The Socratic method: the greatest ally against men.
Question after question, pulling them in and throwing them out.
Replaceable, disposible, dead bodies
In an undefined war
Her stongest weapon has no emotion
It just opens, closes, dries up and
plays repeat...
The Mi/SAND/rist was born from the name of the father.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Lost
Scene i:
Papi cleaned toilets.
Mami cleaned houses.
Sister one cleans up after drunk men.
Sister two is already dead.
Brother is paranoid.
Scene ii:
We enter their space quietly, yet stained
Grateful, yet quilty
Knowledgeable, yet doubtful
Prepared or was it all potential?
The lucky ones.
The first to move beyond the streets,
not have babies at 15,
drop out of school and work
at Burger King.
We enter mathematically less than.
The equation is already solved.
Scene iii:
We leave but not as doctors or lawyers or professors.
We leave lost, crazy, and still colored.
Papi cleaned toilets.
Mami cleaned houses.
Sister one cleans up after drunk men.
Sister two is already dead.
Brother is paranoid.
Scene ii:
We enter their space quietly, yet stained
Grateful, yet quilty
Knowledgeable, yet doubtful
Prepared or was it all potential?
The lucky ones.
The first to move beyond the streets,
not have babies at 15,
drop out of school and work
at Burger King.
We enter mathematically less than.
The equation is already solved.
Scene iii:
We leave but not as doctors or lawyers or professors.
We leave lost, crazy, and still colored.
My Karl Marx: This is what I look like now
My Karl Marx book sits right next to me: upside down
on a pile of books about the Middle East, Community-Based Theatre, and Medieval culture. To my left sits a cheap silver ashtray filled with remnants of a dirty addiction that makes for the following: yellow teeth, dry skin, and $6.85 a pack. I smoke and twirl to satisfy some need into emptiness. Feist plays in the background, singing some song about her man and the moon. Books close me in, a wooden antique chair kills my back, my glasses are blurry (not my vision)and the damn train passes every 6 minutes. I wonder who missed the train this time. Where are they all going now? This is the den of inequity. This is the place I seldome visit: to drink wine and champagne with friends, talk about love and life, think, write, smoke, watch the garden that isn't mine, listen to the ice cream truck, write love letters, end relationships, play frisky, act impulsively, begin new lovers, cry, laugh, stare into nothing, do mindful exerercies, and finally remember that Marx has dangerous eyes; his isn't a philosophy but a practice.
on a pile of books about the Middle East, Community-Based Theatre, and Medieval culture. To my left sits a cheap silver ashtray filled with remnants of a dirty addiction that makes for the following: yellow teeth, dry skin, and $6.85 a pack. I smoke and twirl to satisfy some need into emptiness. Feist plays in the background, singing some song about her man and the moon. Books close me in, a wooden antique chair kills my back, my glasses are blurry (not my vision)and the damn train passes every 6 minutes. I wonder who missed the train this time. Where are they all going now? This is the den of inequity. This is the place I seldome visit: to drink wine and champagne with friends, talk about love and life, think, write, smoke, watch the garden that isn't mine, listen to the ice cream truck, write love letters, end relationships, play frisky, act impulsively, begin new lovers, cry, laugh, stare into nothing, do mindful exerercies, and finally remember that Marx has dangerous eyes; his isn't a philosophy but a practice.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Martha Graham might not be proud
Cucala, cucala
que cucala, que cucala
plays live in front
of "improvisational"
chicks,
jamming to a beat called
"pay attention to me".
Hair down,
hands running through stringy blonde locks--
when the right man
turns a peak.
Ismael Rivera once sang this song to me.
I moved to it at this LES spot,
and thought of being teased by him,
by him, or
by him.
That conga hit me hard--not like the eyes diverted after opening legs,
but swift, stellar, almost beastly like punches in my hips.
I did my feet magic with my LatinAs,
laughing at the gringa looking
stale, pale, and possessed.
I was afraid to be obvious
but my excess is my affect.
What did she carry inside of her?
Did she know the sounds (like the words) were teasing her?
Cucala, cucala
Que ella sabe...
que cucala, que cucala
plays live in front
of "improvisational"
chicks,
jamming to a beat called
"pay attention to me".
Hair down,
hands running through stringy blonde locks--
when the right man
turns a peak.
Ismael Rivera once sang this song to me.
I moved to it at this LES spot,
and thought of being teased by him,
by him, or
by him.
That conga hit me hard--not like the eyes diverted after opening legs,
but swift, stellar, almost beastly like punches in my hips.
I did my feet magic with my LatinAs,
laughing at the gringa looking
stale, pale, and possessed.
I was afraid to be obvious
but my excess is my affect.
What did she carry inside of her?
Did she know the sounds (like the words) were teasing her?
Cucala, cucala
Que ella sabe...
pa' mi luna (la que sabe)
There is no "oye" to begin this letter of parted sorries
and tear stained cheeks--
if they came in color
mine would mark me up more than race
and the bliss we theorize as latinidad
and the policy scripts we play from and
jump off of just to get paid
maybe laid
by the men
that get little pieces of what we "spick"
our bodies: a foreign film more often than not
I failed us lunita.
I dared and dreamt too far
Promised, like Austin, that what we spoke would "do"
Ahhh, in all these sorries there has to be a Simone
writing love to her Beaver
A Frida
looking for Diego
in all his demise and her crippledness
A Dali and his Dora or was that Picasso?
How quickly I forget the man's painted obsession
Least I forget Miles and his Betty Davis
Not the white one...of course
There isn't a ritual large enough,
bold enough
to gather these sorries
You see lunita,
some of us are meant to fail in love
for always
and in moment after moment
this is how we learn the lyrics to the foreign films we spill
Did you think this script was given in womb?
and tear stained cheeks--
if they came in color
mine would mark me up more than race
and the bliss we theorize as latinidad
and the policy scripts we play from and
jump off of just to get paid
maybe laid
by the men
that get little pieces of what we "spick"
our bodies: a foreign film more often than not
I failed us lunita.
I dared and dreamt too far
Promised, like Austin, that what we spoke would "do"
Ahhh, in all these sorries there has to be a Simone
writing love to her Beaver
A Frida
looking for Diego
in all his demise and her crippledness
A Dali and his Dora or was that Picasso?
How quickly I forget the man's painted obsession
Least I forget Miles and his Betty Davis
Not the white one...of course
There isn't a ritual large enough,
bold enough
to gather these sorries
You see lunita,
some of us are meant to fail in love
for always
and in moment after moment
this is how we learn the lyrics to the foreign films we spill
Did you think this script was given in womb?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A cartographer of thoughts
Moments mapped in morphemes
But without rhyme
Because not every city was built
on a grid system
some
with landlocked landscapes
curvelinear cobblestone roads
some with mathematical acumen aboard
others led by water
or
like Chicago, destroyed by fire
a cartographer of thoughts
understands Benjamin, Lefebvre and the
walks
of urban gaits and iron gates
and all the while awaits
a space
where aesthetics and politics finds meaning
in home
TBC…
Moments mapped in morphemes
But without rhyme
Because not every city was built
on a grid system
some
with landlocked landscapes
curvelinear cobblestone roads
some with mathematical acumen aboard
others led by water
or
like Chicago, destroyed by fire
a cartographer of thoughts
understands Benjamin, Lefebvre and the
walks
of urban gaits and iron gates
and all the while awaits
a space
where aesthetics and politics finds meaning
in home
TBC…
For sale: An exotic brand of egoism, the making of “Me”
Romance, so narcissistic, eggs hatched and consumed by ego
raw friendship, the balance of egos, the platonic
Spiritual, father-boy philosophy, it is no wonder
the feminine energy, on this level, threatens you so much.
Lest we forget that I can read Socrates, and the stoics, too.
We credit Hegel for the dialectic when it is in nature, in Heraclites, the ying and yang.
We forgo dialogue for monologues because they can be cookie cut and boxed
We toast packaged pop tarts, cash paid with no need for retorts
We purchase spirituality, bounded in books or words, non-ecumenical, ecclesiastic or esoteric
We switch to mass individualism, canned illuminations,
Our egos bored by personal search in the
eccletic
nothing wrong in wanting the beyond but not the banal
Sorbet and sensuality in lieu of
sohbet and truth – entre comillas.
Why deprive? Why should I?
go to church
go to the market
go to work
go on a diet
go on a vacation
go away
mystical conversation on mystical subjects –sohbet – reserved for men.
it does not create other humans
the real duty resides in meta (pro) creation, not just elevation
in us, women. Womb envy is deeper than uteri.
from my ego to your ego.
You must remember that a disciple wants a master – and I am neither.
And that gnosis is temporary – always, transformation reaches a homeostasis.
Like desire.
I prefer a partner, not a master, puppet or trumpet.
rather soft wispers sweet glances open ear
to hierarchies of thoughts, and cryptic or hermetic smugness.
Yes, sir, real genius wears skirts and pumps
Instead of pomp.
raw friendship, the balance of egos, the platonic
Spiritual, father-boy philosophy, it is no wonder
the feminine energy, on this level, threatens you so much.
Lest we forget that I can read Socrates, and the stoics, too.
We credit Hegel for the dialectic when it is in nature, in Heraclites, the ying and yang.
We forgo dialogue for monologues because they can be cookie cut and boxed
We toast packaged pop tarts, cash paid with no need for retorts
We purchase spirituality, bounded in books or words, non-ecumenical, ecclesiastic or esoteric
We switch to mass individualism, canned illuminations,
Our egos bored by personal search in the
eccletic
nothing wrong in wanting the beyond but not the banal
Sorbet and sensuality in lieu of
sohbet and truth – entre comillas.
Why deprive? Why should I?
go to church
go to the market
go to work
go on a diet
go on a vacation
go away
mystical conversation on mystical subjects –sohbet – reserved for men.
it does not create other humans
the real duty resides in meta (pro) creation, not just elevation
in us, women. Womb envy is deeper than uteri.
from my ego to your ego.
You must remember that a disciple wants a master – and I am neither.
And that gnosis is temporary – always, transformation reaches a homeostasis.
Like desire.
I prefer a partner, not a master, puppet or trumpet.
rather soft wispers sweet glances open ear
to hierarchies of thoughts, and cryptic or hermetic smugness.
Yes, sir, real genius wears skirts and pumps
Instead of pomp.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Rolling Cigarettes
Tobacco saved in green paper
rolled tightly over a good-bye breakfast
strong coffee smells spilling into nervous chatter
and food--a lost attempt,
each bite symbolized a sooner end...for one.
I tried to take it all in: the city moving quickly as we played a lover's catch-up, the hands that lent me my fetish, the green eyes that never failed to tell me when you were some place else, that body moving in and out of conversation (crossed arms, crossed legs), and the waiter gone waitress escaping us for far too long.
I stood above you as we smoked. Sitting next to you: an intimacy I could not give you. You drank your black coffee and inhaled deeply. I looked at all the passerbys and remembered I never gave you up. You remembered the people from our past. Our memories were no longer the same.
rolled tightly over a good-bye breakfast
strong coffee smells spilling into nervous chatter
and food--a lost attempt,
each bite symbolized a sooner end...for one.
I tried to take it all in: the city moving quickly as we played a lover's catch-up, the hands that lent me my fetish, the green eyes that never failed to tell me when you were some place else, that body moving in and out of conversation (crossed arms, crossed legs), and the waiter gone waitress escaping us for far too long.
I stood above you as we smoked. Sitting next to you: an intimacy I could not give you. You drank your black coffee and inhaled deeply. I looked at all the passerbys and remembered I never gave you up. You remembered the people from our past. Our memories were no longer the same.
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