Growing up means no ones coming

No ones coming when you fall

No ones coming when you cry

And when your fever is 102 you make your own tea

Being grown is the acceptance

Its knowing that no ones coming and trying to be ok with it

Its falling down the stairs and not only having to stop yourself crying but also cleaning up the huge mess you just made

Its puking your guts out passing out and waking up not only where you fell but next to the vomit of the night before

Its falling asleep downstairs

And waking up downstairs

He stands among the towering saguaros with summer hands and a cactus face. A steady thing, he is. Sunburnt. Silent. Only widening his jaws once per year when a desert flower needs to bloom under the oracular rains. Precipitation that is as infrequent as his words. He is quiet on most days. The keywords being most, days. What a curiosity it would be to have silence, to have my mouth wired shut, like my mother’s after her carwreck. Eighteen stitches, she said. A face full of broken glass, she said. No one wants to speak when it causes flesh and glass to meet and grind. Discomfort is such an inhibiting thing, stronger than any prescription drug a faux-pharmacist could peddle on a windswept street corner. And sure enough—there he is, growing within the gridline cracks of adobe bricks beneath the lamplight. Dusty, but persistent. Persistent to the point of inescapability. So too is this concept—this idea—of becoming Cactus Face inescapable. I sometimes wonder if my mother’s carwreck was inescapable, a force of fate. Perhaps she was destined to have her face peeled back from the fissure-riddled windshield. Destined to learn the virtues of a silent daughter—of a silent sister. And what if that was all she had known—silence, and waiting? All these answerless questions, and she still feels the ramifications today, with her metal-molded jaw—forced open, gaping. She chokes on the weeds bursting from her throat. Coughing up seeds and spores. I do not wish to be as such. A thousand waxy sprouts are far less inspiring than a single one—for rarity is beauty, even if it is plain.

I could smell

wood smoke

shimmy through the screen

of the kitchen window.

The warmest night

of the year

so far.

I have been choking

on the cold.

Frozen under ice.

I am numb

from the chill.

I am thawing

like hot dogs

in a steel sink.

My fingers.

A frosty fog

melting into drops.

I am awake now.

Waking.

So fucking tired

of chasing.

Somewhere

along the way,

I forgot

what happy

feels like.

I am a comma

where a period

should be,

A woman with

magnolia branches

growing from her

chest.

Pink buds

and grey wood

forcing themselves

through

skin and sternum.

Like teeth

breaking their way

through gums.

Raw pain

and the flavor

of blood.

An urge to be

more than one thing.

Flora and fauna.

Rock.

Dirt and ocean water.

Face ground into pillow.

Sparkling in

glitchy seconds

that break up the dark.

An existence dimmed

to a dull thud

that repeats itself

regardless of

nothing.

I long to smoosh things

like blueberries

between my thumb

and first finger,

but berries are

summer fruits.

I must wait for the days

of eternal light

and a thin dripping

of sweat

on the backs of my knees.

Of bare calloused skin

balanced on

outside things.

On concrete

that to me,

is as much like nature

as grass.

Is it the bottom

Of this flask I seek?

I take a sip - and then another

And for the millionth time, I peek

Should have died

A drunken shit

Yet here I sit

Waxing lyrical-

A spiritual miracle

This is the story of my escape

Rejection of a prisoner's fate

I killed my jailer

An endless "djinn"

Warden

Of my self-imposed sin

Now I Live my life, neat

I run to the sun

On gifted feet, fleet...

Free of the crutch I no longer need-

Abandoned in tall grass, gone to seed

                                                           Spring

                                                          kisses her

                                                        daffodil hair

                                                     fluff of the clouds

                                                 mirrors her cream face

                                                 her breasts are mounds

                                             of rich earth, sowing my seed

                                         of fertile need as I inhale her scent

                                   of fresh grass. Red tulips open as I enter in

                                      soft rain moistens and steams my ardor

                                           I ascend to the top of tree of life

                                           efflorescence builds in crescendo

                                           blooming intensifies and flowers

                                                     prized petals of love

                                                        rest in my arms

                                                         bud embraces

                                                              my skin

                                                              awaiting

                                                                    R

                                                                 E

                                                               B

                                                                 I

                                                                  R

                                                                    T

                                                                      H

I've stayed above water for so long

But here I am falling back in.

Gasping for breath

Trying so hard to swim.

But the waves keep pushing me down.

Will I make it out in time?

Or will I join her

And stare at the stars?

She walks past a window

and catches a glimpse

of something she's not seen

in quite some time

How nice it is to be visited

by her old friend, the smile

We put this tight rope up together.

Over cars, over streets, over people,

We climbed out to the middle.

Looking out across the world,

We made the promise

To hang on together,

To be there for each other.

You were the one to let go.

I'm still hanging there,

With a great view of what could've been.

I guess you didn't care as much as I did.

Now I'm alone, and let me tell you:

The wind doesn't whisper kind sentiments.

My mood

Dark

As flat black

Asphalt-

Betrayed

By Hope

Revealed

In light's

Shy reflection

[Photo: Juankarh Hernandez]

Morning in Italy.

France in the rearview

after two grueling days

a thing about the French:

besides the chain-smoking death wish,

there’s an overall feeling of defensiveness,

and between them and myself

an argument on the meaning

of cleanliness in all meanings

not to generalize, but I am

-beware of cowards who fear

the weight of being general

all the other details and exceptions

are obvious

and the French I met outside of

Avignon, that beautifully walled-in

city rich with heritage,

structures and stone

molested by industry

an ancient strip mall now

expensive shoes and

dog shit on the streets

men who were absent

of eye

the women who were beautiful to see

but the people away from there,

the wine country in

Provence, flush with

dream

white birches like claws reaching out

of earth

the villages pressed against

a countryside so green and

graced with with hills and

light

I almost couldn’t watch them

the people of the small stops

and stations with their laughing

hearts and deep blood

that gave into Monaco

and the Italian border

and the velocity of Italy

the drivers insane, but a

controlled, adrenaline type of insane

not like the greedy recklessness of

the French roads

but a menacing, playful

shit-eating grin danger

that I have to respect

all of it pours together here

the faces, the language,

the lust for living

the ease at which they approach

life

the appreciation and care

for food

for drink

for speaking

for how they leave each other

feeling when they walk away

here in Siena, the morning traffic downstairs

comes up through the the window

and exposes the States

and I sit here thinking about

the lives broken, bent, and twisted

or bent, twisted, and then broken but

still breathing, moving onto the next

many of them waited in their beds

or behind the counters

or behind their desks

pervasive in gender and city

the evil stupidity

of them all

not to say that

every place doesn’t have

its evils, because every

place does

but let this one stay

new to me

let me feel this

heavy metal

wind

and sun

until I have to fly

back into

the known.