Another one about the 'incident'

(written on Oct., 2, 2011)

At long last

my little book and I

an amateur style

for amateur prose

the streets look inviting

well-lit

the night is playing coy

it has an unexpected temper

an appetite for lost girls

with the address to

independence in their pockets

its a boys club club

but girls drink for free

**

stuck between same and different

I study the line

that marks an

abnormal stillness

the calm before the storm

Is all ugliness transfered (?)

I fear that I will trickle

the hate

through my words

and my movements

that my love

will be that much more restrained

that the solitary experience

will reinforce walls

barbed wire around my eyes

If you can, does that mean you are closer to?

Guilt by functionality

Is every man a gun or a holster?

Maybe tomorrow you can call me beautiful

but tonight (and maybe tomorrow)

forget that my body exists

love what can't be broken

The memory is fading, throbbing

the unsteady streets, my steady steps

determined circles

I thought I would want to remember

like a heart-attack victim on a Mediterranean diet

for him and I

our biggest mistake is our genes

and our money (real or imagined)

One punch is not enough

in the darkness it evaporates

it rings hollow

like defeat

One punch is not enough

to rid the filth off his face

to make the ground still

under my vigilant eyes

Safety first, humanity after

that's what it is to be a woman

One punch is not enough

but its a start

Homecoming was supposed to be a detour

the hum and crackle of a headphone that's survived underwater

like a broken lung

or a noisy wrapper

an intrusive whisper

like three friends back-packing through justice

self-doubt, guilt and longing

they go together like graham crackers and soda

enough to get you by

but they'll always know you're a foreigner

you try too hard

you laugh too loud

you have manila envelopes in your mind

to categorize each 'adventure' into the mundane

into the disengenuous

It's where all the cool kids go while they're still young

you always thought you'd be back

with more patience and more money

once you manage to stop

falling asleep to blue-lit rooms

Double-lock, double-jeopardy

Vine a aqui para encontrarme

and it worked

but I'm back from where I was looking out from

From this distance I see myself for what I am

One and One don't make me full

I am a composite, a tapenade

crushed organs, pinch of longing

staring at my shoes

feeling without awareness that

I am not like the other children

Here in the marketplace

behind a double-lock

where the mountains reach the horizon

I am not like the other children

A splash of paint

an artist's last minute thought

a presence quite not fitting but lingering

I accept this body made of shadow

I accept this identity

grasping at memories that never were

that resists the dress-size

I never was very good at reciting allegiances

I never was very good at getting the headmaster's approval

I watched the lines be smudged by the presence

a fussy girl

I thought there was a place where I fit the grid

I'll mount the line

right foot on red, left food on blue

green to yellow, arm to arm

chest fo heart

face to faces

I'll live in messes

make my nest out of sticks and mud

fall asleep counting imaginings

until the night allows it

I will become.

He think I'm going to trace the veins in my legs

that tears don't do it for me any more

Sometimes the vastness between feels like the first encounter

Blue eyes like the open seas

"That is where I come from" I said.

"That is my home."

The words cut sharply into the lamp-lit room, but like glass,

they do not hold up well against gravity.

I look at my face, daily, my ritual

my canteloupe shaped cheekbones

coffee stained eyes

dull-brown skin

mole-skin hair

What is contained in this body, this face?

I perceive myself as a symbol

as the colonizer taught us

Nose - blanca

Hair - indio

and on and on - always one or the other

always self-conscious truth-lies

Reified only in the ritual. It doesn't matter.

So I make lists, count weeks and outline steps - match my orbit to the moon's

As palms come together to make the maza - I contain my ancestors and destiny

into a single rondelle

softly and tenderly

I will become my actions.

Steady she goes

Steady steady

small steps to peace

never-ending

but with the flattening of snow

against my winter boot

a small extension of something warm

that holds

I am becoming able to count my breathing

I am becoming able to point at the goodness around me

and forgive that which won't hold the warmth in place

and comes and fades

and capture those moments

patiently

in the woolen palm of a gloved hand

a soft glow

a loving sigh

a hope-tinged puff of smoke

vanishing as it comes

The cold comfort of the in-between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide

-Elliot Smith