wednesday mourning

Time punctures generations skin

Weaving threads of inherited trauma into woman’s bone

There is a man with blood on his teeth 

Smiling down at the patchwork of pain

I sever him methodically.

 He watches me feed his body to the starved pigs, 

both eyes, one, ghost eyes, none.

It’s the end of the year 

I am hunting cosmopolitan sales,
while girls are hunted under fear stained sheets.

The coming year will pass me by in a flurry of pages, stories, statistics.

The yellow-eyed patriots will continue to assert Empire abroad, militarizing broken states.

Collapsing mosques, homes, lungs.

Fingers pulsing on triggers, pulsing hearts and last pulses lingering

suspended in finite breaths, 

breathing in polverized

life turned to dust, death.

War will not ravage Amerikkkan soil next year–

that would alter predestined first world trends.

The cadence of bombs won’t clamp my brothers throats in their sleep, they’ll continue to dream in kind colors.

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.

Stuffing their faces in bourgeois feed , interweb validation, sedating distractions, purple noise.

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 their father’s leg is 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 

Yemen 

Vietnam 

Rwanda. 

I inherit broken Nicaragua, where my mother screamed as her grandmother collapsed screaming where the same Entity, Concept, Government massacred my revolution poised uncles and raped the women who make me possible here now.

I trace my hands, I calm the electricity in my bones…existing…still.

Holding close the memory of the children, and women, and the frightened since hate’s origin 

Holding close the places where timelines bury bloodlines 

Where pachamama prematurely swallows her children back into the ground lifetimes and time again.

There is no song to sing tonight, there is no rhythm to soothe the panic in my lungs

Liminal spirits wander our plane, friends. 

My sisters and brothers are screaming.

Flesh in fire

Conclude another year.

Another genocide.

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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” it went

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

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

atmospheric suspension + unlimited free wine later..

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 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?

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 rebirths in Anarchy.

Well I wonder

If the uncertainty ever recedes

The sunshine bounces

The sunshine dances on

My eyelids

I go places looking for someone

Finding only a variation

Of the complacency I already

Endure

Do you know what it’s like to

Carry the trauma of your

Ancestors

To lament of their demise

Hold every record of 5th realm realization

oda a olga kokino

sé lo que debo escribir

lo que arde en las orillas

de mis huesos

odas al dolor de la existencia

testimonio de mis dos décadas

en este terreno humano

relatos de otras vidas metafísicas

en dimensiones nunca antes alteradas

que todavía toman refugio en mi piel

électricas, dándome pistas…

escribo y

un espíritú prisionero,

destacado desde las lunas

se arranca la sonda

sangrienta y drogada

de su boca

inundando el espacio

con su lengua consciente

recogiendo a su gente.

                                                    xx s.c