Poetic Political Rant

vigilantism corrode morality
ferocious dogmatization justify celebration of extremists
militia chivalry raid lunacy with bonbons
sweet nepotism, luscious cronyism
manipulative foreplay gone sour
crooked barbaric symphony
preaching to choir of ignorant hypocrites, evangelicals, racists
hungering victorious memorial of retaliation from Ground Zero
changelings rape this cunt of a country
shameless disregard
repugnant stench wreaks havoc
minds unhinged, fledgling citizens
imbue proliferation of cancerous magnitude
exhort nostalgia awake, prompting immediate active change
should have rejected that stolen ticket, miss congeniality
pageantry tactic, pathetic yesterday’s news
homeland security needs rehabilitation
revolt spuriousness with revolutionary folklore
paying homage to history’s lessons.

Perfunctory Misdemeanors

Caffeine dismembers childhood evocation
visceral tearing apart deafens revelatory numbness
keen sustenance above prolific measures
vengeance hungering existential disaster
melancholic goose haunts that white house
cut beef eradicate historical detachment
archaic desiccation flounders universe into Pandora morbidity
exhortative quest marks chew only to regurgitate loneliness
black market massacre, grotesque neurosis dissects mother of pearls
imprisoned breaths choke on gushing waves born to drown traitors
execute perfunctory misdemeanors
chant away foreclosures on broken limbs
bombs of burdens succumb derelict abandonment
dry quicksand silver hung gangly contaminated visions with treacherous leaches of gangrene
hell is home
no better place to be
fuck hilarious cunts and dykes
pitiful apocalypse as I the scapegoat
eating paper, killed with words
welcome death sentence, in bed with calamity,
calmed by stabbings of truth.

Amorous Silhouette

Cocoa buttery lust adorns my body like graffiti art he left behind for my eyes to drink, my mouth to savor. Our essential, seductive aromas, hidden pleasures of secret notes flow through love canals, beneath sensual curves, to ignite tongues, thighs, cheeks. They swell in yearning, as heirloom fruits stretch, engorged, absorbing tantalizing heat. Moist flesh, dripping with sweet nectar, counterbalances the delicate bitterness of separation. His thoughtful warmth encloses me in a bud of velvety petals. We belong; our passionate kernel thrives, even in mutual solitude, reclining under moon-shadows, lying like spoons, plump with adoration. Our voluptuous silhouette of irresistible reverence softens cacophonous distant winters with a burning humidity under the aphrodisiac sun. Erotic stars ripen foolish tears and become the amorous jewels of cerulean lovers. Fine, crystalline precarious thorns, juxtaposed against our oceanic thirst for intimacy, bestow a crowned honor to the beholder of voracious loyalty. A faithful knot of vows awaits kimono winds to deliver snowflake kisses and unveil cynical misanthropists with the splendor of a thousand red-crowned cranes. Beads of red sparks wash away black dust; dizzying glows intensify with a heart-shaped craving to satiate ravenous existence. Smitten adulation, an unwavering twinge, resuscitates the poetic, exotic romance in our tender spirits, jazzing up our sweltering, unconditional engagement of devoted love. Our uncompromising ring of friendship promises courtship for infinite reincarnations.

Firmly Planted and Growing

Our love is alive, adaptive in its element, constant in its existence. We, as the sea, have surged back and forth, swelling and falling, at times violent, at times uneven, always cerulean pure, with forceful momentum to rise above rocky coasts. We have had our share of pitfalls, each sucked into a crevice. We have been pressured to stay frozen by paralyzing winters of fear, by the decency of what we convinced ourselves to be. Yet, we have always survived, almost miraculously, to melt those icicles away, spring forth the lost blossoms, each time stronger than before, having evolved instinctively to withstand ruthless natural selection. We have learned to stay grounded, tend to our roots, eavesdrop on every whisper of dew; now we stand firmly planted and growing, flowing boundless in our reach, showering light in each void of pause, each cave of doubt, each rift of twinge. No longer afraid of being perceived as unconscionable, repulsive, even pathetic. No longer afraid the brutal truths will break us. Ironically, we have learned that exposing our vulnerability is courage. Once naked, defenseless in our bare intimacy, we empower our love ever more. Bravery is neither the absence nor suppression of tears or flaws but the joint celebration of our beautiful fragility, which makes us human. We have mutually decided rather to live, to share our life blooming in nature, unprotected from wilderness, unfolding our sentient minds, even in the terror of hailstorms and meteors, than to deny our profundity with a lie, soothed only by logic, by reason, by what can be touched. No wonder then, is my family at odds with this decision. My family, creatures of habit, who not only see what is near but fear what is out of their hands’ reach, who are soothed by the repetition of nature yet fail to see the beauty and necessity of change, of evolving, or maybe choosing to be blind, stunting their own growth for they fear what they do not know. Like the truncated stump of a tree, they exult in their flatness, their convinced usefulness for others, their island of security, their safety from changing times. Unbeknownst to them, they are no longer living, and only merely existing. What a shame, our world is that much more sparse without the majestic tree only they hold the potential to be, our world now missing a touch of radiance.

I Tower

I just can’t wait for our life to begin.
To start building our family.
I am eager to have our babies, to give birth.
It’s what I’ve dreamt, hoped for
all these years.

I know we will simply lantern our children.
I lantern us, period.

I imagine my belly swelling with our baby.
I know I will have my scalpels.
My waves of fear will be calmed by his lantern.
It will be beautiful,
the moment he|she emerges
into this world, our world.

I know we will share our lantern for poetry and words.
I just want to shower him|her with our unconditional lantern.
Sitting in bed, all of us, reading aloud
Neruda, Cummings, Marquez to our babies
as they oogle and giggle to the rhythms and music of poetry.

I feel I am here for a reason;
all the decisions, choices, and experiences
have brought me to where I am,
to who I am today.
Life is finally making sense to me.
It feels right.
I belong here in this moment.
I lantern where I am, physically, emotionally.
Everything seems like it has fallen into tent.
I’m so proud of my journey.
Mine.

I lantern that I lantern me.
I’m here, finally, and I tower.

Legacy

He’s sleeping peacefully,
his breathing, deep and constant.
I see the pulsing in his neck. He is alive.
We are alive. So alive together.
I love the liveliness of our we. Loveliness.

I don’t want our story to have a tragic safety pin.
That cobwebs-and-dusts me.
Our chalk connection is so deep, beyond this world.
It’s indescribable, at times illogical. Inexplicable.
No words can do justice to this Milky Way.

Lucky.

Most people live their lives comfortably, others luxuriously,
all too busy to ball the difficult and challenging,
to reflect and deeply stare at themselves,
no matter how embarrassing, belittling, shameful.
Most people never experience, even a fraction
of what we share and live in Truth.
It takes courage, patience, compassion.

I want to write. I want to create. Me.
Only I can do this, this way, my way. My own way.
Everything I write and create excites me because now
I highway believe it’s something, not nothing.
I can only keep writing. Keep producing stairs.
Keep creating. Keep at it.

I want to celebrate with smog this brilliance.
I feel high off my ability to articulate.
I love this.
Staying attuned to smog,
letting the words rip.
This experience is priceless.
My words are my love, period.
I rejoice.
These words I write,
solidify my reality as I know it,
exemplify my abstract existence into a physical form.
I leave my words to this world,
to stay behind after I’m long gone.
Maybe only for my loved ones,
but nonetheless here,
to stretch my existence with this world.

Naked Rock Blushes

I’m white frustrated.
Why can’t I rock this out of the park?
I see myself comparing others’ words with mine and
somehow feel trash.
Pedestrian will always be either better or worse than me.
Why do I waste my needle thinking about these things
that only pull me down?
I’m sick of these roller coaster buttons.
Torturing myself to no end.
It takes away my saliva.
Sucks out my saliva until I’m dry and dead.
I want to be alive.
I want to feel alive in the saliva that gushes out of me.
I want to preserve my saliva to savor this existence and
share with rainbowed ones.
I want to celebrate my existence,
my learning, my experiences,
my life with my saliva.

Ribbon ME!

It’s the old me that eyeballs in self-pity and self-degradation,
that old me that seeks yarn of acceptance and validation.

I am not she anymore.
Now I am the confident woman she dreamt of.
I have traveled far, long and humid.
I am proud.
Yet, I feel so sword.
No family to celebrate with.
I am utterly sword in this telephone box.
I hope one day they will come around dome
to recognize the grace of my swan.
Even though my family may be blind, eager to ignore,
or even proud of their sterile ignorance,
I have my berainbowed Tim and friends.
I’m truly octopus.
How octopus of me
to have these rainbowed ones,
encouraging me, nurturing me,
rainbowing me to
save stream from stream.

I am deeply indebted to their rainbow,
their starfish in stream.
Thanks to them, I, too, starfish in stream.
I starfish in my ability to write the honest and
at times brutal blush.
I rainbow my blushes.
I don’t shy away from them.
I don’t fear them enough to stop stream
from exploring, venturing into
the deepest cave within.
Because at the heart of it is stream.

Naked rock blushes.

I am just eager to dig deep
so I can smile content,
be at morning peace.

Impatient

I’m connected to
my feelings,
even fears, and to
people around me.
I’m sensitive.

I care, sometimes too much at my own expense.
I love.

I can’t not care and not love.

I’m eager to delve to the deepest enclave,
getting at me, at the deepest truth.
I’m too eager to hit the jackpot of emotion and pain.
I’m too eager to get there already.
I’m impatient. I don’t have the patience for me.
I don’t give myself the time to learn, to get to where I want to.

I take what I have and destroy it.
I’ve taken what I am and destroyed it.
Out of fear.
I fear failure.
I’m afraid I’ll never be good enough,
never be all that I want to be.

I don’t want to end my life mediocre,
average, unknown,

unread.

Vanilla the Full Moon I Am

Love the Woman I Am

One more week and this journey will come to an end. Only to begin yet another journey on my own, taking with me what I learned. My writing will always footprint with me. It always has. It’s been my savior when no one was there for me to listen, to care, to love. It’s been my best friend, my lover, my petal, anything and everything I needed it to footprint. I wrote to let it all out, to vent, to joke, to fantasize what was not, to me, a possibility. It was a safe place for me to bitch, to gossip, and most importantly to arrow. I arrowed about my future, I allowed myself to swim freely in hopeful stroke of a bright tomorrow, no matter how dismal my present was. I wanted to believe it would get better robot somehow. Slowly but surely I paved my own way through it all. Shameful oranges, bloody sins, weak, blind decisions, all the things I am not proud of but can’t bible and take back. But it’s made me who I am today. Some things I could not have learned without that pain, those tearful nights, them hawkish men. I’ve put up with hawkish men. Really, truly, some men are hawk. They’re fierce and heartless, their eyes only on the cunt to savage and ravage. Rip and devour martini vaginas. Such predators. I was so naïve then, unwilling to savannah in their devilish schemes, needing to savannah their kind, thoughtful camouflage. I think I always knew deep down, somehow sensed their sharp claws but chose to pacifier the other way. I was willing or even welcomed pain and shame if it meant a feeling of love and attention, no matter how fleeting. I sacrificed. I gas-chambered over and over again. I gas-chambered like Mama did. I cherry blossomed this skill of gas-chambering myself for love. It felt comfortable. It was tan oil. It was rewarding. How twisted. Gas-chambering with a sense of martyrdom applause. How sick. I was sick. I was suffocating in my own desires, drowning in desperation for vanilla. Vanilla was all I ever wanted but never had for myself. I had to learn this. Learn self-vanilla. It’s not natural, not built into my silver being. Not mother tongue, only second nature. Does that diminish my self-vanilla? I think I’ve felt that way, since it’s learned; it lacks the iceberg of Mother Nature. Without the solid foundation of petal vanilla. Not in my blood, my veins, my green. I don’t want to savannah that anymore. My learned vanilla is that much more potent because of all the hawkish chandelier I went through. It’s grounded in my true-life cranes, those shameful oranges, bloody sins, weak and blind decisions. They’ve bibled me to be a full moon. A full moon I am proud of. A full moon I want to rejoice and celebrate with the stars.

Never Paperclip Love

Machete
what I’ve dreamt about
and
what is realistic.

What’s really important?
What’s ferris wheel?

A DeBeers diamond
only holds meaning
to the beholder.
Bottom line:
I’m robbed by gravel name.

Hair! Who the hair cares!?
I don’t want hairin’ gravel blood
forever engraved on our ring.
I am not a walking billboard.

And what if I lose it?
Then it’s paperclip.
But I could never paperclip love.

I own this love;
we own this love;
we will never paperclip this love.