Maybe that was the first time that i truly felt like i had to fight...

I mean growing up in Huntington Park, filled with cholos, drugs, alcoholism, poverty, and homophobia, I was born with two fist in the air- ready to fight and protect. But the rape, i feel, was like the fist time I had to use both fists to fight. i had always gotten away with using either the left or the right fist, by either punching my older brother with my right after pantsing me in public. Or using my left fist to knock on my mother's room door because i had a nightmare and i needed her love to make things better. I was always fighting. I was always the one fist warrior. But when my father battled me with three of his fists, his right, his left, and his dick, i had no choice but to fight with both of my fists. I was a two-fists warrior.

When can i stop fighting? I am laying in bed for the hundredth time because i foresee a night of unrest and tossing and turning as I fight off the demons with both of my fists. So much to fight for yet so much to make peace with.

My troubles are high,
So high that i cry everyday,
I get angry everyday,
I smile everyday,
I laugh everyday,
I sit in silence everyday,
I spit everyday.

I need to remember how to fight with one fist again. But how can I when the memories are so blurry?
I need to remember how to fight with one fist again so I can stop fighting all together.
I will wake up one day feeling well rested.
With no scratches,
No bruises,
No pain,
Just a lover next to me.

And when that day happens i would have transformed into el hombre de la paz. And the blows to my heart, whenever i read writings by feminist of color, will not shape my heart into my eight year old face but into all my years faces and those faces yet to come.

Tired

2010-06-08T00:38:00.000-07:00

This quarter. These past ten weeks. Looking back at my writing I can’t help but feel pity for myself. I’m angry that I have allowed myself to get so hung up that I lost track of myself. Burnout. What the fuck? My body is so tired. I haven’t been able to sleep well this entire quarter. My mind is always thinking of the same bullshit. I wish I knew how to let go… and I am angry that I am still longing for the know-how on how to let go. It’s not going to happen David. There it goes again. Like venom going up my neck, into my brain.

Letting go.

My body,
These brown hands,
Red lips,
Think black hair,
Dark brown eyes that are doors to my soul,
My body−not yours.

I’ve noticed that I have been more conscious of my body because of this class. I never gave much thought as to how my body has been colonized, as much of my focus has been directed towards my colonized mind, but taking this class has served as the bridge between my mind/spirit and body. I’ve been less shameful to allow my body to be expressive, either when I’m on the dance floor jamming to some “Bed Rock” or when my body is aching and not being able to sleep because a white man called me a “faggot” the other night. My body has been drained but most of all it has been liberated.

When I write, I write with my body. The connection between my spirit and my fingers make it so my writing is my spirit.

I want this quarter to be over.

I’m tired of living in a space where I am continually reminded that as a queer man of color I will never be able to professionally move up.

I’m tired of being a white man’s secretary. Doing all the work, answering phone calls, delegating the work, yet still getting paid below minimum wage and only to have my work claimed by the privilege man with colored eyes. My eyes are colored too; you just never pay attention because brown isn’t what you desire.

I’m tired of being tired. But there’s an urgency to write. Like someone lit a firework inside me and the sparks from the firework are trying to burn through my insides to make a pathway for the firework to blow up in the sky. The thing is, it won’t burn me up or kill me. Just liberate the fire in my soul that’s been burning for the past quarter. It’s about to blow up−do you feel it?

2010-06-06T01:39:00.000-07:00

woah.. woah woah woah... hahaha

i need to sleep. I hope i dream of mother nature. i need to feel refreshed

i need you

2010-06-05T03:52:00.000-07:00

so i hate that i love you boy... i cant stan how much i hate you ... i love you motherfucker and just deal with it

Glass Wall

2010-05-24T23:06:00.000-07:00

I feel like I keep hitting a glass wall.

Like I am walking at a slower pace than everyone else because I am carrying an extra 200 pounds of color, queer and poor. But I remember the words of my mami, “Con guanas, si se puede,” and every now and then when I get bursts of energy I run to catch up to everyone else.

But the other day was different. I was walking slowly but when God’s grace gave me a boost of energy, I ran. I was running and I refused to look back as I focused on my future possibilities. I was running. God I was fucking running for my life. I was running because I knew I deserved to be with everyone else. I was running because I deserved to be valued. I was running because for so long I never believed I could ever run. I was running because for once I believed I had a chance to survive.

Just a few steps before reaching the masses I slammed against a glass wall. My skin tore and my bones broke. Blood was gushing from every part of my body. But most important my spirit died a little. My spirit that fed me when I was hungry. My spirit that gave me a voice when I felt silenced. My spirit that gave me a heart when mine had vanished. Oh spirit, may the part of you that died please come back to life. I need you. All of you.

I’m laying on the ground almost dead. Swallowing my own blood, feeding my thirst anyway I can.

Homophobia hurts.

Racism hurts.

Both together kill me.

They are the ones to blame for the glass wall and the extra weight on my back.

They are the ones to blame for my job placement.

Where the straight Chicano gets the Chicana/o floor because having a queer Chicano would endanger the machismo.

Where the white woman gets the Rainbow house because having a queer of color would force the department to breakdown down their white supremacy in queer spaces.

Homophobia hurts.

Racism hurts.

Both together make up the glass wall that continuously makes me feel hopeless.

David.

David one day you will live one life. One day you will be able to walk through glass walls and turn that pain into love. But for now, living and dying is all you can do.

God save me!

Spirit

2010-05-17T13:01:00.001-07:00

I have been in a romantic state of being lately. The words In Lake’ch makes my heart hurt. Like my spirit is draining the blood out and pressing its being against my tender heart. How to love when love has no words? When my mind is empty because love is not allowed? How do I allow my spirit to stop putting pressure on my heart because it’s slowly killing me? I find it hard to breathe sometimes. I lay in bed thinking because the thought of doing anything involving my body would force me to inhale the poison in the room. These crazy circumstances force me to belong to me. I feel alone in a crowd of one hundred. I need to snap out of it. I need to love my heart and mind. I feel like I am about to have a heart attack at any moment because the pressure is getting too immense. Spirit please stop crushing me. Spirit give me a free pass and allow me to not love… at least for now.

hush

2010-05-17T02:39:00.001-07:00

I want to be raw but my rawness is fragmented. Only pieces of me are raw and the rest are shielded by an armor of self-hate.

I want to have the courage to heal in the places that have become invisible. I want to write, even when writing is physically impossible and emotionally painful.

I want to have courage.

I want to have courage.

I want to have courage to stand up for myself, my heart, my body and my spirit.

naming

2010-05-06T02:41:00.001-07:00

In the process of developing my queer identity, I am constantly attempting to put a name to what I am feeling. But I often find myself going blank as the terms that “society” reproduces never quite fit with what I am going through. How do I name something that doesn’t have a name? By the time I reach nothingness, I get frustrated. Mostly because some third person usually takes the leadership of naming what I am and what I am feeling. It pisses me off.

I am not queer,

I am not joto,

I am not lonely,

I am not beauty,

I am not ugly,

I am not brown,

I am not poor,

I am not David.

I don’t know what I want. But will I ever? I’m sitting in my desk facing a mirror because the thought of facing a computer that never talks back to me is heartbreaking at the time.

I wish that when I was born I had been isolated from the world with only a mirror to interact with. Grow up knowing the features on my body. The pores that allow my body to breathe. Get to know myself, with only my spirit guiding me. Maybe then I would have the courage to speak truth.

To speak truth to the experiences of my body,

My lips,

My eyes when they see shadows and colors,

My subconscious that never sleeps,

My heart that bleeds pain and love.

I wish I had courage.

Enough courage to tell you that I love you.

That everytime I see you there is part inside of me that just wants to hug you and tell you that I deserve to be happy with you.

Why must we play?

Why must I think I’m not good enough?

Why do I feel like my body isn’t adequate enough for you?

I want to yell in your face and be part of your mainstream world.

I want to stop crying because the tears that runs down my cheeks stings.

It stings because it reminds me that I am still trying to heal from when my father touched me.

It reminds me that I am still trying to heal from my under bite.

It reminds me that I am still trying to heal from all the times that my leadership has been doubted because of my queer Chicano identity.

Crying stings. But I only hope that when you look into my eyes, your love will give me the courage to face the mirror and be the one to name myself…

let me patience

2010-05-01T23:36:00.000-07:00

I want to be unselfish.

i miss my family. i miss my mom. my sister. my comadres. and my home. i can't wait for tomorrow!

tell him

2010-04-25T23:53:00.000-07:00

Come over

tomorrow is just another time where space is universal and time has elapsed!

i miss you..and i wish i would have told you that i love you... or even that i feel something for you

one day after

2010-04-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

this pain is to a maxim..

when i try to be strong the desire bursting out of my skin wants to be weak, to be able to feel your gentle lips on my neck.... too bad you are holding hands with another

elections

2010-04-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

i am waiting for the results... god this is so nerve wrecking!

i am sitting at the mcc waiting for results. we have lost for the past two years and everytime this process gets to me. i hope that we don't lose. jfkl;ajfkldjal;fj;la

Xota as my political identity

2010-04-17T22:20:00.000-07:00

I am a Xota and Xoto

:D

I haven't written for such a long time. My mind has not been present.

I want to lay in bed with someone and not have sex just lay. Make eye contact. Smile. Giggle. Discuss philosophies. Then have the person sing to my ear...

Honey

2010-03-28T20:05:00.000-07:00

I am back in the halls. Spring Quarter has officially begun and I am looking forward to it!

I need to be smarter with my money. I need to apply for a summer job and stop wasting my shit on things that are not important. I want a car.... I NEED A FUCKING CAR! I have a strong feeling though that my sister and my mom are going to get me my car on my birthday *crossing fingers*

These are my goals for spring quarter:
- 4.0 gpa
-Write for an hour a day
-Run every day
-Stop eating out
-Practice for the GRE
-Identify specific GRAD programs that I will be applying to
-Go to the Dentist every month
-Find a summer JOB!

words with friends

2010-03-23T22:43:00.000-07:00

This is my first spring break in the past three years that I have spent it at home. For the past two years i would be in Leg Con and I would only be home for about five days.

I'm not running for AS elections, THANK GOD! I need to focus on going to grad school. I really want to go to Stanford or NYU. Those are my top choices, but LBR that shit is hard. I haven't even applied but i am already feeling stressed as fuck.

I am watching KEEPING UP WITH THE KARDASHIANS, Khloe is the fucking bomb! i feel understand why she angry, i myself i'm an angry person of color. Well, more like, I am a passionate person and Khloe looks like a passionate person herself.

This blog post feels kinda ridiculous so i will try to end it a deep quote:

"my lips are dry. yearning for moist. waiting for the right fluids to water my needs."

spring break

2010-03-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

it's monday and i feel like spring break is almost over.

I need to write more. I am suppose to write an hour a day and read at like three books this break, i highly doubt it will happen.

I feel stressed and i don't know why i do. For some strange reason i have this strong urge to be back in school. I want to be in a classroom, in my chican@ classes.

I want to write like i use to write:

allow the fire to stay under me.

if you can't love yourself then how the hell do you expect someone to love you.

Need a moment of silence to breathe for the first time in 20 years.
Breathing the cold air from my body's breath in search of answers of my childhood.
Mami, porque tienes tantas canas?
Porque cuando te miro me siento como no estas?

the hollow from your eyes are seeking solace in my veins.
The blood running through my veins are needing your assistance to keep my body from falling apart,
Keep my skin brown because the coldness has frozen my pigments....

Many things in my head i have come accustomed to avoiding. but is it normal? is it normal to forget the lives of others for your own self love?

Allow me to introduce you to my hero.
Her name is Virginia and the villain in the story is her husband who attempts to kill her every time she is on the road.

Won't someone believe her stories.
Won't someone trust in her, HER own life?

Breathing in an out.
Breathing in her cold words because to be warm i must fist learn to care for her....

"loving the airs in its pressure and temperature."

so much

2010-03-19T00:19:00.000-07:00

I feel so hopeless. Even though it is not happening to me, it is happening to the people that i love.

How could some people be so fucked up in the hardest of times? WTF?!?!? GOD!!! I have to take care of myself but the last thing i want to do is feed myself when the people i love are starving to death.

dios dame la voluntad para saber como ayudar.

Beauty:From Nightmares to Dreams

2010-03-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

David Preciado
03/08/2010

SWAPA ANALYSIS:

“I write for my own self value. To take ownership of my skin color, sexuality, voice, body and story. My grammar is horrific. My passive voice is distracting and my vocabulary is limited. The disclaimer I just stated is my defense against the hierarchy that disempowers me. It’s meant to be evidence of my insecurities that are rooted in my own internalized oppression caused by homophobia, racism, sexism and classism. Here are my wounds and the pen I am writing this piece with are the healing herbs to my surviving soul.”
–9/30/2009 first SWAPA during Chicana Studies 151 De Colonizing Feminism

My progress. I have always been a poet and only recently did I realize that I am also a writer. I began to write after my father raped me. I was eight years old when I first picked up a flowery journal and wrote about my sexuality. I wrote about the false love my father gave me. How I fell in love with the devil. Love at the age of eight was nothing but a perverted/innocent/naïve/child that was thirsty for more fatherly love-even if the love was rooted with a heart of an alcoholic/rapist/mentally disabled man. I regret ever falling in love with the devil. Twelve years later I ask myself, why couldn’t I fall in love with the angel? And if not an angel, why couldn’t I remain in limbo and never experience love to begin with?

Father I love you.
There is not a day I go by that I don’t think of you.

Father I love you for the devil you are but I wish I would have fallen in love with the angel of you.

My life prior to my rape is lost.
I don’t remember how it feels to look at my body,
My hands,
My feet,
My mouth,
And remember a time when my skin was clear of scratches, from the cuts of your dick.

I am in this constant horror film in my head.
I am walking alone in the alley; the only thing visible is the reflection of the moonlight from the fog in the air. I’m rushing, trying to find the nearest payphone, store, person that could help me clear my vision so I could go home. I finally spot someone. Their back is facing me. I begin to run towards them, yelling, screaming for help. Once I’m close enough, I take a moment to catch my breath. Breathing for my life, I take the last ounce of energy to tap them on their right shoulder, but before my fingertips touches the coat, you, the devil, swiftly bite my hand off and rape me. Raping me on the floor, I lay frozen. And when you’re done, you pinch me so I can wake up. Then once again, I am walking alone in the alley; the only thing visible is the reflection of the moonlight from the fog in the air. I’m rushing, trying to find the nearest payphone, store, person that could help me clear my vision so I could go home…

The nightmare is in everything.
My SWAPAS,
My words,
My room,
Relationships I have with people,
It’s inscribed all over my body- in my spirit.

I want to run and hide.
Travel to the furthest city,
Most secluded neighborhood,
Driest weather,
Darkest corner,
And hide from you.

Hide so I can remember that I have a brother.
Although he is dead, he is still alive in my heart.

Hide so I can remember that I am capable of trusting another man with my body.

Hide so I can stop blaming my mami for never noticing the touches you gave me.

Hide so I can look at my sister in the eyes and tell her we didn’t deserve what was done to us.

Hide so I can stop writing about you.
Take you out of my pieces of paper and write of the dream I wish I had.

My progress. I have always been a poet. Che’s class gave me the strength to identify as a writer. Identifying as a writer has allowed me to write with spirit words, the same spirit words that have transformed the nightmare into a mestiza consciousness. Reading the Four Fold Way has allowed me to inhale Mother Nature’s healing oxygen and exhale the traumas of my past. Hiding is no longer an option because Che’s class has given me the courage to confront the nightmares, even if my body is too crippled to stand on its own. Gracias Che for reminding me that I exist. Gracias companeras y companeros for sharing your love with me, even when at times I was too selfish to share mine with you all. May you feel my spirit and heart whenever you inhale and allow Mother Nature to enter your body and heal your broken spirits, because to heal is to survive and all of you, my sisters and brothers are survivors. Con Amor! Tu estudiante/amigo/companero del alma.

OP ED

2010-02-23T20:15:00.001-08:00

Donde estan los escritores jotos? Where are the queer Chicano writers?

Professors Horacio Roque Ramirez and Ondine Chavoya were the only 2 queer Chicanos out of 25 scholars that presented at the “Sex Y Corazon” symposium on February 12th, 2010 at UCLA, celebrating fifteen years/quinceanera of UCLA’s Cesar E. Chavez Department of Chicana and Chicano Studies. The symposium centered on “Queer and Feminist Theory at the Vanguard of the New Chicana@ Studies.” As a third year at UCSB majoring in Chicana@ Studies, the symposium was mind blowing-to say the least. Feminist and Queer theologians, philosophers, writers, and activist discussed the history of Chicana@ Studies, their lives, their research, and what Chela Sandoval calls “the hermeneutics of love.”

Doctors Antonia Castaneda and Deena Gonzalez presented on their co-editing Chicana Matters Series by University of Texas Press. Chicana Matters Series provides an empowering outlet for Chicana writers to publish their work. As a self-proclaimed novelist, I was excited to hear of a publishing company that seeks to publish works from people of my community. Already well acquainted with horror stories from Chican@ writers whom time after time are rejected from publishing companies because of the racist pedagogy these companies are ran by. How they refuse to legitimize Chican@ work by deeming it as “not important” or “too-raced-based.” It’s fair to say that for once I was glad to know that someone was seeking my soon-to-be work, not the other way around. However, I can’t help but feel hopeless again when I squint my eyes and take a second look, “Chican(A) Matters.” Although Castaneda and Gonzalez never explicitly said that queer Chicanos are forbidden from submitting work to the series, like the series website states, it’s intended for Chicanas; thus, presumably not a primary space for queer Chicanos whom are seeking to publish their work should seek.

Following my realization, I began to ask myself, “Do Jotos Matter?” “Do queer Chicanos matter?” Instantly, I roared “¡Porsupuesto!” “Of course!” Acknowledging the works of queer Chicano writers like: Rigoberto Gonzalez, Horacio Roque Ramirez, and other established folks. The list of established queer Chicano writers, when compared to our sisters, Chicanas, doesn’t measure up. I bring this fact, not to disempower our Chicana sisters whom opened doors, but more so, to re-emphasize that when Cherrie Moraga wrote in This Bridge Called My Back “refugees of a world on fire,” it wasn’t limited to Chicana refugees. We [queer Chicanos] are refugees of a world whose flames have taken the shape of bars. Bars that kill our brown bodies as fast as the bullets that are propelled from a firearm during a drive by. As refugees of a world on fire, our writing needs to become the fire extinguisher that puts out the flames. The keys that liberates us from the prisons and the bulletproof vest that protects us from a bleeding heart.

Our publishing spaces should not be limited to hypersexualized magazines like Adelante, but should expand to scholarly university presses as well. Our bodies, our lives are worth to be published outside the realm of exoticism and into the field of academia. Queer Chicanos symbolize theory in the flesh. From combating homophobia within traditional Latino@ culture that perpetuates hypermasculinity and limited sexual discourse; to negotiating our intersectional identities as either people of color/working-class/queer/immigrant folks in a hegemonic world order- our existence matters. As refugees we need to continue and push extra hard to write our his[queer][chicano]story. Establish our own publishing series that seeks to validate our scholarly work as people living in the margins. I matter. Jotos matter. Queer Chicanos matter.

A.S Elections

2010-02-16T23:21:00.001-08:00

I feel deeply upset. Student government elections are approaching and once again my work becomes silent. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to be part of an association where I lose a piece of myself everytime I walk through the doors. In my current process of rebuilding pieces of myself that the association tarnished the last two years, I have distanced myself from the space. However, like most things in life that you wish would dissolve and leave you alone, it is election season and my phone wont’ stop ringing. From people that want to lobby me, vent to me, manipulate me to support their political aspirations. The eyes of my friends begin to turn a shade redder, a redness that yearns for power. Having lost twice, the political paradigm that supports white/anglo leadership over qualified people of color has pushed me away. Far away enough where I don’t care about elections. The structure, in which Associated Students is built on, prevents me from once again fully participating. I want to read. I want to write. However, in order to read and write at my own free will I must sleep with one eye open. Be conscious of my surroundings and people whose eyes change color at the site of power.

Path to Conocimiento

2010-02-15T02:35:00.000-08:00

It was 1995 when my parents divorced and I was six years old. My father raped me when I was eight years old. He was taking care of my two older brothers and oldest sister and me while my mother went to Mexico because her sister died. He raped me four times in my mother’s bed. Living in silence for the next four years was like traveling to a different world. A world where my mother’s bed was just a bed and not the platform that sustained my body while the love for my father diminished. For most of my eight-year-old life, I was in what Gloria Anzaldua calls the “arrebato space,” where the rape from my father had shaken me. I was desperate for answers. Stumbling over the most delicate pebbles on the ground, I lost the capacity to stand on my own. I continued to fall until finally I fell into the second stage, the “neplanta space.” From the ages of nine to ten-years-old, I was a neplantlero. Living in a space where it was not about ‘he [father] touched me’ or ‘he didn’t touch me’ but where his touched manifested into consciousness. A consciousness that broke away from the binary of ‘good chicano’ or ‘bad chicano’ to a ‘surviving chicano.’ I was exploring new modes of being. Negotiating between what was love and what was not. Exploring the purpose of my body, as it not only invited love, through hugs and kisses, but also, as it lured in pedophiles. I was in a third space. A space of learning how to survive. Overwhelmed by my eldest brother’s sudden death, right before I turned eleven-years-old I descended to the third stage, “Coatlicue.” I was in despair, anguish, and hopelessness. Drowning in chaos, I found the will to swim to the surface and escape the demon waters by writing on my Harry Potter hardcover journal. The fourth space, “the call,” I validated my existence and experiences by writing them down. Writing soon shifted into the fifth stage, “Coyolxauhqui,” I was writing to put my life together. To give voice to my abused body, sorrow for my dead brother, and queer identity. To speak of my reality in a world that sewed my lips together and never called on me even though I kept raising my hand. Growing tired of being the only one witnessing my own experience, when I turned twelve years-old I cut the thread that was binding my lips shut and rather than waiting for someone to call on me I stood up and yelled! I told my mother that my father raped me. I told the world that I was gay. But most importantly, I told myself that I existed. This was my “blow up” phase, the sixth stage. What followed was what Anzaldua calls the final stage of Conocimiento, “spiritual activism” the seventh and final stage. I became a warrior, who was determined to speak out and transform my abused body into a strong, beautiful one. I was determined to make my writing known. Determined to make the words on paper onto the ears of people because living in silence was detrimental to my soul, my existence.

Teacher Dreams

2010-02-11T02:01:00.000-08:00

My brother, Jose, you were my significant teacher. Although your life was cut short, Hermano, you taught me the beauty of waking up. Opening my eyes and witness the traumas of our past and face the demons of my present. Gracias.

Your death caused me so much pain. My heart was lost; kidnapped by the spirits of the afterlife whom held it hostage until I stopped chasing after them. I was exhausted. My shins were bruised. My mind stopped processing and my soul was detached, left behind a mile ago with the other souls of my family.

I was detached.
In the space between questions and answers.

I was no longer capable of movement. My spirit was still held prisoner and my physical being was crippled to the point where my hands could not write. My eyes kept closing, replaying the scenes of my father’s knife penetrating me in and out. My throat was full. Full of years of silence. Words that only made it on to paper but never onto the ears of others.

Hermano,
Teacher,
Voice,
Your loss was the truth. The truth of my despair. The same despair that I was able to hide from until your public death crushed our family, but more so, it killed me. All the nightmares of my childhood came to life and as much as I tried to keep them as nightmares you forced my eyes to stay open. It took two years of your lessons to finally learn how to clear out my throat. Release the words from my bleeding mouth. Words that I never knew were my own. Words of the spirit tongue. Words of Trust.

You taught me to stop chasing after the spirits of the afterlife. Stop crippling my body and be open to outcome. Open to liberation. Liberation of my abused body. Liberation of your detachment from my physical world. Liberation of clarity. Where the only thing that mattered was my present self and not “what” I thought my future self would be if I were exposed. I was detached from outcome but open to new modes of being.

Gracias Hermano. You taught me to write with my body. Make the words on paper, also onto the ears of the world.

Sister Curandera, Sister Healer

2010-01-26T22:20:00.000-08:00

Sister healer,
I have entered your house just six years after your birth and I am blessed for it.

Hermana Curandera,
Tus manos estan cubrieto en sangre,
Ya se que el hombre vino y te corto, pero necesito que tu me lo cuentes.

Sister healer,
My heart is racing, I want the nerves to stop but everytime they do it’s only because he has come with the touch that paralyzes me.

Hermana Curandera,
Me duele verte en los ojos,
Se que tienes un secreto pero no se como liberarte.

Sister Healer,
Listen to my screams! I need you to save me! Witness when you walked in and the man we called father was showing me my death.

Hermana Curandera,
Mis manos tambien sangran como las tuyas, necesitamos las llerbas de nuestra madre. Donde esta nuestra mami?

Sister Healer,
My life since the age of 8 is no longer my own but his. This body, my thoughts, my words have been enslaved. Won’t you free me?

Hermana Curandera,
As estado llorando por toda tu vida. Necesito tu fuerza para sobrevivir, ensename como continuar de respirar cuando el mundo me a sofocado.

Sister Healer,
My throat keeps itching, and the nightmares that I had when I was 8 want to escape my mouth. My eyes can’t stop bleeding and my knife can’t stop cutting.

Hermana Curandera,
Hoy es el Dia. Hoy es el dia que as compartido tu fuerza con migo y as liberado mi cuerpo, mente y palabras.

Sister Healer,
I, Love, You.
He raped me.
I, Love, You.
He raped you too.

Hermana Curandera,
Yo, Te, Amo.
Perdon.
Yo, Te, Amo.
Gracias.

Sister Healer,
Hermana Curandera,
You are the backbone to my existence. Mi voz cuando no puedo hablar. The love when I am feeling un-loved. La llerbas cuando mis manos sangran. I spoke the words but you taught them to me…

I exist

2010-01-25T22:12:00.002-08:00

I wanted to close my eyes. Experiment with the different voices inside my head to formulate the truth of my power. How to transform signs of entrapment to signs of liberation? To close my eyes and no longer see the darkness as malice but as my weapon against the gatekeepers and the power mongers. In order to de-self-actualize, my imaginary has to become my truth and my love the backbone to my existence.

Last night I read my evaluations from my fellow R.A staff members.

So much emotion that I felt once I finished reading the evaluations. How could they? Why would they? How dare they? And of course… How expected! How expected for these heterosexual, mostly white idiotic people to evaluate me with such intimidation because of my identity. I am not approachable? Why? Because I scare you? Because you have never had to deal with a loud queer chicano before? Because approaching me would force you to validate my existence?

I come with a lot of baggage, truth and love. I don’t expect anything from you. I only expect that MY determination to physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually survive will never be silenced by YOUR determination to cut my throat.

Living in the Imaginary

2010-01-25T22:12:00.001-08:00

Living in the imaginary. As a kid and now as an adult, my reality has manifested into my imaginary. Living in the space between the world that exists when I close my eyes and when my eyes open, I find the four-fold way oxygen that is needed to survive in the imaginary. Breathing in the dichotomous worlds of closed and opened, my survival is dependent on the interface, imaginary, to legitimize my existence as a writer, poet, chicano, and queer. The imaginary oxygen is what fuels my fingers to type and sets free my testimonies to allow new ones to formulate. As bell hooks wrote in her essay Women Who Write Too Much, “I feel an urgent need to write ideas down on paper to make room for new ideas to arrive, keep my mind from becoming too crowded.” To liberate is to make the closed conversations the open and the open conversations insightful understandings of the human psyche−my own psyche.
It is difficult to write. It is difficult to travel between worlds and not feel as though the instability will be my defeat.

[for] Chicanos Who Write Too Much:

Continue to write,
Continue to travel between worlds,
Continue to be defeated.

My survival is dependent on the ability to write,
To bridge between the closed and the opened,
To validate my experiences,
But most of all to remember that I exist.

Chicanito at 8 Years old with a flowery journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your exploited and abused sexual discourse.
Spoke to your fragile body but wise mind.

Chicanito at 11 years old with a purple-built-in-light journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your deathly vision and twisted sexual discourse.
Spoke to your broken heart but queer becoming.

Chicanito at 15 years old with virus-infected journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your fatherly and traumatic sexual discourse.
Spoke to your fragmented life but assurance that you exist[ed].

Chicano at 20 years old with a dusty-mac journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your decolonizing sexual discourse.
Spoke to your insecurities of writing but your willingness to never stop.

Sleep Paralysis

2010-01-25T22:11:00.001-08:00

Sleep paralysis. I am sleeping with my eyes open and there is a brown warrior approaching me. Brown warrior why must you come when the paralysis has taken over my body? When I’m alone and I’m the only one that can witness you? Brown warrior why must you fuel me with anger and desperation? Prevent me from exhaling and singing the right note to your key?

To speak of hegemonic institutions is to speak to the brown warrior. But how can I speak when the sleep paralysis has halted my tongue? When all I am capable of doing is witness and process the brown warriors discourse inside my mind? As I wait for my body to liberate itself from the paralysis, I am angered. Angered by the lack of agency to confront the matter when in act. That same anger is what leaves me with a pen and paper so I can write, analyze, heal and resist the institutions that have brought the brown warrior onto my life. Writing is painful. I dread writing. Having to articulate my thought process onto words is never quite enough. I feel like I’m justifying when I write. Like the police has taken me and my liberation is contingent on my ability to articulate their wants in the proper English way.

“Like I said. I don’t know who the brown warrior is.
Si se quien el guerrero café es.
I don’t know what you want from me?!
Te suplico que me dejes ir de esta prision. El es yo, ya te lo dije.
I only witness him when I’ve frozen and as much as I would like, the brown warrior never speaks to me.
No mas mira. Se acerca y me ensena sus aventuras. El amor de su vida y las personas que a matado para sobrevivir.
I’m telling you the truth.
No miento…”

How could I be lying? I keep giving but it is still not enough.

Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T14:18:00.000-08:00

"No on is gonna rain on my parade"

This past week i have been unproductive. Or have i? I have been playing the x-men video game- a game that I have already completed and now I am re-doing because I like to believe that I will be smarter this time around. The game itself requires strategy, and I know that it might sound a bit ridiculous of me saying that it requires a strategical approach to playing X-MEN LEGENDS (xbox) but it REALLY does. You have to be wise on what players you pick to fight, on timed missions you must find the best route that won't take up all your time, and when fighting bad guys there always needs to be a plan of defense and attack.....

I hope that i am not making up excuses for not reading HOW THE GARCIA SISTERS LOST THEIR ACCENTS by Julia Alvarez.... Maybe i need a week off? After reading the fabulous book WHAT NIGHT BRINGS by Carla Trujillo. I may be emotionally, intellectually exhausted and need some time off before i dwell into another world.

well see...

Full

2009-12-21T13:41:00.000-08:00

writing is such an emotionally process. It drains me while at the same time it liberates me. I wish there was a way that something or someone could read my thoughts and type them out for me.

deperation

2009-12-20T00:55:00.000-08:00

Desperate!

Sadly I feel desperate. Longing for a being other then myself when i lay in bed at nights. I need to read again. I took two days off and my mind hasn't been distracted enough to block off destructive urges....

Desperation. The longing of validity when distractions are still and life is thirsty for to be wanted

2009-12-19T03:13:00.001-08:00

Am I stupid for having hope? For believing that this is the one and if not this time then next time it will solidify? How do you know? How do you grant access to something that is unknown?

wrote when i did my first submission of poetry

2009-12-18T01:52:00.000-08:00

All the pieces are me. A man. A queer man. A man of color. Its about the father that raped me, the love I dream of being worthy of, the first man I loved and why writing is the only thing I've come to trust with me

Present, Future, and always the Past

2009-12-18T01:18:00.000-08:00

As I sit in my small blue room, clothes scattered all over, a tissue box to my right, and books stacked in no particular order.. I repeat to myself "you will be famous one day" to what capacity I am not sure of. I went to a psychic my senior year of high school with the comadres and she told me "you will find the love of your life at the age of 21 and be famous for your writing." As much as I would like to strongly say that her words flew past me, they didnt! A part of me is still waiting until i turn 21 to find the love of my life and still trying to figure out how my writing will lead to my stardom.

My grades are poor, strongly improving but not as fast as I would like them to. I graduate in a year and a half and I know that i will be attending graduate school. But how? How do I venture to a journey that is foreign? I want to pursue something in Public Policy (for legal background) and Chican@ Studies. Ideally I would like to get paid to read and write all day and possibly teach every now-and-then- remaining famous while doing so- yet I know that is highly impossible unless i find myself a suggar daddy... NOPE!

I would like to be like Carrie from Sex and the City. Get paid to write an article every week about sex, love, relationships. However, I would add my own twist by including politics and sexuality. Won't someone pay me to share the stories of my people? or myself?

I have an idea for my fictional book, which i am determined to have finished and published by the time I am 25! It would be a series of fictional novels that will focus on one particular aspect of my life. I wonder though... if people would read it? Would people care about the story of a chicano? Would chicanos care about it? Would white people? Black people? Yellow people? ... mmmmmmm Anyway, i want to add poetry as well. I don't know how I will incorporate that but i will find a way. Poetry is me. It's what I have been doing all my life.. something that always helped me survive because it never had to make sense, follow a certain structure, or have any rule. Just me and everything about me.

typical me.. .i am already getting teary eyed thinking of what to write in my novel..

Through the Eyes of a Queer Man of Color: Learning to Love the Things I Loved

2009-12-16T01:30:00.000-08:00

“I write for my own self value. To take ownership of my skin color, sexuality, voice, body and story.

My grammar is horrific. My passive voice is distracting and my vocabulary is limited. The disclaimer I just stated is my defense against the hierarchy that disempowers me. It’s evidence of my insecurities that are rooted in my own internalized oppression caused by homophobia, racism, sexism and classism. Here are my wounds and the pen I am writing this piece with are my healing herbs to my surviving soul”

PREFACE

I knew of nothing and of everything when I signed up to take Chicana Studies 151 with Professor Chela Sandoval. I do not remember the mental state I was in during the beginning of the class; like most of my life, my memory is fragmented because of traumatic experiences that have stripped, cut, erased, and reinvented who I am as a being living in a space where I am not meant to survive.
But I am a survivor! A survivor of sexual assault, of physical, emotional and mental abuse. A survivor of a father that was not a father. A survivor of a brother whose life was cut short. A survivor of poverty, racism, homophobia, sexism and malos espiritus. My journey is never smooth as the pavement I walk on is filled with cracks that are entirely impossible to fix but easily covered.
Everyday I feel the need to out my queer identity so I can put an end to the various faces that wonder, “Is he gay? Or not?” As oppose to my brown skin that is never second-guessed. I wish it were that easy though.
I am not my words but the roots of my words. So the sentences that escape my mouth are superficial invites to my complex, intersectional being as a chicano-queer-man of color because words are not enough to represent my journey of my sisters, brothers and antepasados.
I wonder if my courage to openly identify myself as a queer chicano compensates for my lack of voice when it comes to identifying as a survivor of sexual assault? My denial of experiences is troubling for it prevents a healthy discourse of a love life. The discourse being the possibility and the validity that presumes a love life exist inside of me. Of course externally I do not disillusion myself to ignore the love life that provides pointless, oppressive, never-quite-enough, top or bottom, insignificant gay sex.
The process of a survivor is more than the healing of a father that raped me and now I must forgive myself and him in order to move on. The complexity that follows my molestation, I have come to realize, is never ending. More and more layers of life evaluations, understanding why, when, where and how I came to the state I am in. Then see if it is productive or counter-productive to my life goals. Layers of trust, who, what, why trust a “human” or define what trust means to me in the context of “I trust you with my body”. Am I worth more than forced sex? Worth more than a white sugar daddy that exotifies my “Hispanic” experience? Or am I even worth to be loved by other men?

BODY

Me violo, me tacho y me gusto porque I believed that was my worth in life. Life meaning, naïve little chicano that yelled whenever his beautiful curly haired mami would not buy him $10 action figures. Little chicano not understanding that the reason why his mami could not buy him the action figure was because there was no job available that would pay a recent Mexican immigrant anything higher than minimum wage. The same little chicano that did not understand that when his father penetrated him de atras era malo.
I am currently 20 years old and when my father raped me I was 8. He raped me four times in my mother’ bed while she was in Mexico for her sister’s funeral. Till’ this day I do not know the full impact the molestation has played in my life and I cannot help but wonder if I ever will? I am currently 20 years old and my body has only experienced abusive intimacy: from rapes, to one night stands, to infidelity, to oppressive gay sex where the only time I cum is when I spit “it’s fine, I don’t like cuming.” Reading Audre Lorde’s “The Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power” helped me learn to love the body of the little chicano once again. I have continually othered my body because of the pain it has brought me. Left it unkempt and unloved for years that I have blocked off my body’s capacity to love. At the time that I read Lorde’s piece I was still processing my experiences of being the other man in two separate occasions, so I wrote:

“More,
times more,
times more,
times mothafuckin more,
than the other.

I don't know to what extent I can further allow this hatred of my body, soul and mind to continue. Sitting with other has tarnished my erotic. Not to the point of no return, but to a place where it will take more than poetry to reclaim my erotic.

There are sexual practices that are foreign to me, yet they seem like fundamental knowledge that makes me doubt my capacity to be truly engaged in a relationship. The vulnerability that is needed from me is the erotic. Could it be that the erotic is vulnerability? Vulnerable because that would mean that I would have to search within myself to develop a complex understanding as to why the mediocrity of my current state is the reason why my agency, as a queer man of color, is out of reach. To expose myself to not only the public but to myself...

I am ready for love.

Every step is more than what I know,
Know how to inhale,
Know how to exhale,
And know more about what I already know.

I am ready for love.

The first occasion was a drunk,
no excuse,
FUCK.
Fucked with a man,
Who was with a man,
A man that did not know what it meant to love another man,
Nor to love oneself...

Baby,
Queer Man of color,
Chicano,
You are worth more than what your behavior demonstrates.

I am ready for love.

You,
With just a year less,
Singing like a bird,
Singing to me to a point of blindness,
Where your commitment is no longer visible,
And the only thing visible is your hand down my pants.

I am ready for love.

Me,
With a father that touched me,
A dead brother,
Immigrant mother,
Me.

These words are ordinary.
My words are not mine but someone else's,
That I was able to take from, at the expense of my humanity.

I am ready for love.

Take it slow,
Take it slow,
Take me apart and see the blood rushing through my veins,
The truth behind this coat of denial,
Just like you.

I'm ready for love.

Ven mami,
Ven hermana,
Ven hermanos,
y ven papi,
toma mi mano y besala.

I'm ready for love.

Seeing more than what's in the mirror,
seeing more than what I was during the drunk-no-excuse-FUCK,
Seeing more than the year-less-hand-down-my-pants mess around,
Seeing the erotic as treasure and not a low expectation.

Feel this brown skin,
These spanish words,
My brown hand rub you down before sleep,
These full lips wanting the other to transform into beauty.” 10/13/2009

The molestation has affected the way in which I treat my body. As much as I would like to single out the cause of the abuse, I must recognize that the molestation is only a fragment of it. The manifestation of my colored sexual discourse was shaped and continues to be shaped by western hegemony. If I wish to de-colonize my sexual discourse then I must learn to love and accept the beautiful men of color in my life. But how do I even begin when the men of color in my life have abandoned me? Abused me? Died on me? When the men I had to turn to, to better understand my queer identity were white. Whose bodies never looked like mine, whose language was always an accent off and who referenced me as the “latino hottie” but never just a “hottie.” They were my idols in life. The “falcon x porn” and the white daddies that taught me the proper way to touch another man, even though I was underage. With that said, I loved them. I loved that they needed me. Needed me to feel good. Needed me to satisfy their urges because for so long I had never felt needed by the men in my life. Yet, how could this paradoxical be the engine to my liberty, as well as my prison?

“I scrape and scrape,
Not to bleed but to distract me,
From everything,
From vanity,
From the portrait I keep painting of myself.” 2004

How could something that I wrote when I was 15 years old still hold truth? After five years of vigorously scraping through the trauma, the joys and miscellaneous I had yet to formulate a hypothesis that would encompass all my life experiences so I could learn to love men again. Reading Gloria Anzaldua’s “now let us shift… the path of conocimiento… inner work, public acts” has pushed me to peel off my skins and expose them to love.
These are my stages. The arrebato is my skin being peeled off everytime the sharp edges from the word ‘wetback’ are spit. The neplanta is my third space, the space where its not about ‘he touched me’ or ‘he didn’t touch me’ its where his touch has manifested into a life experience- a mestiza consciousness. Coatlicue state is when thirsty moths have sucked all the light, leaving me with a hungry body and incomplete words. El compromiso is when I’ve been running for miles and miles and my heart is about to burst; my sweat glands have been exhausted; I’m running on the bare soles of my feet; my breaths have shifting gear to painful screeches pleading for a longer life; when my body is about to break into a million un-loved pieces, then, all of a sudden I witness a resting point and hope for the finish line is once again within my reach. Putting my life together is my Coyolxauhqui state, when my life is co-dependent on the acknowledgement that the rape from my father, the death of my brother, the border crossing of my mother, my queer Chicano identity are dominant puzzle pieces that need each other to finish what has been left undone- the puzzle of my life. When publishing companies continuously reject my poetry pieces that carry my soul because they refuse to value my queer person of color testimony, I then seek alliances with community members for the validity of my offerings−is my blow up phase. Shifting and Shifting I find myself transformed as a spiritual activist, where the hero in the story plot is not limited to a white-heterosexual male and the love story expands to include a variety of genders and colors.
My path to conocimiento is an ongoing process. The different phases are never linear, consistent nor limiting. Like my love for men and the love for my body, I must continue to seek the unseekable and demand the impossible so I can break away from hegemonic binary dichotomies, from a consciousness that neglects the already love for men and body, from a world whose survival is dependent on my extermination, and from a self that is fragmented.

“Niño Cafecito,
Dame tu mano para que la bese,
So I can place it next to my heart and show you what love feels like.

Niño Cafecito,
The fatherly touch was never suppose to slip,
Slip below the waist,
Slip onto your bare skin and compromise your childhood experiencia.

Niño Cafecito,
You miss him but you don’t,
His existence is a dusty ole mask under your bed yearning to travel the worlds with you.
Breathe in and Breathe out,
Breathe in and Stop breathing him out,
Tu fuerza,
Tu Angel,
Tu Hermano.

Niño Cafecito,
How do you translate queer into your Spanish tongue?
Joto?
Maricon?
Puto?
No,
No,
It can’t be,
It’s niño bonito quien su sexualidad es un regalo de dios.

Little brown boy.

You aren’t little and,
You aren’t a boy.
You are a big man living in the border.
Borders between Mexico and El Norte,
Between gay and puto,
Between a father and a rapist,
Between a brother y la muerte.

Hombre Café witness,
Witness when the white-passing-queer-brotha sees you as a “whinny Mexican” but never as a “whinny gay”
Yet for you the whinny Mexican is always the whinny gay whose survival can’t be categorized so the white-passing-queer-brotha don’t gotta own up to his passing privilege. In a society where colorism is as oppressive as the other “isms”.

Hombre Café witness,
Witness when you raise your hand and the eyes of your peers start rolling. Peers who doubt your intelligence, logic, pronunciation of words and testimony.

Hombre Café witness,
Witness next time someone asks you “top or bottom?” A hegemonic question that reinforces binary dichotomies. The same dichotomies that subject you to never-quite-enough sex. The same dichotomies that “others” and abuses the bodies of your community.

Hombre Café witness,
Witness when you’re taking the bus and the womyn sitting next to you is at the edge of her seat because your male privilege is showing.

Hombre Café witness,
Witness the next you’re with the familia and you’re complaining about “life after undergrad” and your 17 year old cousin is complaining about “life after pregnancy.”

Hombre Café,
Nino Cafecito,
I,
Little i,
Self,
Yo,
Witness,
Witness the tears dripping down your face,
The hunger from your body when you’ve eaten a meal but it’s still not enough,
The Chicano who is still lonely even though he has people around him.

Come closer,
“Dame tu mano para que la bese.
So I can place it next to your heart and show you what love feels like…”

Reading

2009-12-02T01:31:00.001-08:00

I don't know how to describe how i am feeling at the current moment. My mind is spinning, turning, speeding, relaxing, fucking and daydreaming.

Are things at this point not meant to work out? Should I dare try to pursuit something and know that I will just end up with nothing in the end because the distance would break the affinity apart? But then again, there is something local that I know would be more satisfying? But satisfying because of standards, color, language OR because I know that it would truly be possible and the impossible is always what attracts me? So lost in the dreams that I continue to have of the same being. After night, after night, and sometimes even evenings I have unsatisfying dreams that are never going to come true.

I hope that I can sleep tonight and not dream.

But if i do dream i hope that its about the possible and no longer about the impossible discourses that keep me alone.

I am a Precious Boy

2009-12-01T02:22:00.001-08:00

I am a precious boy.

I am a precious latino.

I am a precious joto.

I am precious.

Sitting and writing about nothing and everything that I have become. Seeing the movie "Precious" was intense. Intense because the word itself is abstract yet, it is still able to pierce through all the precious moments in my life.

I don't quite know how to process the movie. But maybe that's it, I don't need to process it. What i need to do is imagine how one day I will be able to look at a movie and see my childhood. Precious, the character, is me. She is David Preciado being pushed onto the bed by his rapist father. But what does that really mean in the context of David is now 20 years old and the rape scene in the movie is a resemblance of what occurred twelve years ago? Beyond the mere fact that Precious and I experience molestation by our father, watching the scene meant the reasoning behind my non-existing stable relationship with a male figure.

I am twenty years old and I have yet to have had a "real" long term relationship with a man. Not that the opportunity has not presented itself, but I have always managed to manipulate my feelings into believing that it would not be worth it. Worth it because either i'm not ready, or he is just to BLAH. How do I learn to trust a man when the men in my life have either raped me? Died? or Left me?

Why do I hate men so much that I punish myself by only offering my body to them or playing the role of mutual attraction when I know it's only a matter of time before I shut the door? So many things to ponder and process and find answers to.

Answers that are contingent on the decolonization of my spirit, mind and body. Watching Precious was the answer because it made me remember that I am a precious boy. A nino cafecito who is in need of love that is foreign but necessary for his existence. Love that will validate the men i have and will encounter but most of all love that will validate my own male being.

Tropoly

2009-11-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

I took a turn for the better and worse. Shifting and turning. Shifting and turning. Turning and Shifting. It's become so mundane that my vision has blurred as though I've lost sight of the sharpness in life- the wrinkles on ones face after a life of expression.

Slow

2009-10-21T00:11:00.000-07:00

I am taking it slow.

I was laying in my bed and all i could think about was his brown skin sucking on my brown dick, as I played with his thick mexican hair...

HELL NO!

2009-10-17T01:36:00.000-07:00

OMG!

that is not right, before there was a brown girl and a browner girl!

more than the other! (inspired by Audre Lorde)

2009-10-13T00:58:00.000-07:00

i am more than the other.

More,
times more,
times more,
time mothafuckin more,
than the other.

I don't know to what extent I can further allow this hatred of my body, soul and mind to continue. Sitting with other has tarnished my erotic. Not to the point of no return, but to a place where it will take more than poetry to reclaim my erotic.

There are sexual practices that are foreign to me, yet they seem like fundamental knowledge, that makes me doubt my capacity to be truly engaged in a relationship. The vulnerability that is needed from me is the erotic. Could it be that the erotic is vulnerability? Vulnerable because that would mean that I would have to search within myself to develop a complex understanding as to why the mediocrity of my current state is the reason why my agency, as a queer man of color, is out of reach. To expose myself to not only the public but to myself...

I am ready for love.

Every step is more than what I know,
Know how to inhale,
Know how to exhale,
And know more about what I already know.

I am ready for love.

The first occasion was a drunk,
no excuse,
FUCK.
Fucked with a man,
Who was with a man,
But he did not know what it meant to love another man,
Nor to love oneself...

Baby,
Queer Man of color,
Chicano,
You are worth more than what your behavior demonstrates.

I am ready for love.

You,
With just a year less,
Singing like a bird,
Singing to me to a point of blindness,
Where your commitment no longer is visible,
And the only thing visible is your hand down my pants.

I am ready for love.

Me,
With a father that touched me,
A dead brother,
Immigrant mother,
Me.

These words are ordinary.
My words are not mine but someone else's,
That I was able to take from, at the expense of my humanity.

I am ready for love.

Take it slow,
Take it slow,
Take me apart and see the blood rushing through my veins,
The truth behind this coat of denial,
Just like you.

I'm ready for love.

Ven mami,
Ven hermana,
Ven hermanos,
y ven papi,
toma mi mano y besala.

I'm ready for love.

Seeing more than what's in the mirror,
seeing more than what I was during the drunk-no-excuse-FUCK,
Seeing more than the year-less-hand-down-my-pants mess around,
Seeing the erotic as treasure and not a low expectation.

Feel this brown skin,
These spanish words,
My brown hand rub you down before sleep,
These full lips wanting the other to transform into beauty.

I am ready for love.

Knock Me Down!

2009-09-17T01:12:00.000-07:00

There was something in the whisper of your breath and music that made everything feel like the same mistakes I did that one time.

Lost cause was for it,

It came around and never lifted me up,

Just looked at me with despair,

Never will you stare at me and knock me down with your anger,

I am queer.

There are creative juices in my heart that are wanting to belt out!

Let me live!

Allow the sunshine to let me fucking live!

Down

2009-09-07T03:10:00.001-07:00

There was a pathway to your down,
More than what I could have think of.

Let be me, and let me suck your brains out....

Goodbye

2009-09-06T03:25:00.001-07:00

Yeah there was a tragic mothafuckin repair,
In the arm of the wife, but more so, a beat to a wall.,
In more than "arm" because there was success in the crazy behind the lense.

"I want to put my hands up and if you let me I will be more happily in the foot. There was more guys than girls that needed love in their insides. When the storm thn what you can handle you know that there will be more than a song of seperation."

La Loba

2009-09-06T03:09:00.000-07:00

There was a monster in the closet,
There was a loba under my bed,
And there was virus in between my breast....

When there is a mountain with rain,
I will start to be more of myself,
Will never stop thinking about your silk hair in-between.

I never thought I'd be love like this.
Please don't mess with the pass-es in life,
Before you know I will be in the winds of you,
Magic was surrounding the fall of your face,

When I summon the weather,
The Sprig,
The Summer,
The Fall,
And finally the Winter,
It would have been when time was knocked in mist.

I will have to repeat the tragedy of the morning,
When the essence is not as the time behaves in the summer,
So when the night comes, and it's the love and pain, take the tender but leave your scent of purple perfume.

More and More that I think of the paing and the burning will make you more of a man. There will lights in the dark and no shadows in colorless places. Becuase the love and care was up for grabs and never fought for. Behave will more than handsome.

***This blog is not real but fake. Idk how to explain but just to let you knw. ********

2009-09-04T01:04:00.001-07:00

Every time that he shoots at me,
I Starr into the sky with my wand and spell book to my side.......

HEAT

2009-08-19T01:15:00.000-07:00

Today I finally felt like there was nothing between my peace and self. No dick. No man. No traumatic history. No nothing. Just pure excitement.

"I'm glad that when you look me in the face you no longer see my tears but my eyes that are angered by your presence. Right here. Right now."

Sex Worker but not a Prostitute

2009-08-15T19:33:00.000-07:00

It was more than taking up your space when i saw your eyes lurk me.

Tomorrow I will open your eyes because mine have been sealed shut after the glow from the sun.

She loved me,

He loved me,

I never loved me,

Thus his money made me gold.

I was tryna be nice the other day when he said "were you speaking to me?"

IT was not IT and I was more than IT so of course i was speaking to the man that made me glad.

IT WAS ONE TIME,

but it was wasn't,

It was several times,

When i slept with a man that was committed,

When I allowed him to kiss every inch of my body,

When i took the pill that made my heart almost burst,

When I laid on my back as he sucked me off,

Lastly, when his grey hands touched every bit of me with his upper-class-fucking SOAP.

I've been running out of breath for quite some time,

It's beyond my understanding but I sit in silence waiting for my capacity to expand.

I am 5'11,

Yet I only value one inch of my body.

I was worth it,

I swear I was,

But now I have a price,

I have a sex drive,

I have nothing to offer but my body,

however I wished i had more...

Tomorrow please fall asleep, don't open those eyes until you know that I am one step from you. You erased me and only held on to a single strand of hair of mine- that's how i know you didn't leave. I am a sex worker, an alcoholic, a slut, the other man, and much more that I don't wish to detail. There were moans, lies and anxiety. I am not a prostitute, not a prostitute, prostitute, PROSTITUTE, PROSTITUTE, just a prostitute....

2009-07-27T10:35:00.001-07:00

My eyes begin to stop when the turn of the hour hits the key without a breath.

I want to know that when the morning comes you will be there to shadow me,
Nuture me,
And let me be the one I wa destined to fuck.

I wanted to walk down the street the other day and witness his flaws,
Lurk in his backyard and wonder what would it be of I had short shorts like him....?

my home is more than white clouds

2009-07-25T01:38:00.000-07:00

Your sun is more than the pieces of meat i hold in my hands.

Tomorrow is not a home for the brave but for the shadows that have been with us for the longest day.

I need,
Feel,
Touch,
Fuck,
Some type of burden of imagination that has me wrapped in my soul!

Tomorrow,
Yesterday,
Today,
I need to live a life of common ground where my feet don't exhaust and the sounds from the balcony don't drill me to death.

Star in the Sky

2009-07-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

I love cliche words. Cliche words are what get me through the day..

"ok,
love,
tears,
heart,
soul,
feel,
lips,
touch,
forever,
happy"

moments are like dried lips. A mouth that can only feel the tightness in the world because all the loose things in the world are too distant to touch...

Imma kill!

2009-07-21T02:32:00.000-07:00

I am laying down and she is next to me...

Every step that I take is just another fuck,
Fuck that is more than what it seems,
Something bigger than i could have imagined..

She will rote,
She will wish that I was dead somewhere without an ounce of energy left in me to see her,
She will realize that her existence is nothing but aderal.

Tomorow is another day that I will be able to suck the joy away and fill you up with nothing but hallow love. Fuck you!

FUCK YOU!
FUCK YOU!
FUCK YOU!

I'm not the OTHER man

2009-07-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

I am not the other man,
I am not the other woman,
I am not an other.

Tap,
Tap,
Tap,
it's the single most insane screech that occurs when you said those words.

Tomorrow is not but a single fig of your insanity and my reality,
There is a ticking bomb somewhere unknown with your name on it,
Your name,
Your name,
CHEATER,
C-H-E-A-T-E-R,
DICK,
D-I-C-K!

I put on a hat that has many convictions and mean eyes,
A hat that will never give up,
A hat that will turn your droppings into dark sour blood!

Plastic Bag

2009-07-18T01:32:00.000-07:00

loving sour ids
breathe in, breathe out, make it last
loving sweet body

I hear your scribbles

2009-07-15T21:50:00.000-07:00

I am not content with the life that I am currently living.

I am scared that when the time finally comes it will be too late and she will no longer be living. Today in class I couldn't help but wonder why there is still a lack of representation of my skin color in my classes. Why my teacher has a pale face with a million dots scattered throughout his body, and the reality that he will never understand what it means to cry because of the color you're not... I'm upset and worried about the future. It's getting more and more violent and expensive to live the way I do. There is always work that keeps piling on and never enough time to stop the infection from spreading.

I honest to god wish that he had never touched me, and that he never died. Times like these wish that my family extended beyond a mother and a sister...

Eveything in life is a piercing aggressive experience that I'm hoping will soon vanish.

"My eyes keeps closing every time they spot a glimpse of you. Stop running away because I'm not chasing after you. I wont stand for your teases or for your silly idiotic mannerism that physically damage me inadvertently."

BB

2009-07-08T00:27:00.000-07:00

I want to stay in love with you, but only for today.

I was coming from behind and everything was suddenly alive,
The mistakes,
Our hearts,
The inside of our thoughts were awaken by the sight of our song.

We keep telling ourselves that we will come back around,
That there are people in the world that can easily replace the times we had,
Replace,
Replace,
But there is too much to replace,
That even the thought of it blinds me into a path of non-stop bruising.

There is suffrage in the world. There is something I know you must get over before you allow my feet to move closer. I wanted you to carry me home the other day but instead you drove me and kissed my cheek goodnight. I didn't want that. I didn't want to feel like there was another soul I lost because I was not able to appreciate the romantic you shared with me. Take me tenderly into your arms, and when I push away FIGHT back. Fight back all the time. Fight until you can't anymore because then it will hit me that you are something worth appreciating. I know it's unhealthy and to an extent draining, but I need to feel the empty spaces with resistance and accomplishments. Fill them with an antidote that will cure all beings for their sufferings are my own blood.

Something has gone very wrong,
Something has turned left when it was suppose to travel forward,
My life is one big left turn,
And i just hope that you can either follow me or close the roads that give me access to the lefts in the world...

2009-07-05T22:56:00.001-07:00

I feel like today is not the day.

I woke up at the sight of my drunk self,
My pathetic self who had nothing but his overdrafted card

I feel the pain down my shoulders and back when I think of what I owe the world.

I don't want to be in debt.
I don't want to see myself die in the empty arms of a stranger.
I don't want to lose the accent that was given to me by whips of the northern men...

2009-07-03T02:37:00.001-07:00

I am sitting and there is no space for me to relax...

Tomorrow is more than a day as I flow through the air with just my gym bag on my back.

I want to know that you are alive and well,
Alive to breathe on me,
Well to heal me.

My eyes don't see the sunset but only the mountains that hover over the rainbow.

There is no sunshine when the clouds are too dominant and my spirit is too weak

Daydream

2009-06-30T22:18:00.001-07:00

You should know that you are just a temporary fix and you will only be remembered for your touch and not your words.

I can be all that you need and more.

I've always been more than you can handle,
You have never met me half way,
stop pretending like you deserve more than what I have sacrificed for you in the last fucking month.

I am broke,
But you're broke,
And because you're broke I am rich.

My life at the current moment is lacking momentum. I'm trying to tell you just how i like the words to come out of your mouth, so stop covering your ears and bare with me. Bare with me. Bare. Bare the fuck out. Place your dick against mine. The phallic that runs through every piece of my soul. My life at the current moment has evolved beyond control and I'm drinking every step of the way.

2009-06-21T20:34:00.001-07:00

I tucked it underneath my pillow when we were both pretending to sleep....

I wish there was a way that I could take my black maker and blackout his name.
How could I be so stupid?
How could I not?
How can I be so unsure of what love is that I still think that what I did was stupid??

I have many secrets,
Secrets because i am ashamed,
So ashamed of myself that the secrets keep adding.
I wish there was a way that i could prevent them from occurring but they keep feeding me these death seeds...

I am fierce at the cost of love.
I am insecure at the cost of love.
I am who I am at the cost of love!

Everything is at the cost of something. I can't and won't be vulnerable until I know it's fine to do so.

I fight the world each day because that was the only thing I was taught growing up and it's all I've seen and continue to see....

2009-06-21T06:27:00.001-07:00

Today is not a good day for smiling..

I went today when i knew that i shouldn't because my heart was bleeding.
Everything that I knew and know is so irrelevant when I just allow the flow of actions lead me.
I'm getting sick,
So sick that i can no longer picture a morning of whistles outside my room.
My knees are sore from tonight.
Sore from looking into his eyes and never finding the answers I wanted.....

WELLSFARGO!

2009-06-17T16:26:00.000-07:00

I am so fucking upset!

I hate the fact that I can't be fucking responsible enough to avoid overdraft motherfuckin fees!

ugh!!!

I hate that they didn't approve my withdrawal of WRITING 2!

wtf?!?!?!?

stupid ass!!!

i need to get my life together.... but i keep saying that and nothing has changed. i need to get my life together, and as much as i type it out, I know that it will probably wont happen! I NEED TO FUCKING GET MY LIFE TOGETHER!!!

I REALLY HOPE I DO!

I WILL

BUT I KNOW THAT IT'S ONE BIG MESS!!

ugh....

annoyed at friends, annoyed and school, annoyed at everything and everyone

brb!

FUCK!!!!

I am SOBERRRRRR

2009-06-03T00:05:00.000-07:00

Fuck!!!!

I want to imagine that there is no place like the space of color where true love is found....

I want to imagine that there is a soul outside of the air I breathe. When there was a true color in the sky I squinted to make sure there was a pink shade of glitter to represent me...

I don't know if i am scared of loving a person for their age,
Or if i am scared of loving a person for their skin color,
But i am scared of loving he.

I want to wake up in the summer with only a speedo on. My hair hiding my face and just a sea of comfort over me. When the night takes over i need to know that I am alive and still awake. I don't want to sleep under the sheets with only an empty space next to me. The space that haunts me when i don't know what's next in life. I want to feel the sun give color to my skin, I want to know that something out there is needing me to live on...

2009-06-02T07:42:00.001-07:00

I don't understand the meaning as to why 7am is the alarm to my body...

I woke up thinking that I don't want to speak.....

God that asshole wrote to me and even though I could seriously care less at the moment, WTF?!?!?

I needed to be forgotten,
I needed to feel as if it never happened like other events in my life....

I am embarrassed by how I felt,
Reacted,
Expressed the care I had inside for a closet case that reminds me so much of my own past...

I know why I woke up. I woke up because I lack the tender space that would keep me asleep. The space that would tire me,
Hold me,
Look into my eyes and kiss me goodnight.

I need to fix my reality and stop wanting the broom of fantasy that will sweep the nightmares from within.

2009-05-27T19:49:00.001-07:00

My queer.

It is the sound that rolls down my back to which your mouth turns into a love box,

It's the tone of your speech when all bets are off, along with the light bulbs from the nights.

It is,
It was,
It's loving the motion to which my feet take me to work each day.

The same feet my mother nursed with her tired hands at dark....

The breathe,
The speed,
The taste of thirst after a full glass of champagne with our shirts off,
Are the memories that I inhale and exhale when,
My,
My,
My identity is the gold in the room.

Let's take another car drive,
Tires half filled with air,
A dresser with only a square of space,
Socks in the back,
Cigarette buts burning the car seats,
Burning through my skull every mile we go.

2009-05-27T00:53:00.001-07:00

So it's not what I think it is, as the noise from the restroom is an echo I haven't heard before and the water glitters as it pours...

Shhhhhh*****