Don't Call Me Brave

Don't call me brave, I wish I were but I wasn't. I didn't charge this field to the crack of a trumpet with faith in the divine truth of my cause, I flunked life, I sunk this ship. I lived out my death wish until I had jack shit to lose and then I transitioned. I flipped out and ripped down this round world my thumb out to peel back the curtains and unseal my sunlight but I was still encased glass. I was see-through and hollow; a monotone robot unable to emote all of these feelings stuck underneath me and nobody was me. I couldn't express me. Not a hat, not a goatee, not a travelling poet fucking with locals and living off magic tricks. I still felt broken. Like a door in my house sits inviting me to my own unexplored territory. The one thing I had left was everything I wasn't allowed to be in this binary world. So I became her.

I'm not brave. I wasn't prepared. I didn't strut out the closet with fat hips from practicing dancing in front of the mirror. I jumped out a burning building thinking only that falling beat boiling alive. And somehow that trampoline found my feet and I landed free from that agony. I found her there waiting, ribbons in her hair hanging like pieces of forgotten dreams, recalled like songs played in the perfect key to unlock me.

Is a bird brave for flying? A squid for deep diving? I'm not brave I'm just born this way and no bigot alive can take it. Go on, tell me I'm ugly, I find it affirming to my womanhood when you try to tie inherent worthiness to my appearances. Tell me to repent, you see the Bible like fences on a racetrack, I see it like sign posts and landmarks to pull us out of the wilderness. I saw through the old me and didn't know who remained until God told me to be the person they made me, and I couldn't give that to the bigots if I wanted to.

Menstrual Cunnilingus (Blasphemy Remix)

Call me a Vampire but I see nothing wrong with a bloody vagina. All that gleefully nutritious, succulent sweetness goes to waste if you're unwilling to assault the main gates and plaster your snout against the coppery wetness leaking from those happy drapes. Sometimes if they're bleeding I'll go down simply because I'm out of granola bars and don't feel like ramen. I can survive off their pussy for weeks and if I'm careful enough they won't even stain the sheets.

Don't you dare look disgusted. Have you ever tried it? Do you even know what it tastes like? Sure it's pungent and stings the throat and leaves a bloody mess on your chin but there's a rich and sugary undercoat like raspberry mucus over Worcester olives or a syrup of honey and copper and bubbly soda pop--oh you'll love it I swear! It's like salmon brunch or a nice tuna melt. Except covered in vagina blood.

I can't even describe the taste with words and I apologize, but how do you put language to the essence of creation? It's not just the taste, my friends, how can you waste pure, distilled miracle smoothie? Somewhere in that natal ooze there swims a baby cherubic angel still waiting for her knight in shining semen to ride the currents with their mighty tail and cross the bridge between heaven and Earth.

But they ain't coming. Her best chance now is if I gobble the whole thing down and step two find a cum bucket to spit it into. Oh who am I kidding? We don't need step two. I can just swallow the whole thing myself and grow a baby in my tummy like Mother Mary, and they'll have red hair and green eyes, and I'll name them after the stars. Maybe Delphini, or HD 149026. Okay I'm fucking with you, the only miracle my genesis slurpy's bearing is a colossal shit. It's really about the taste.

So come friends and join me! Let us dance all night in vagina blood and play and splash about and wrestle, holding each others faces down in menstrual puddles until somebody calls uncle. And when we're done we'll shower in it and scrub each other thoroughly dirty until we fall asleep and when we awake it will have crusted over night and we'll find little snacks caught in our hair and behind our ears, tasty treats too delicious not to eat. You can snort it off the floor but if you do make sure to mop, you don't want germs in your menstrual snot. You can hoard it in all in jars, you can leave them in a drawer then sneak it into soup and serve it to the poor.

How dare you tell me I'm being improper? I say let them eat caviar! Come friends, won't you have some with your toast? You've heard of a Southwest Omelette, but have tried the Cannibal Coast? I like to add it to my coffee. You can even have it on your sushi if your soy sauce lacks in flavor, or throw it on a hotdog because you're already eating a fucking a hotdog so--Look, don't take my word for it, try it for yourself but heed my warning, you may come to love it. I'm just kidding. You'll probably get sick and throw up.

Silence is a Weapon

Silence is a weapon

Violence can hurt someone once but silence makes a lineup of future victims. Violence will scrape off the skin but silence will pick off the scab and prick you within. Indifference hinges our suffering open with no one to notice so no one can close it and traumatized people never feel safe again. A missile can hit a target one time but silence coats it in depleted uranium. Silence passes birth defects to the next generation. Silence goes after the children.

Silence is a weapon

Violence can steal your dignity but silence will resign you to misery, silence will deny you recovery. Violence can shanghai you to slavery but silence put more slaves here today then any point in human history.

Silence by law enforcement majority shields the handful minority who abuse the defenseless and cause half their misconduct offenses.

Silence sells you the story that you'll still save the princess as soon as you learn which castle she's in. You're only compromising for the interim.

Silence is a weapon

It strikes like an infection, it grows so slow you don't notice your toes go, you say "take my feet, I'll never drop to my knees" and after those leave you beg just to keep your pelvis, you don't deserve this! You're entitled to a sternum! It must say so in the constitution.

But our rights are just privileges so long that we’re silent while those born equal to us are having theirs violated. And the constitution has been toilet paper for as long as the people who use it have been sitting in jail. And our silence keeps them there.

Our silence sinks more ships than loose lips when we watch them leave to never come back here, cross the sea and spill some blood to save our freedom from people who have even less power. Our silence leaves every victim of violence without an answer and still we can't find our voices no matter how clear it becomes that our silence brought down the twin towers.

Silence is a hammer. It slams us in place holding together an engine designed to spread fear and corruption by dividing us and them, and thrusting us into a spiraling race to the bottom. But I choose neither side of this cycle, I choose a third option. Love is a weapon. Love is my message. Love for those who seek refuge. Love for those who fear others. Love them so much your silence burns like tinder. Our love needs to spread faster than wildfire, burn hotter than climate change because we don't have time to out wait an ice age of silence.

The Real Sal Jesus

I like to believe that you haunt my playlist. Sometimes when I'm listening to spotify or pandora and I have my phone in my pocket so I can't see who's playing, and something really good comes on—sometimes, if I've never heard it before, I can imagine maybe the reason I can't recognize it is because it's not even from Earth, but rather some magic grabbed up my phone and queued a song on my playlist that came from beyond, from the celestial, and when I hear that fiddle line, the one I've never heard before, I imagine you wrote it and now you're playing me Goodbye like some phone hacking phantom.

I see you casting strings with the Divine, still smoking cheap cigarettes but bumming your fire right from Prometheus. I see the Buddha bass slapping next to Hari Krishna's Harmony of Flute and Harmonica and Jesus plucking banjo with his nails. Accordions strapped to Orion's belt cut back and forth in a Slalom funk and Thor shredding the guitar like thunder while your strings stir dead stars back to life and claim the souls of saved and damned alike and open the ears of sleeping titans. Justin is there too, directing it all for the music video, getting snapshots for the album cover. And the camera shakes a little when Rigly runs between his legs, his tail wagging like a Logan driver, and you just laugh like it's a punchline—a laugh that makes me wonder if I'll ever meet another person in this world who gets my jokes, a laugh like the only man in town who knows the Emperor is nude, a laugh like the Devil told you something earlier, but it only makes sense after he's cheated you. A laugh I remember like the horn of a missed train—'cause it's fucking gone now.

Sometimes I imagine I'll wake up and I'll hear a new song on the radio and I'll check it this time, I won't be afraid to look at my phone because this time I won't be disappointed, this time I see the artist's name printed in big, capital letters because like you said, “the lower case is for the lower class.” I'll see the name SAL JESUS just where it's supposed to be. Topping charts with the amazing Mama Ghost. I'll tell people how I knew you, as close as Bukowski and Charles Potts, killing bottles of Canadian host. Learning the secret meanings behind songs by the Beatles. All nighters until our fingers were stained in ink and stiff like boards. I might have to embellish, however, the part where I was there for you when you really needed it, when it really made the difference between that waking reality and this horrible dream.

Maybe the reason you were such a brilliant artist is because our ears were blocked and all that pain had to go somewhere. I should have just seen you as a friend who needed help, but I never saw past the bar you raised with the talent you expressed, so I stuck you high on this shelf. Even now I can't think of you just burning into ash, I have to paint a picture, and it's not on canvas but on gauze because I'm using it to mask my wounds until my alarm clock goes off and I get to wake up and call you.

Ode to the letter Y

This is bullshit you're a fucking shitstain piece of vomit and I'm going to hate you forever you fucking asshole. How'd you do it? Smoking a bent and flattened cigarette like a true hipster? Twenty seven years old just like your fucking idols, what song did you play on vinyl? How'd you fucking do it? How? How?

You fucking cunt-barrel sewage seeping slipknot sucker punch sour puss laundry boots—who the fuck is even left to write about you? Who? Who?

I wish I could but I only write for myself. When Karen did it, my poems were bowling lanes with rubber bumpers, rhymes thrown at random, caught in heated rhythm, poetic devices triggered like coping mechanisms because as long as the words keep bouncing, I can spend the time at least that I'm reciting that garbage click-shit-bubble-wrap distracted and not thinking about Karen.

But your poem. Your poem scooped life up with a spoon and pooped it right into our ears. Your poem was hot soup with spice and onion and cheese to pack our bellies full with heat so we could survive winter, with a cigarette for after. And if you were only here to lay down those sutures like you did every time before, maybe this wouldn't hurt so bad. But your exit wound is bleeding from all the places your words used to fix because I don't even have you anymore to share all this pain with. Where did you go? Where? Where?

Your words added salt to pull the flavor out of the bland. Your words were the hand in the blender picking out the seeds as the days all started running together. Your words were a wild white wine wired wide from Hawaii—why. Why. Why?

Y is a letter glued to my mind. It's shaped like a fork in the road with two paths, one trod daily, and the other not as often but still too much. Y like a fork in my gut—why did you kill yourself? Why did I abandon you? Where did I go? I could have stopped this if I wasn't so selflish. I wish I could have told you

Strat

We could have left it at the store
To shine forever from behind a pane of glass
Enticing our imaginations every time we passed
Sending us on what-if journeys
That always sparkle
And never stain
But we had to take it home.

We could have left it in the box
Accruing worth until it ripened to a fortune,
Then went off to some collector
To shine forever from behind a pane of glass,
A safety barrier between what if
And what was,
But we had to take it out and touch it, hold it, play it,
Know that it was ours.
Ours. Ours.
We could have hung it on the mantle,
Rubbed it down in wax and let it sit preserved.
A relic holding stories stained in love and beauty,
Fixed forever high, visible and honored
A reminder of a song so soothing we would cover it in gloss
Before what is was burned into what was,
Before the cracks began to crawl along an edge
Before it all got so warped by thick, wet air and stress
And the tune went sour.

parasite

You can't sell your shit on the sidewalk dude. You're being impolite. This sidewalk is public, it belongs to each of us, people need to walk by. I just nearly tripped over the outdoor display from the shoe boutique as I squeezed between two sales racks on the corner of Forever 21 to get here and tell you that your wire-wrap jewelry cannot be sprawled all over the ground like some tweaker tomfoolery. It's bad for business and America Loves Small Business so get the fuck out. If you want to share art do it the legal way. Use a small loan from your parents to make a brand. Have you considered copy-writing the way you twist and knotted that gold chain locket? That's the American Dream, turn abstract concepts into concrete properties and then dis-assemble the process to disempower the workers so you can mass produce them in Bangladesh until it makes you enough for jewelry stores to display on their outside racks. Then you can afford to live here.

I did it, why is it so hard for everybody else? I came here in 1972 with a skateboard and backpack and earned every cent of my $300 college tuition, with enough left over to buy a mansion by waiting tables, serving fish and fried onions for three summers. And now I can't walk down the street without everybody asking for something even though it's become easier than ever to make your fortune. Just start a non-profit organization to use that as a tax haven, then hire a bunch of college kids to hit the streets asking for money. Not five dollars for a bottle of liquor, you amateur, thirty five dollars every month for the rest of their lives through membership fees. They can't stop you because it's freedom of speech. This is America, you have a right to spend money however you please. You can spend it on drugs, rent, debt, courts, just start making somebody else some fucking money or I'm calling the cops because I'm trained to feel sick in my gut at the sight of anyone with-holding from the parasites.