Gerardo. 
Theme by Andrew
Mamá
I use you
like the belt
pressed inside your grip
seething for contact
I take
what I know
from you and want
to whip this world
into shape
the damage
has defined me
as the space you provide
for me in your bed
…
I was not to raise an arm against you
But today
I promise
I will fight back
Strip the belt from your hands
and take you
into
my arms.
Loving you is like living
in the war years.
I do think of Bogart & Bergman
not clear who’s who
but still singin a long smoky
mood into the piano bar
drinks straight up
the last bottle in the house
while bombs split
outside, a broken
world.
A world war going on
but you and I still insisting
in each our own heads
still thinkin how
if only I could make some contact
with that woman across the keyboard
we size each other up
yes …
Loving you has this kind of desperation
to it, like do or die, I
having eyed you from the first
time you made the decision to move
from your stool
to live dangerously.
All on the hunch
that in our exchange of photos
of old girlfriends, names
of cities and memories
back in the states
the fronts we’ve manned
out here on the continent
all this on the hunch
that this time there’ll be
no need for resistance
Loving in the war years
calls for this kind of risking
without a home to call our own
I’ve got to take you as you come
to me, each time like a stranger
all over again. Not knowing
what deaths you saw today
I’ve got to take you
as you come, battle bruised
refusing our enemy, fear.
We’re all we’ve got. You and I
maintaining
this war time morality
where being queer
and female
is as bad
as we can get.
I can feel memories of that confidence
I used to have,
before it was all crushed
by the tremendous weight of my anxiety.
Memories of feeling so liberated inside
I could look at you across the room—
a stranger then—
and decide that all I wanted that night
was to taste your full, racially ambiguous lips,
and find out who the hell
that cutie is in the corner
lookin’ all cholo femme
with his big ass smile,
directing me like a lighthouse
in that room full of
straight Chican@s.
Memories of mariposas fluttering inside me
a month later when you
were walking to my room to watch that movie and
I wasn’t worried if I was too ugly or naive
‘cause all I could think about was how cute you were
and how much I just wanted to feel you again.
That liberating echo turned into erupting volcanoes
when we kissed and you were so warm and soft—
much like your lips—
and it was like your fingers were melting into me
in warm explosions across my chest following the
trail of your hand.
I became a goddess that night,
born out of the ashes of the lava
pouring inside me through
your burning kisses.
I can feel memories of that confidence
I used to have
and it’s like I’m alive again.
If I were a drum
you would beat me
listening for the echo
of your own touch
not seeking
the voice of the spirit
inside the drum
only the spreading out shape
of your own hand on my skin
cover
If I ever really sounded
I would rupture
your eardrums
or your heart.
- Audre Lorde, “Dreams/Songs From the Moon of Beulah Land I-V,” The Black Unicorn (via eljotitodeperris)
Another one cuz it’s her birthday.
- Audre Lorde, “For Assata” (via eljotitodeperris)
Happy birthday, Audre Lorde!
I woke up naked next to a new body,
put on my clothes, said good bye,
and started walking back home,
pretending I didn’t just spend the night
trying to drown out the sound
of your moans still haunting my memory
with his panting.
I ignored how nasty it was tasting
someone new,
how pathetic I felt trying to pleasure
a different body,
and how empty it was touching but
not feeling.
I buried all those thoughts and convinced myself
how great it is to finally have sex again,
till I got to my bed and all I could think about
was how your interview went yesterday
and how much I hate that I can’t ask you.
And I remembered the absence you left
and how much I just want to hold you again.
And I tried to hold back the tears but it was too late
‘cause it feels so hopeless that
six weeks later
I still miss you.
- Chrystos “Old Indian Granny”
A pulsating warmness flows
throughout my chest
as we catch our breath
from the last orgasm.
Our legs and arms still
tightly wrapped
around each other,
as my chest caves into yours.
We’ve been in this room for hours,
learning each other with
our hands, our torsos,
our legs, and our lips.
A tenderness grows
and burns my insides
each time your skin
touches mine.
I kiss your belly,
go up to your nipples,
swerve into your neck,
then your cheek—
ingrain your smile into my memory—
press my lips to your soft lips,
and taste your tongue again.
I look down at our brown bodies
of different shades,
melting into each other
and I see our beauty.
I smile ‘cause you’re so
beautiful.
And ‘cause I feel beautiful,
too.
I want to hold up my anxieties up like a string.
My fears about you and me,
grinding and crushing my insides.
Anxiety-ridden blood running through my veins,
pumping hate through my heart, my mind, my soul.
Hold them up like a string,
outside of me.
I want to dissect this fear,
this loneliness,
this hole in my chest.
I want to understand these fears:
why I can’t accept your affection,
why I can’t feel your affection.
I want to pull these anxieties out of me
through a string
and feel every thorn rip out of me:
every thorn of every tear of every time
I felt so lonely I couldn’t move.
Immobilized and crying,
hoping to someday fill this giant hole
with happiness and love.
I want to rip these anxieties out of me
so I can feel the warmth of your lips
and your embrace.
So I won’t feel like a void wrapped in skin,
but my body next to yours,
not questioning your affection
or if you still want me.
Doubts ruin the moments,
changing my memories
of your warm kisses all over my body
to this cold emptiness I feel when I wonder
if you still need me.
I want to hold my anxieties up like a string
and laugh at them because the void in me is gone.
I want to mash them and pound them
and get revenge for all the times
they crushed my soul,
leaving me immobilized in a puddle
of my own tears,
left alone with my fears
about you and me.
Estar cansado tiene plumas,
tiene plumas graciosas como un loro,
plumas que desde luego nunca vuelan,
mas balbucean igual que loro.
Estoy cansado de las casas,
prontamente en ruinas sin un gesto;
estoy cansado de las cosas,
con un latir de seda vueltas luego de espaldas.
Estoy cansado de estar vivo,
aunque más cansado sería el estar muerto;
estoy cansado del estar cansado
entre plumas ligeras sagazmente,
plumas del loro aquel tan familiar o triste,
el loro aquel del siempre estar cansado.
- “Estoy Cansado” - Luis Cernuda ~ 1931
