unsent letter 2: visions

I keep having visions, you see

terrible, vibrant, beautiful visions

perfectly intrusive scenes projected across my eyelids

until the moment my frontal lobe winks them from existence.

 

I keep having visions, you see

the olive tan of your skin,

the softness of your expensive clothes, the faint dimples in the cloth

the blue of your eyes meeting mine across the table,

marbles glistening from a great height.

 

I keep having visions, you see

of thick green glass

meeting my skull right right above my brow, right where you kissed me

the shattering of glass and blossoming bruise,

twin stars in the midst of creation.

 

I keep having visions, you see

that someone gathers up the keratinous mane of my hair

brushes it gently, pulls it taught against my skull

the professional updo she would always wear,

and cuts it away in one swift motion.

 

I keep having visions, you see

love and death,

violence and passion,

loneliness and love,

your smile, our laughter, my tears

perfectly intrusive scenes projected across my frontal lobe

until the moment my eyelids wink them from existence–

 

I keep having all these visions, you see

I wish any of them were of you,

coming back.

 

(hello my loneliness)

 

 

 

unsent letter 1: maybe

maybe one day, this won’t feel so bad

maybe the heavy stone in my chest will be eroded by the riverine flow of time

broken down, ground down, absolutely pulverized

metamorphosed into sand,

that will flow so neatly as if from an hourglass,

future, present, past.

 

maybe one day, this won’t feel so bad

maybe the knife in my chest will move

turned over, spun around, excised

metamorphosed into a scalpel,

that will cut so neatly the meaning of your words,

the truth between the lines.

 

maybe one day, this won’t feel so bad

maybe the room in my heart you left so gaudily decorated will be taken over

sublet, rented out, even bought.

metamorphosed into a vibrant space, cozy, warm

redecorated permanently,

no longer the space where you really live.

 

maybe one day, this won’t feel so bad

maybe the songs I used to quote to you will ring out again

less intrusive, more thoughtful,

metamorphosed back into the warm blanket of sounds

that kept me swaddled up, small, safe

melodious memories mellowed out.

 

but maybe, just like today,  you will always be here

this heavy weight in my chest,

the tense tearing of the muscles around my collarbone,

a room silently screaming to be filled with sound.

the love between us metamorphosed

 

Into it I sing our song, hoping

no matter what

that you’re happy.

 

(I am missing you)

renewal

in this age of renewal there are many firsts

first time walking into a new home

first time walking into a new office

first time registering for classes

first time riding the bus to a new campus

in this age of renewal, there are many emotions

I am sad, a river flowing to a lonely sea

I am happy, a pond filled with golden koi

I am nervous, a seed sending out a trembling stem to heaven

I am excited, a cactus flower eagerly opening to the night sky

In this age of renewal, there are many blessings

the joy of bonds between friends well kept

the sound of the laughter between new friends

the gentle hum of many people working as a unified team

and most of all,

the beautiful vision of your smile when we embrace, a string of pearls

friends finally together at the end of a long journey.

 

a good memory

sometimes, I think of the day we met

of how different our pretenses were for meeting the other.

In truth, I wanted to scam you. To use you,

unfurl you like a napkin, wipe away the dust from packing my skeletons back in the closet,

and throw you out.

 

sometimes, I think of the day we met

of how you looked at me when I called your name.

In truth, I wanted to feel powerful. To use you,

wrap you up in my words, smear into you the greasy gaudy nature of my persona

and cage you in.

 

sometimes, I think of the day we met

of how I looked into your eyes

and in that moment, the apparitions came to me

In truth, I was stymied by your gaze. How could I use you,

ignore the bloom of sage that are your eyes, gloss over the smooth sound of your voice,

and throw you out?

 

Sometimes. I think of the second day we met

of how I looked into your eyes

and in that moment, the apparitions came to me

In truth, they met the grey green wall of your gaze and decided. To use you,

wrap themselves in your form, tear away the soft cloths of your words,

and trap me.

 

Sometimes, I think of the second day we met

of how I looked into your eyes

In truth, it felt like being in pouring rain, freezing and cleansing simultaneously

And all I wanted was to use you,

to let you wipe away the greasy gaudy nature of my persona, unfurl my crown,

to let you wrap me in a thousand soft cloths

and return me to the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

a secret?

hey, listen

blue eyes beautiful

you can’t hide

 

not yourself, not your feelings, not your thoughts

 

hey, listen

blue eyes beautiful

you can’t hide

 

not the shaking of your voice, not the quivering in your hands, not the crumbling of your thoughts

 

hey, listen

blue eyes beautiful

please don’t hide

 

can’t you see that I am hooked on every thought, every motion of your hands, and every shaken word

that tumbles out

from your perfect peachen pout?

 

 

surprise!

everytime I think I am finally old enough

have finally done enough work with people unlike you

have finally walked or biked or flown around the world far enough

everytime I think I have impressed every other white man with blue eyes enough

to forget everything about you

 

to forget every moment of hot-faced shame or every stomach dropping moment

where you all looked at me,

laughing with those perfect white teeth pulled back to talk about how much I suck

 

everytime I think I’ve escaped the shadow of all those memories

of thinking I could just sit on the jetty, on the cool black stones until

the bioluminescent sea carried me away

 

everytime everytime everytime

you come rushing back to me,

 

or really, I come falling back to you

like the day the sand disappeared from beneath my feet

and suddenly I was drowning in the freezing sea

nothing but sightless soundless blue water above me

 

desperately crying for help

each wide mouth scream filling my lungs with crystalline pain

eyes flowing their own tiny sea until the salt seared them shut

limbs thrashing desperate for a hold on something, someone

 

until the waves flung me back onto the sand

reeling and retching and crying

for everyone to see.

(surprise!)

al otro lado de la pared

on the other side of the wall

that plexiglass fortress that keeps you

sequestered away in that little office of yours

complete with windows barred in rusted iron

there’s a million sounds to reverberate the air

 

there is

the sound of your tongue

tliq*tliq*tliq

against your teeth when you talk

 

there is

the sound of my feet as I skitter over to you

tuuk*tuuk*tuuk

a baby’s footsteps on the hard corporate carpet

 

there is

the sweet serious baritone of your laugh

heh*heh*heh

honey flowing from deep in that broad chest of yours

 

there is

the sound of wounds healing the

swish*swish*swish 

of your hand on my back the

scritch*pat*scratch 

of your fingers in my hair the

softest thud

tuht*tuht*tuht

of my chin on your shoulder when we hug the

prosaic hum of our bodies falling into safe rhythms

zoom*ziss*shhh*

 

all these million sounds to reverberate the air

in front of that red-iron barred window

where you’re sequestered away in that office of yours

a tiny fortress of gleaming plexiglass to keep you

on the other side of the wall.

 

las canicas

what if I told you that

whenever we talk I spend what feels like endless hours

staring into the depths of your eyes

marveling at the perfect smoothness of your irises

how there is not a single ridge or pore or dip or divet

not a single flaw in the perfect disk of your eyes

instead the rivulet of colors

the warmest hazel the deepest grey the softest blue

all flow outwards from your pupil

a hundred thousand rivers

crisscrossing on the flat plane of your iris

their overlapping flow uniting to make the perfect jade of your eyes

a sea in which I would glad spend

a hundred thousand years embraced.

 

playing numb

are the thoughts still intrusive if its been four months,

or can you just be another in the litany of voices in my head?

I’m asking for a friend and that friend is me cause

between me and myself, between

hours of bike rides and the screams of little cousins

between the tequila I drank Wednesday night and the way white men talk to me,

I still remember everything.

 

and the hurt isn’t sharp, not anymore,

its more of a dull throb somewhere between my uterus and kidneys

the way pancreatitis feels once your enzymes reach 2K over the healthy limit of 20

and just like that night my gallbladder exploded, it seems

like I keep retching up more and more and more

every hour on the hour

of the things you did the way I felt

continual flows of bitter yellow bile dumped from the cavern of my mouth

But somehow I’m not getting better.

 

and maybe this means I need an intervention

except instead of a blonde doctor weaving a tiny robot’s hands through my entrails

it’ll be a white man weaving his careful green eyes and soft words around my head

avoiding the pieces that still scream ouch, ouch when touched until the day we both die

 

or maybe like the errant gallstone that blocked my liver ducts, that

scritchy itchy feeling under my ribcage

I’m still holding on to some calcified chunk of what happened

maybe that’s why I still remember the words you said so clearly

every time someone touches my arms

or when the smell of an IPA hits my nose

or when I catch someone staring at my sacred hair

 

words like

do you think that black kid is gay 

or

why do the gays need to have marriage why couldn’t they just have civil unions

maybe they do love each other the way my wife and I do 

or

of course I know that police treat blacks differently, I used to sic cops on black kids when I was breaking the law 

and even

I am waiting to see if you are okay 

 

I am waiting to see if I am okay, too.

 

 

 

intrusive thoughts pt 3

I keep getting all this advice on how to heal

on where healing begins

and how and when it should end

I keep being told

you need to write out everything that happened

you need to speak it aloud to your lover your inner circle your own self

you need to leave where it happened you need to go back

you need time you need to hurry and forget

you need to be positive you need to be negative you need to imagine revenge

a seafoam eye for an umber one

or in your case milk fed entrails spilled out in clammy calamitous hands

instead of those fed fat on green bitter nopalitos and red sweet tunas

 

But every time I take out the see-through paper to write every bitter word you slathered

every time I try to imagine sinking my brown fingers into your white tummy

every time I acknowledge that I left the place but carried the home with me

no matter how many poems I narrate to my boyfriend my cabal of witches my self

every time I try and do any of these healing things

laying in the hot sun or in the cool of a vernal pool

hands splayed over the waist you so unkindly grabbed telling her over and over

that I’m sorry I’m sorry  I am sorry

 

I can’t.

because instead of imagined violence bathing me in sanguine healing

it drives me to remembrance instead

I remember your chuckle, how the air would be expelled from your nose at the end

like a jade-green dragon blowing smoke from his scaly scintillating nose

right before he snaps off your head in his million-mawed jaws

 

I remember how your eyes are the exact shade of green of the ocean in Puerto Peñasco

when you wade in at sunset to the spot right before you drop from the continental shelf

where black dolphins swim round feeding blue jellyfish to white belly orcas

 

I remember how heavy your hand was when you pet me after the election

because you were apologizing for other people expressing the same sick thoughts as you

about black men and brown girls and folks who are neither but love both

 

I remember that bottle of purple-throated merlot

the thought that I had lipstick that color passing through the tiptop of my frontal cortex

right before you tell the waitress to bring a straw so the baby can drink her juice

and I realize the juice is the glass of swirling merlot you placed in front of me

and the baby is me 

 

And I’ve left the place but when I close my eyes on the Bergen havn

it almost feels like nothing has changed at all and I’m back in that humid library

not realizing that your smile is actually a leer

not realizing that you aren’t listening to my gossip and the interest in your voice

isn’t about my words

its about how when I kneel on your carpet I’m at perfect height

not realizing all those times you were standing too close because I could smell you was

because you were trying to smell me under the perfume and the dry shampoo

not realizing the emotional buildup the community had built up around someone else

should’ve really been meant for you

because what was hotter to you than

reimagining what your petty life could be like inside a little brown girl?

 

And all this floats by me and hurts like the thousand flung needles of  jellyfish tentacles

the time I stepped in the gelatinous blue of a man o war when I was in Puerto Peñasco

because I was too busy admiring that green right before you fall off the continental shelf

 

it happens when I am alone in bed or in a sea of people at the market or

when I am laying in the cool of a vernal pool or in the hot sun

or when I am talking to that kind fisherman and he invites me for a drink

 

and all I can think of is how that merlot swirl, swirl, swished in the glass

as you told the waitress to fetch a straw so the baby can drink her juice

or about how if C and M and S and J hadn’t been blowing up my phone

that night outside the bar, vibration notifications a tiny earthquake in my hands

freeing me up to bury my face in my phone and my heels into the pavement

you would’ve really been able to reimagine what your petty life could be like

inside the abandoned body of a little brown girl.