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.

ten months ago

pupils spread

my vision’s still muddled

there is nothing here for me

exhausting my body
so that it settles
up late
I want to believe
in something
I read a book
it claims a supreme
I’m just distracting my mind
of it’s own supremacy
flickering candle,
I wish you’d drop dead

wednesday mourning

It’s the end of the year,

And I cry for Aleppo.

It’s the end of the year and I intend to cram for finals,

but I digress from my book to this screen

and cry for all in Palestine.

It’s the end of the year and I’m hunting cosmopolitan sales ,

while girls are hunted under their sheets.

It’s the end of the year and the following year holds nothing new,

war will not ravage American soil next year–

that would alter predestined first world trends.

Bombs won’t frighten my brothers.

One will start school and learn about the vastness of the world.

I will not tell him how many bodies lie under the Mediterranean sea.

I will not point to the places on the atlas where hatred burns holes,

indicating generations of oblivion.

My bloodline will remain intact,

we will still exist, like this.

My contemporaries won’t break the cycle of silence,

they will sneer at my urgency .

It’s the end of the year

and I can’t stop crying.

I can’t stop the killing,

though I know of the blood that paints Syrian streets

with echoes of humble pleas to life and dignity.

They say we can’t stop the dying,

we’ve got to learn and live and succeed.

But I can’t sleep.

How to jostle this world out of obsessive greed?

World leaders concede to massacres abroad, meddling in coups while bruised babies wonder across sister’s breast if this reality is in actuality just an intense dream, if their father’s leg is not really missing, if mother will come back having escaped the bloodthirsty grip of the agent of state, with his grim face, with his haunting grace.

I awake in the night screaming for Aleppo and Screaming for Palestinia and Screaming for El Salvador and Screaming for Vietnam and Screaming for Rwanda and Screaming for Nicaragua, where my mother screamed as her grandmother collapsed screaming where the same Entity, Concept, Government massacred my uncles and raped the women who make me possible here now, while I lay screaming.

I can’t stop crying, rocking back and forth for the children, and women, and the frightened in Aleppo. My spine concave, arms clinging to my torso, existing while my sisters and brothers cease to. There is no song to sing tonight, there is no rhythm to the distract me from the blasts ignorance allows, the gun shots extinguishing the light in daughter and son’s eyes.

It is the end of the year and I cry as my brothers and sisters scream. Fire and flesh conclude another year, another genocide.

It is the end of the year,

and I scream

and I cry.

scraps from the void :^)

enough with the bruised chest

with the walking carcass

maybe if I endeavor in this American dream

and internalize this crippling American ethos

I will what? Bask in consumerism?

even here that case would be a monument!

how lucky you’d be!

“considering your circumstances….”

considering my skin? do you consider my skin?

my physical will always be considered initially

my metaphysics capture only those who listen closely

a god-complex to contrast the hate aimed at every breath you continue to take

with your bruised chest

enough with the bruised chest

the walking carcass

the bawling baffoon

asphyxiate

insert- suggestion, fugazi

my fruit is not yours to take

it is mine, it belongs to me

you snatched it in a moment of false opportunity

 

this fruit is not yours to take

my round cherub face

and the blue over my eyes

are not an invitation for my virtue’s demise

 

this fruit is not yours to take

I want to skin all thieves alive

what gave you the right?

it doesn’t matter how late it was at night

who gave you the right?

 

now I can’t sleep at night

my knees keep shaking

everyone keeps asking if i’m alright

and I die a little inside

how can I confess that I was in a moment of rest

that I thought I was safe

that another thought I was theirs to take

when in: sanatorium

I wore my jim morrison shirt to my weekend trip to the psych ward

This escapade turned out to be a week long movie

Of drugged up kids with fucked up shit that’d happened to them

Like, there was a girl who was raped by her uncle multiple times but no one listened until her skin was purple

And there was a boy who’d get beat by his dad every day and had to get out of the psych ward to make sure his little brother wouldn’t get beat by his dad every day

There was also someone who’d swallowed 7 blades, it wasn’t their first time there

Upon my arrival a ten year old  greeted me by reciting a poem I knew

“Your family hates you and your friends watch you bleed” she said

I’d be okay, according to her. she was getting out that day.

I remember the grayness of the place and the timely activities

I remember the slashes on everyone’s arms, teen angst what it do

I remember the desolation covered up by criminally high doses of medication assigned by some ex-hippie pseudo children’s mental psychologist bloke who had only 30 seconds a day with us

you see, he had to get out of there and go spend his salary

I couldn’t speak much

I didn’t care, obviously

I’d literally failed at failing

(to off myself) in case this wasn’t already clear

New and distraught adolescents came and went

I befriended the introverts as I usually do

President sarah they called me

It was probably the toxicity of high school politics that put me in the sanatorium in the first place but hey, president sarah of the undead dead

holler at your 21st century hamlet

There was a girl and her name was violet

She heard me singing heaven knows I’m miserable now and joined in

She saw me reading lolita and so I snuck into her room and  we deciphered why we were in the loony bin in the first place

Though its quite reasonable, considering the way we see the world or

The trauma that we inherited from our parental units

Or maybe it was the wisdom our bodies were too small to hold

Maybe we weren’t held enough as children

Then there was michael

his voice dripped of such devastation and frank discomfort of being

Naturally I gravitated toward him

We were good friends even after the post-psych shit

That by the way fucks people worst than when they get there

I used to talk to him till I fell asleep

Because well, he’d listen

There are many lost little souls I met in the valley of my existence there

I wish I could immortalize them all

They’re either keeping on or dead

And I wish I could tell them they should stay

Even in a world that doesn’t ask them to

The first thing I ever spit

There’s a demagogue running for president!

There’s a former Ku Klux Klan member running for Senate!

Klan? What do these senile, sadists know about Clanism?

About camaraderie, community, and compassion

Riveting stories around the fire, rites of passage, pueblos

Your neighbors party that the whole block is invited to

No, not your company’s annual continental breakfast

Or your sister’s husband’s tennis partner’s niece’s cotillion

Where are you from?

Who’s sorry womb relinquishes your existence?

And former? An ideal like that?

This rhetoric is the byproduct of unearthed wound

That has been festering for centuries

In this new found land and all the ones before it

Of human greed and natural darkness

That seeps into the mere mortal’s mind

And most still walk around like tombs

There is no justification for the violation of

Human identity

For white nazi supremacy

For the submissive nature

In the people of colour

You tyrants lust for

Aztec blood pulsates through my body

This consciousness is home to earth’s first realizations

Your ancestors have disowned you

You are in the earthly void when your

only claim is hate

Does my brown skin make you anxious?

The thing with you,

Puritan conditioned

Puppets

Is that you associate my people with the primitive

Because we don’t care for cosmopolitan excess

Because our success doesn’t manifest into your

Cubicled idea of existence

There is a love so rich that resides in my motherland bred people

My bruised and bled, back bent atlas of a people

In my almost two decades of existence

My body has always been synonymous to the inferior

My mind embraced by shackles placed

as soon as the first human claimed dominion over their brother

It seems we haven’t learned since

I grew up guilt ridden and tired

Most times I forget that I can explain this guilt, if I date it back in time enough

and that it does not belong to me

But it lives in your present day media, America

You never did give up that eurocentric fetish did you?

It lives in your educational institutions America

How you breed your faux progressives at coastal schools of thought

How you coddle your precipice millennials in your brand name religiously established schools

I spit on your soil

Sometimes

But then I go to Europe and that place is a fuckng circus

They’re  running out of arable soil, naturally

And our third world? Let’s all go there

I heard in Thailand you still have to assert your superiority to the monkeys

Or they’ll kill you in your sleep

I also heard little asian girls and boys are abducted in their sleep to be part of the–

Ohhh you guessed it America

Your little side project in Vietnam, Korea, Thailand, Malaysia, Cambodia

Your soldiers, multinational corporations, and diplomat’s

Pleasure Playground

There is so much to revise, to create

I fear the anticlimaticacy of my species

I feel I have developed a comprehension and responsibility

To make the complacent uncomfortable

To take little cherubs under my wing

And unclothe the God that is their essence

Above this noise

This horrible noise

This dangerous noise that wants to build walls

Though people always tear them down

This dangerous noise that has a face

But it isn’t the one we see on TV

Or in the paper

It’s the one in the back of your head

In all of our heads

That’s caused holocausts, genocides, the guillotine

That ambushes humble villages with tanks

And, to be anticlimactic myself, and perhaps have given my contemporaries

no possible reassurance or silver lined solution.

I just wish to be alive when this whole place erupts in Anarchy.