M

Sometimes, I feel like wanting very obvious things. I made a list so I wouldn’t forget.

I want to cry without it being a “gender standard”. I don’t want to cry because I’m a girl, I want to cry because I’m a human. I want Men to know they can cry too, for the same reason. I want them to know that it won’t make them look like a girl, and even if it did, a girl is not a bad thing to be. Why is it so shameful to be a girl?

I want to scream. I want to yell in concerts without it being a decisive marker in my femininity. I want to drink beer right out of the bottle. I want to make bad jokes. I want to stay up late playing Wii. I want to say disgusting things and mean them.

I want my friends to be clear.

I want my female friends questioning me professionally. I want them to acknowledge the layers we share in common. I want to see them grow. I want to see them be loved.

I want to be a rapper.

I want to wear backward caps while running recklessly in a mud field, messy, happy.

I want to build things. I want my childhood toys to be things I can create with. I want to be taught no one is coming for me… that no one is obligated to. I want to be taught I can’t be bought like cattle.

I want boys to know they can break too.

I want to sit on the Important Humans table, now vastly dominated by men. I want to take a chunky bite off that juicy ham of power they’re staring at; to be there when the decisions are made. I want to speak with men. Not at them, not about them. I want them to fight me back, because they know I can take it. 

I want them to know my openness of mind is not a sexual invitation.

I want men to think twice before hurting us. To think about how dramatically it could affect their physical, social and economical well-being to do so, just like women have to do under the same circumstances. 

I want them not to be surprised if I say something smart. I want to be a strong human. I’m done accepting the [woman] prefix as a form of prefab martyr etymology. 

I want to be pretty. I don’t want to -have- to be pretty. I want to wear the highest heels without my capabilities put at stake, my motives questioned. I want to wear the flattest flats and still be found sexy, just because of the cadential manner of my speaking.

I want my husband to know he didn’t buy me, If I ever do get married. 

I want him to know I chose his company out of his kindness and connoisseurship, rather than his pocket or his jeep.  I want him to know it will be hard to keep me. I want him to know I expect respect, naughty calls and hysterical wit. 

I want him to know “I can take care of it” too. 

I want him to know he can make his hobby his career if he wants to, ‘cause I’ll take care of myself and our little sprouts too. I want men to be happy. I want them to become a man sooner, and to remain a child longer. Contrary to popular belief, the two of those will not collide, but mold together a better creature, the most endearing creature known to women: the sage-child. That breed of manhood already attained by a few who dare to be respectful brats, beaming with humor and dripping in filth, just smiling at us. 

I want to win without anyone questioning my methods. I want to cast a big shadow. I want my girl-friends to come with me. 

I want men to feel fathers. They’re a victim too of this patriarchy stained so-called “lifestyles” we’re living in. They don’t get to see their children grow. Before they know it, their sons have become taller than them, off to their spouses, with their own offspring to be in charge of. I want men to hold their daughters and call them princess… and president, and prime minister every once in a while. I want fathers to have kids who are their “fellas”, to listen to their voice. I want mothers who can share their role too.

I want children to know mom and daddy are afraid too. 

I want children to hold their parents in a solidary fashion, because even when they’ve been sheltered from illiteracy, famine, isolation, sickness and wickedness, they too have been taught about the actual world we live in, I want them to be compassionate. 

I want them to make the naughtiest pranks with the purest of souls. I want them to be mean, but in a good way. 

To choose company wisely, and to know the difference between wisely and racistly, or socially. 

I want all of them to smile.

I want them to riot. 

I want them to dance.

I want them to take action.

I want them to rise. 

The fact that any glimpse of liberty is seen as a sign of rebellion is just evidence of how often our personal freedom is being held hostage.

The fact that anyone exercising their individuality freely is regarded as a “rebel” is an x-ray of our silent, subordinated state, in which we are constantly fighting for what should be inherently ours: the right to choose.

Loneliness is the regular fee for those who choose freedom, but it shouldn’t be. Being your own self should not on any level neglect our need for company and sociability, but it’ll be so until we learn that we don’t own anyone else’s mind, body or rights. Until we embrace that no one owns us. We need to tolerate the borders of our own freedom and in order to do so, we need to stop seeing anyone else’s borders as a threat.

When did humans start owning each other so much?

When will sociable creatures dispatch honest revelations, desires, needs and aches without being consumed by the whole?

When will we see our differences as enriching and empowering rather than allienating and confusing?

Has the human ego grown so big we actually feel entitled to limiting someone else’s liberties? Or has it shrunk so small it just conforms to mimicking actions and trains of thought of the bunch?

It seems that a polarization of -willers- and -willing- personas is inevitable, yet unacceptable, as we gather the strength to go on with our lives.

Either we’re self-thinkers with socialization issues, or we’re repeating monkeys embraced by all. There seems to be a middle ground, but there isn’t.

Romanticization of the pure thinking human often leads to the dissolution of their finest ideas. Idealization of their flawed character as a higher presence usually tends to pile mounts of un-thinking followers, horny fans, and perhaps, a few good friends.

Then the herds come. Disguised as the all knowing I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ers, lie the power of the masses. The power to outnumber. The power to disrupt the individual course of growth under the doubtful premise of “democracy”.

Who controls democracy? Who sets the standards by which all life should be ruled? More importantly, why should such standards even exist?

Are we as a species so unable to decide? Are we, as a whole, more than over complicated apes who need constant approval of the naturally rich and powerful electric impulses granted by our evolved brains?

Really? 

A joker filled slot machine
with air kisses and strokes as coins

A mined cotton candy harvest.

A brocade copper chest
whose only purpose is to anchor 

a red burning coal heart
to keep the head from burning,
to make the burning last.

A stone-throwing whisper.
A boat with spiderweb sails, 
heading south the equator  
in a tingling motion
as it approaches the borders
of my sour-sweet ways

A needles homemade sachet
holding the gloomy purple rye
giver of secrets and buckets of glories.
holder of laments and tucker of stories.

A reckless pony in a glass house,
carving a sonnet with his broken hooves
in the cold silenced onyx tiles 
that frame the uncontained scent 
of its long dead jockey, 
his beloved rider Honey
who he mistakenly killed
in a parkour race of stacks.

A high jump gone beautifully wrong
a slow motion archer 
with prunes as lungs
heaving a fume of magnets,
cancered with a flume of pokes

A summit, a bundle.
a pin-point crafter of the smallest mourns

A cynic, a starter
the smirk of a poor lit blanket
and the warmth it leaves 
after a good disaster.

A comment, a stare
prone to detachment
spread with contempt
an ointment of starches
A corner, a stacker,
a home maker, a wreck.
a sweet firecraker,
in crow-filled vest. 

And that’s how he forgot 
he’s nothing but a filament 
to ease her tension…

A vapid wrap of No.5, 
whose embrace lasts 
no more than a candle. 
Whose fingers can no longer care.

A morbid disillusion
he’s willing to bear. 
A threshold, 
a sphinx that is coarse and a veil. 

He’s nothing but a filament
and she’s his wealth.

He fears his longing 
will menace her strings
she longs his yearning 
will rip her glitz

His voice was velvet
her soul was green
and he just pushed against her
without scams or filth

Silently dimming 
their venue screams
grits are cracking
not forcing wits

The stupor feels pink
as slippery crystals
neglect their guilt,
they’re really screwed,
they broke the script.

They’ll do no explaining,
Tomorrow nothing to see,
just a toss of gasps 
that will never be.

A fire on campus,
a rocket well knit
a carcass, a veil
a moment, a sheer
a relentless shower
of pure grass weed 
a beacon, a grail
a martyr, a tilt
a notion, a spectrum,
that’s all she could be. 

We share this borrowed land, hosting our collided and turbulent pasts, watching them implode into a single unified silence. Here, while we mimic the nature of a rusty leaf, we can’t help but wave at the hot wind, linger at its will… and try to reach some prevalence in this modestly endangered branch… 

Here, in the serenity of oblivion for all things to come, we get to choose the amount of eternity we’d like to splurge in this event. We can bend and twist as we carve our way back to the sharp needles that once pinched our needy logs. We can patiently eat the filaments that tie us to these trees and hear the divinities rejoice in entitlement and disillusion for an eternity whose course is forever lost. 

We can reach for peachy apples, as you once did with me. We can dare our resolutions and play no guilt. We can dance, as we did before, to a pace without agendas nor closing rooms, slow breathing and sexy pools. We can deny our fears, take flight in brooms. We can pretend it’s not happening, we can pretend it’s cool. And just share the silence in which we once stood. A bite of eternity that has come to come true, lasting as long as we’re branching… lasting as long as we’re reaching… reaching as long as we’re crude. 

I always love sadly…
deeply and without a hint of hope or agenda,
I’m missing the eternal love gene. 
I’m torn between the stages of space and permanence.
I’m torn amongst the wilderness of faith and the impracticality of prevalence. 
Scars have made clear the powerlessness of selfless action,
Why are we so obsessed with forever-ness?
Why are we so oblivious of our own inadequate desertions?
Why are we so keen to promise so decadent fallacies with nor accurate stats or sacred ventures?  

Horns and cables ram us closer, kiss apart. 
We race us, we tame us, we brake us
baby don’t stop me, don’t stench us.

I’m handling you my sockets, 
you’re messing with my tensors
let’s bare it, please please.
Let’s ride the ghost spectrum, 
keep running my land, 
keep mining my mentions 
No me sueltes Mr. Smirk, 
we’re no longer lejos.

We’ll just wave at the forests 
that make up for our extensions… 
we’ll just dive in the blood 
of our purest lost intentions. 

Baby we are mustangs, 
red maned raccoons
magnificent beasts, 
irridescent spreads,
fallible reels of gold and affection. 

There’s truth and grits in our finest steams.
There’s doubt and will in our slight deceptions

We love our rocks and our forcing ways. 
We love our manes and our poured cadence
And sand and stitches, and loosing, and games. 
We love the waves, then praise the bench
Let’s dance in glitz as we bathe in waits. 
Two hopeless foals with full grown braids. 

Baby we’re mustangs
shhh, shhh, shhh… 
Let’s pull our hair. 
Let’s ram our stills, 
let’s rip our fence.