conterminous with human life

machines crawling past each other

at aching speeds

shoulders bare boned

scraping in proximity

at human closeness

 

the masticating of fillers

the shifting of my limp body

extended exhales

of driver’s enduring

first world’s industrial peak

 

pachamama’s poison

the spirit’s sedation

let my life not lead

entranced by the

excruciating expectation

of productivity

 

let my agency foster

flourishing and healing

let me cause no pain

as pain we become

 

in this artifice of keeping

empire keeps us

drugged in yearning

in comparison

in loss

 

 

 

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month of ma[nia]y

IMG_1958

I’m having a grand time, really.

Like, there’s microcosms of such light in all this heaviness.

And, I am so aware when it is happening, yet so poignantly aware that it has the complete opposite effect on my chest.

It sinks. My eyes, refuse to look at the beauty before me.

Steve says it all has to do with this “irrational feeling that I am not good”.

The frenzied sickness of my thoughts. The grace and clarity of my speech, even if it’s not genuine. The fixation on overthrowing the government. The gladly fucking men a decade older than me who are the government. Fuck. It’s all haphazard and I feel like a fraud.

I agree with Steve, but he’s also my cis white therapist from Pennsylvania who loves pastels and cardigans. And me. I make him laugh a lot. What would he know though? Yknow?

A year and a half of mulling over my life in search of an analysis and chance at progress. I’m still here. Maybe I should try yoga?

My upbringing was painful. I was a poor, abused, depressed little thing. I was silenced as soon as I could speak. My mouth is still trying to grasp for every breath at proof of my ability to, and shit since I found out I’m good, I can’t quit.

But I lack something. Though I excel at most things I immerse myself in, my success at productivity is truly not fulfilling. I don’t know what I should be doing. I love music, I write, occasionally, but there’s something I should be doing! If only I could identify it..

Two years after the birth of this blog, I am changed. But this voice in my head is at work and it’s not nice. It urges me to rush on through, attain the impossible, get out of the hood, fill my void with sex, drugs, sad tunes, mediocre friends. The office jobs, the pervy boss, the conniving older womxn that wish for my demise.

I need a break..again..but that’s okay right? I’m allowed to take breaks? To slide the world off my shoulders and be a tourist somewhere for some time?

Until I’m something. Until I find something. Until I have something to show for. Maybe then I’ll be absolved?

Everyone I know lusts for this youth. This uncertainty, no ties, endless possibilities. But mostly I’m just floating man, and it sucks. It fucking hurts. It limits my survival. And I have so much left to do.

“So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet”- Andrea Gibson

I’ll try to stay. Okay?

xx s.c

the fifth column submission: who am i

I am sunken lungs

despite the way my laughter races time

and wins

surprised at it’s own blithe essence

as it considers it’s melancholy wrapped in tar

from evenings and corners and benches of lonely smoke,

the bittersweet refugee of this body.

 

I am always rising,

filling rooms and hearts at width

and leaving

only an apparition of validation

with the same rendition of full words

making friends feel whole

making lovers out of friends

taking their accolades under my tongue and

spitting them out instantaneously

as this reel of life chooses me

and proposes a tasteless audience.

 

I am sculpted feet, smooth, unsure, unseen

in black leather and bursts of blue flames

treading heavy, falling over my knees

bruising, bleeding, still singing

rebel songs whispered to me in dreams

by those that loved me all knowingly

passing their blood and metaphysics to me in

screams of sweet conception, strife and stories.

 

I am here

shackled to this lifetime by brutish force of colonization

an alienation of flesh and worry

always wondering how much more I can do to compensate

for the way people look at me

 

I am here

there are words I must reveal

that I am still trying to remember

there is sun that kisses my face

and well, there’s something beautiful about knowing

that it loved my ancestors like this too

 

So this is me.

I find solace in knowing that the stars endowed me with some sort of consciousness.

And this is me, still trying to fill this hole in my chest with ink.

 

I am here.

I have to remember how I got here.

I have to race time

or it will never know

how much it’s done for me.

And I want it to know.

I want it to know that I exist.

 

 

They all leave, mama

Pero tu ya sabias

siempre recordandome en mis fantasias

En los episodios de infatuacion que me dan

cada cuantos dias

No se si es por que quiero que me pertenescan

No se si es porque nunca he pertenecido

Why do they all come along and alter me so irresponsibly?

Cogiendo me desde el suelo, acarisiando mi ego

Me quedo temblando

And I give myself up

Slowly I shed off the layers, mis petalos, the accessories

Revealing my root

They hold on then toss me

They all leave me, mama

Es que no te hago caso

Aunque tu nunca me has dejado

Que voy hacer cuando ya no estes?

Pues ni amigas, ni amores a mi lado

Naci con ti, y asi acabo.

cis het piggies slopping around in the patriarch’s narrative

I sit across a pig and his boss.

They ask me to recollect my trauma.

To pin point each of the nervous threads in my memory

that now hold my body under siege,

affirming the paper thinness of my frantic skin.

Weaving clamps around sore throat’s air ducts.

I suppose the invasion left me starving and delirious

because this time, my words brought no sustenance.

So if there’s such a thing as justice

Pigs don’t eat that shit.