Monday, August 31, 2009

brothel, anyone?

so, it's come to this.

i am willing to sell myself for money to go to spain.

make an offer.

we can negotiate.

(i'm awfully awkward and terribly shy, but if you're into deafening silences, this can work).

**all morning, i've been stressing out about money.
it's overwhelming.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

not ready.

to split yourself in two.
the slow and steady process of growing up,
here are the halves
do what you will with them.

one woman wants to be just that,
a woman with things to show for working hard.
need they be simple, yes...
but items nevertheless.
say, maybe a house of her own,
a decent dependable car,
clothes that don't all look the same
and maybe a few extra dollars to walk around in her pocket.
nothing fancy,
just honest.

the other woman wants adventure,
small fame even (but why?)
stories to tell her grandchildren,
memories to write about,
something to be proud of.

to follow your dreams is one big fucking task.
it almost seems like a chore or a job sometimes.
doing what you love always becomes what you are known for,
and in doing that
heavy expectations are set.
you are no longer the girl walking down the street,
you are the girl who sings walking down the street.
no longer just the awkward lesbian who lives next door to you,
you are the awkward lesbian neighbor who in is leaving for 2 months
to go sing in Spain.
never get called just by your first name either.

oh, but who are you to complain?
i mean, isin't this what you wanted?

(and honestly, this is small time scale right now)

Friday, August 28, 2009


no matter what anyone says,
the hotel business is simply just that.
a business.
don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
this hotel business is a counter culture.
a number zero.
one who thrives on the mutual success of others,
an umbrella of blood sucking amatures who yearn to be professionals,
an army of blue vested semi-attractive zombies who nod their heads in
false sympathetic waves and speak in robotic-like directions.
"i am here for you" is the mimicry,
the stout stance that is well under developed.
the guests who are my novacaine,
the directors of my paycheck,
the absent father or petrified lover,
otherwise known as the
mistress chasm.
or more familiarly,
the revered hole in the head.

can't you tell i just love my title?

Thursday, August 27, 2009


Stagnero went to the coffee table and picked up the shoelace.
It was brand new, hardly a strand out of place.
He slowly rubbed his fingers against the plastic tip,
his feeble attempt to begin the slow understatement of
After a few seconds passed, he got bored and
rumaged through the magazines on the table.
All of these faces I will never kiss, he thought.
All of these women I will never own.
When in reality, he was the one who wanted to feel "owned",
the man tied up in the realms of a real, suffocating presence.
To be needed.
To be desired.
And he was on page 34, when Tendon woke up.


standing next to the mirror, Maria once stroked my face gently and said
"if only you would allow me to love you
the way that i want to".

i avoided looking her in the eyes from then on.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


I got the call one afternoon from Maria that Tendon had overdosed again.
I say again, because I was expecting this call.
You see, Maria and I have a routine.
Some may call it sick, I call it pretty simplistic.
Tendon will go unnanounced one morning "mysteriously" ,
the backdoor to his house will be unlocked,
Maria will get some faint "intuition" and call him.
The call will go unanswered,
she will then call Stagnero frantically,
who will then proceed to make the drive over to Tendon's house.
Upon arrival,
Stagnero will grab the mail from the mailbox,
unlatch the backyard fence,
and come through the unlocked back door.
Finding Tendon is never an easy thing to do,
but Stagnero has gotten rather good at it.
There on the table in the kitchen will be a notepad with a number on it,
a fresh bowl of fruit and a shoelace.
Tendon will either be in 1. his room 2. the kitchen or 3. his laundry room.
(Tendon will never be found in the bathroom because in his own words "it's just not a dignified place for someone to die").
His mouth will be slightly blue and his face a bit pale.
Either in a fetal position or arms folded across his chest,
Tendon will always be wearing his favorite green sweater.


Before I met Tendon, pretending to be sincere was my most accessible trait.
I smiled past pain and anger with a frequent noncommitable urgency.
Breathe once internally, that last gap for air between your ribs and your stomach-take one swallow-and look the stranger in the eye...
stare intently on them (make sure you look like you're listening)
nod your head once,
open mouth
close mouth.
nod your head one more time
Being polite was never necessary,
staying silent was key.
And I did this, for 5 and a half years
as a Front Desk Agent for one of the biggest hotel chains in America.


tendons.(part 1)

-loyal friend.
-happy friend.
-tragic yet not urgent friend (you can say somewhat of a wimp).
-suicidal friend who attempts but is unsuccessful every time.

a dark comedy.

characters (as is):

reggie, the loyal friend who is also the narrator. hates confrontation therefore analyzes everything and everyone. works at a hotel but is planning to quit.

stagnero, the happy friend who is only called by his last name (it's been like this since he was 8). now 26, only wears pastel colors and has an obsession with odd numbers. secretly hates (abhors!) his job but is obsessed with keeping his happy demeanor (it's all he knows).

maria (possibly will change name), the tragic yet non commital friend who has OCD, mainly to do with her hands and the items she touches. has a fascination with rings and bracelets, marbles, pins, etc (pretty much anything small that is a bin or jar). often plays the victim in her relationships, which turn out to be pathetic attempts at love (criss crossing btwn men and women). pretty much a social phobe yet becomes quite the slut when drunk or high.

tendon, the suicidal friend who attempts but is unsuccesful every time. his attempts do not any longer scare nor bother his friends. they are looked upon as natural and when he no longer tries to kill himself, only then do his friends think something is wrong with him.

reggie is the narrator of the story.
tendon is the most realistic character
whereas maria is frightening and hilarious.
stagnero is borderline annoying (?)

Saturday, August 22, 2009


we watched the weather as we held thumbs
yours was bigger than mine of course,
you being the machine.
and you ran your fingers down my neck and said
"i am waiting to see your menacing side"
to which i replied
"well, you'll die before that occurs"
to which you placed a dagger in your side
and bled to death
right there,
on those steps
where we once used to sit and watch sky flare
or where dinner was a mainstay.
and you were right, when you said that nothing was going to go away.

but after reading Baldwin, all of these blank scenarios and dialouge keep
plummaging my head
repeating themselves into my skull.

he was kind
he wore button up shirts
with blue lapel pants.
weathered skin
and a sex drive to match.

she had no sympthany for the tired nor the absent minded.
she was a modern day whore turned pacifist turned into again
a dreary soul
who cleaned sidewalks,
scouring for drugs
or dimes
or loose teeth.

one day, with her head down
she bumped into his feet.


her long long hair keeps getting in the way
as she brushes her teeth.
salt mixes with blood mixes with water
and paste
all devoured in her mouth,
pressed against her tounge
until she is ready to pull it out.
but she allows it all to sit for a while,
beneath her gums
waiting for some trial to begin or maybe some explosion.

"well, i'm just waiting for someone to come and sweep me off my feet", she says in some muffled gleam.
"well, aren't we all just waiting for that same destiny?" , the other asked sneering.
"yes, but you see, it's going to happen to me", she said in a total state of indifference.

later on that day, she noticed a small cut on her lip.
the proof was there but the motive was not.
she stared at her knuckles for too long
and realized that blood was the first sign
of failure.
but i don't think she was looking for success.


her long long hair gets in the way of her walk.
side stepping along the sidewalk,
concrete looks good against her skin.
and her smile is a memorable trait,
mixed somewhere between porcelain and black and white tattoos.
in the realm of you.
you, lying on the floor
are male at best.
and numbers fill her eyes wide with surprise
but she loves the taste of blood
and cannot wait to kiss her right there
in the wound.
where pain ceases after care is given,
if only for that moment.
my god, she is beautiful.
she is a stranger.
she is not.
hardly having a name,
it is downtown and there are buildings that resemble the mouths of open mothers,
drunk daughters
and stern stern (oh very stern) fathers.
and a sister and a brother
is to whom she owes her illustrious point of view.
"are you calling me callous?", she asks me in a state of repose.
"why no, how could i ever use that word and your name in the same sentence?", the me (who was not the me, not the actual me but the self maybe a year ago)

and then blood on the ground.
coming from your mouth.
the traces on my knuckles,
the tears on my sleeve.

"you should be careful, dear. you live your life as if it was a weapon", I said to him.

"how else are you to live it?" he said as he was brushing his teeth.

(scene 1)
but itallmakesnosense
but keep it coming
repeat repeat.

flying lotus.

listened to flying lotus yesterday
the whole house was mine
for an hour.
it felt amazing.
to be naked without shame,
humming as i walked from room to room with time to kill and
nothing to do.
no obligations for 40 minutes,
no faces to apologize to,
no meetings to catch,
no phone to ring.

babe, it was just me and you.
low end beats and your sirens crashing.
i kept you on repeat,
writhing and writhing.

and then later on in the car,
while listening to more
i realized what i lacked
and what simple thing made me feel like me again.
(and i know, we all have "this",
that "thing" that makes us feel sane, safe, young again)
and for me,
it is hip-hop.
simple and repeitive
slurring of the words,
rotation and rotation

Thursday, August 20, 2009

another country.

vocals chords sliding against skin
blood in your blood can equal my blood
equal my blood in your head can equal my skin
can be blood can be blood can be blood.

and you're life before seems so rustic,
seemed so eventful and slightly surface
yet sophisicated in the respect that no one dared to touch you.
you were admired and never belittled,
with a chest ten feet high and your arms always in the clouds.

there is no motivation here.
as i come hide beneath my feet,
i cling to some stranger's legs
and push my tounge onto your teeth.

wanting to unfold in front of all of them
with reverb hitting against your breasts,
feedback agaisnt our skulls.

there are 100 pages left
and i am determined to see through all this dirt and mess.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009


lucas johnson never fails.
he keeps on living in relapse
and texts with sweet precision.
the days of glory are over my dear honey
now they are filled with 1,000 miles between us
and very planned out excursions.
but your constant understanding of the stuff no one should understand
makes you vital and rare.
you speak in rythmns that i dream in,
i love you like i love my brother,
my mother
and my pessoa book.

and last night, i listened to the songs that were sung in that old living room
you know,
the one with the 3 windows and the beat up doors.
and there was kyle's voice
(ohgodhowmuchofagodheoncewas, if only for a few months but stilllllllllllllllllll)
and there was eric's sadness
(hero hero hero)
and there was jimmy's stories
(such a sucker on that sidewalk i was)
and there was chelsea's cries
and there was lucas's gestures
(forever on that couch)
and then there was i
(rustic voice trampled on by trains).

thank you, old man.

speaking to an older man
one who has experience
and knows what it is like to love
one person for 35 years,
to only really desire one body
to know that fighting and bickering
is a natural occurance among lovers
and that life is one full of highs and lows,
made me smile and realize
that what i have is

Monday, August 17, 2009

sophia loren.

oh, and the back window! the back window! the back window!
and the living room, the living room
my room.
and you
on the floor
near the nightstand.
and all of this happened roughly 2 years ago.
you in your blue sweater.
it was soft and it was kind and
i wanted to borrow it.
(i never did).

and mouths shattered
lights outside exploded
and Tycho played
and feet shuffled
and the stairs were so dirty once we entered.

the floors a mess
once we had decieded to leave.
and all those knives on the stove
halfway burnt in order to feel good

the couch that he slept on.
the tv i never had.

and the door was set up in a barricade
the night you came over.
the boys wanted to play a trick on us.
but we didnt laugh.
well, yes we did.
he had a face that resembled Sophia Loren
and then he had a face that mutated colors.
and she had a face that crushed matter
and i had no eyes, only eager limbs.

and in that room, standing in the center
for the first time
i felt my spine.


james balwin is lying on his bed.
collar shirt, unbuttoned and stale.
his pale lips, cracked in the Harlem heat
his huge eyes staring upside down
at this lover.
Valentino is 6 feet tall and some change.
He loves James' body but is not in love with him
(although his counterpart pleads for this exchange of emotions).
he will not budge.
he loves his satired life too much.

the two men remember last night in moments.
in the morning, the small details remain.
the blanket on the floor, the pants on the chair
the pillows sunk in
from the head of his lover
the stains
the blood
the words pressed to the hardwood floor.
and his tie
now in the right hand pocket of
his lover's pants.
"think that he won't love me,
well, i'll take a part of him somehow".

the window is open with the blind half cracked.
it is summer
and it is now afternoon.
the door to his apartment is dirty with regrets
and his room is so full of enemies and strangers.


nicholas is nearly 90 miles away and
yet he still texts to say good morning
and to ask how everything is.
(besides music)

the people here at work are all strangers
and i guess i find a lot of comfort in that
my quick introduction and greeting
will be forgotten as soon as they enter that elevator door.
and that is good because
i don't want to be remembered.

emotions are something that when i was younger
(even just 2 years ago)
i worshiped and thought as one of my best qualities:
the ability to feel (hard)
and to embrace those feelings.

i'm starting to question thier intent and even thier
place in being there.

would it be better to be a hollow body
with a hollow chest
with a hollow head?

carnival inside is getting tiresome.

thank you amy rose.

and amy rose's blogs
put everything into perspective.

i seriously have nothing to cry over.

things haven't even started yet.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

work is a brothel.

i am a whore.
for the hotel.


iced coffee can fuck you up sometimes.
if you are not careful, it's as powerful as any other medium.

i want heavy pulses
empty beds
to hit the walls
and slide across the floor.

bodies writhing (?)
returned texts
accepted phone calls
finished projects.

the trip to another country can be supplied
if you plan it well.

5 more months behind this desk
is do-able.

but it's so hard to feel content here when so much else is going on
and you have to read about it
while you twiddle your thumbs
and stare blankly
at your blue blazer
in the diamond shaped mirror.

Friday, August 14, 2009


lost in between your thighs
and your sound
was a fragility
that could never be placed.
nor named.
the weight of your face was panned to the left and to the right
hungry yet still smiling
your chest on mine.

and i get so distracted with my head.
it comes and goes and comes again.
but loving you has never changed.
i was born to live like in the womb
(of you).

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

you should cast spells.

this morning was stressful.
i woke up frantic from a dream where i was being murdered and
all my friends either ran away or where murdered too.
i was wearing some old band t-shirt from the 80's.
it was red and you couldn't really see my blood because of it.

i was restless after that and wanted to run away from my house, in the
hopes of somehow running into a few thousand dollars so that she
could just relax and stop thinking about her age or lack thereof.

this afternoon was a waste.

this night is gonna be too long.

i want september to hurry along so that october rolls right over
me and
the cold wind starts to make me love blankets again
jackets are a necessity
and gloves are always in my bag
you can see your breath in still frame
lingering long after your short
words do.
theyare simplyspells waiting forsomeone to careabout what yousay.

(you should cast spells)

it was on her t-shirt.

your blood was not.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


and she said
"but i have weak wrists. i'm not strong enough to pull you"
to which she replied
"sex is nothing more than ample time, a loving thought and music to fall behind"

i said ok.

and she tore her hat off her brown hair and it fell to the floor in her same breath.
she was busy watching the men outside her window
in New York City's atmosphere,
where the dead keep on living
and the living wish they were dead.

do you wish you were dead?
the little boy asked his own mother.

"sometimes. sometimes."
she replied in between breaths


i realize that she and i got along so well because she was not on drugs.

and a car just crashed in front of my work.
it was loud and sounded like some
blood curling scream and an explosion.
the cars, flipped over on thier sides
and bodies hopping out.

made me sick to my stomach to think that
life can be that drastic.

you're telling your wife that you will be home in a few minutes
and then
you turn the corner
just to bend into metal
and melt into

Thursday, August 6, 2009


so i miss her like i missed my mother when i was younger.

10 am.

there is silence in the house.
no one is awake.
a half open case of muffins on the table, 
a bowl of berries.

the trip has been very memorable.

the weather has been indecisive. 

i am hardly able to drink this hot coffee.
i should know better. 
i should not stray.

the woman in the other room in sacramento is beautiful.
she has crazy hair and frantic eyes
and thinks about death a lot. 
her legs are strong and her lungs unhealthy,
her chest bound to the bed
where i love to sleep in.

it's tour and strange how we are sleeping in.
strange how late we stay up
strange how distance is like a shield.

where the sky misbehaves and you sit on the curb of 
some street you've never been on
and hum and hum and hum
about everything you've done wrong.

but yet, you smile in the morning
because sleep somehow erases 

Wednesday, August 5, 2009


i cut my fingernails today. 
cut them clean off,
straight and focused. 
(don't regret don't regret don't regret)

in the morning in LA is a bit surreal.
no noise
no loud cars
all my friends are still asleep.
except genaro who is cooking breakfast.
i want coffee more than i think i've ever wanted before.

the sun is coming on strong
and the couch bed i made for us to sleep on last night
was still comfortable when i woke up.
i slid off to the left 
so Dani could have the whole.

chelsea was awake, like always
she is a beautiful machine.
i don't think her mind will allow her to sleep much
because it's hounded by creativity.

and i am in small track shorts, thinking of books i will read
when i get home. 

i am selfish.

the hardwood floor will be the place i rest on tonight.
with the door wide open
let the Angeles lights flicker on and off
and on again
until it hits you,
you the one girl in her bedroom
that she shares with me,
the one girl who can't believe that she could be so lucky.
let the lights hit you square in the eye
where you will be stalled if for only a moment
and think of me,
the girl who is so in love with you,
the one girl that was made for only me. 

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

in a suburb bed.

the girls are drunk and loud at the foot of the bed. 
laughing about boring people and food.
genaro is asleep while chelsea is poking at his face.
nicholas is keeping us entertained while switching on the lamp light off and on.

i am happy. 
yet a bit sad. 

i was fine during the day but now at night it freaks me out that jordyn is not here.

i'll share a bed with chelsea tonight and 
wake up to nick's pug in the morning.

(dontthinkabouthome dontremember just forget)