Poetry

Waking Dreams

Long had I dreamed
of sconces, candelabras blazing,
flames crackling
(whether in a fireplace or a public space I do not know),
fish gasping,
people writhing and moaning,
the terror of ecstasy,
adulation and ululation,
women undulating and slithering over me,
beautiful,
each bite a balm,
their balmy caresses,
whispered confessions of lust,
the small sigh of dropped clothes,
the nose knows the place so we dive in,
each leg a monument spread to reveal the oasis,
my tongue laps greedily,
I drink her up,
I want her soul,
long had I dreamed
of creaming so many pies,
this half-joke only half amuses,
and now I wake
to solitude.

Standard
Poetry

An Angsty Rumination on Loneliness in Two Parts

Part I: Decay

Women in water,
women in fabric,
people in water,
people with no dicks,
people with tight flesh,
people with holes,
people who dance around numerous poles,
put them in water,
out in the sun,
watch them get tan,
let them have fun,
pay for the pictures,
like, comment, subscribe,
go to bed alone and wonder why.

Part II: Hope

I’m not having sex ’cause I’m a fucking mess;
don’t take care of myself,
barely there for my friends.
Bank account almost empty,
willpower’s the same;
boobs and food (and improv song lyrics)
are all that’s left in my brain.
I’m hungry. I’m horny. I’m funny.
(I’m boring.)

I’m hungry. I’m horny. I’m horny. I’m horny.

When’s the last time I was nice to someone else?
(Don’t be so hard on yourself.)

When’s the last time I tried something new
(without anyone’s help)?

Lost. Stagnant. Tired.
Not alone.
Still …
not alone.

Standard
Poetry

Things I Say During My Commute

The speed limit’s 45, you rat bastard.

Nice turn signal, jackass (there was no turn signal).

There goes the Jesus Cruiser (a PT Cruiser with Christian stickers on the back).

Whoa, how’d I speed up so much?

That one’s gotta go.

Are they on a 30-minute lunch, Jesus!

Slow down.

Damn it, slow down.

Jerkbag.

Asshole.

Dumbass.

Every day we do this.

This is killing the planet.

Get me outta here.

Standard
Poetry

The Mustache Will Stay

Why do I need to do this
I say to myself as I move the razor
over cheeks flecked with stubble,
my shallow neckbeard
evaporating under the heat of the blades.

I am not
“professional,”
nor do I see people
as often as I used to.
I run my fingers through longish
lank hair,
and I admit
I do look a little better
with a clean face.

And when I pull
my hair back a bit,
I see how a haircut would look,
and it’s not bad.
It fits
the standards of the day: short,
simple, and clean.

Okay, you got me:
I feel a little better
after cleaning up a bit.
I push myself into the outline they made.
My outside looks enough to fool them.
My thoughts, though … I won’t cut those to fit.

Standard
Poetry

When

For Xavier Javier Lopez. For Uziyah Garcia. For Nevaeh Bravo. For Amerie Jo Garza. For Maite Yuleana Rodriguez. For Makenna Lee Elrod. For Eliana “Ellie” Garcia. For Tess Marie Mata. For Annabell Guadalupe Rodriguez. For Rojelio Torres. For Alithia Ramirez. For Jayce Carmelo Luevanos. For Jailah Nicole Silguero. For Maranda Mathis. For Eliahana “Elijah” Cruz Torres. For Jose Flores Jr. For Alexandria “Lexi” Rubio. For Jacklyn Jaylen Cazares. For Layla Salazar. For Eva Mireles. For Irma Garcia. For their families and friends. For everyone who has lost a loved one to violence. These words are not enough.

When I was 10, I
saw a Pokemon card for the first time.
When I was 10, Ocarina of Time
was still pretty new, and I know
I played it a lot.
When I was 10, I conspired with my brothers
to lump all our money together
after a family trip to Chili’s
so we could afford Banjo-Kazooie.
When I was 10, I wrote
a poem about an owl, a tiny thing,
because my teacher thought I’d enjoy writing.
She was right about the art, though I
was too shy to enter the student writing workshop,
so I sat alone at a table outside
and read a Redwall book instead.
When I was 10, I imagined
a dozen different worlds,
filled with animals and people and
animal people
and fantasy beings I hadn’t read about yet.

I could not have imagined a world
where nineteen children
were cut down by torrents of gunfire.
Where two teachers threw themselves
where the cops did not dare to go.
Yet this is our world.
It doesn’t have to be.
We should only be allowed to build things
a 10-year-old can imagine.
Peaceful. Loving. Laugh-filled.

Standard
Poetry

Refraction

The stranger wraps her arms around me,

and I respond in kind,

a slow embrace

whereby my right arm wraps around her waist,

longing and resisting

(is this the Creep Factor?)

as warmth suffuses my skin.

Everyone but me

has someone,

okay I’m exaggerating,

there are at least a handful of single people here,

so I daydream we’re dancing

two hours from now,

a few drinks in and excitable,

and somehow we head to a hotel,

and we hold each other even closer than before,

still strangers but enjoying every second of it.

Instead, I leave when my ride leaves,

and I awkwardly ask for the stranger’s number.

We exchange two texts

and my guardian angel turns to their colleague and says:

See how the very light bends to miss him.

Standard
Poetry

A Rant I Wrote a While Ago

Medicine and treatment should be free.

School is work and students should be paid for their labor.

Housing should be free.

Politics should have an age limit. If we live under the illusion that retirement starts at 65, then 65 is the final year for a politician to make decisions.

The concept of retirement is exploitative. People shouldn’t have to work themselves to the bone for 40+ years just to enjoy their old age.

Travel should be free.

I know I said that students should get paid, but at the same time, learning should be free.

Food should be free.

Everything should be free.

I hate capitalism.

Palestine should be free.

Within the confines of capitalism, any labor should be compensated.

Every Monday is a construct.

We should make Monday a day with no emails. No phone calls. No text messages.

If capitalism keeps going, then everyone should be tasked with dreaming up their ideal life. Then, everyone is given a million dollars when they turn 18. We watch what happens.

A million dollars isn’t even enough to create an ideal life these days, if you factor in housing, transport, food, et cetera.

So everyone should get a billion dollars when they turn 18.

Hoo damn.

Cars shouldn’t exist. We need better public transportation.

I lost track of most of the things I wanted to write.

I hate capitalism.

Capitalism is destructive.

Capitalism is exploitative.

Capitalism is patriarchal, racist, misogynistic, homophobic, transphobic, spiteful, and selfish.

Capitalism kills families.

Capitalism kills women.

Capitalism kills children.

Capitalism kills black folks.

Capitalism kills gay folks.

Capitalism kills trans folks.

Capitalism kills refugees.

Capitalism kills artists.

Capitalism kills joy.

Capitalism kills love.

Capitalism kills.

Standard