Regeneration

How did we get to the precipice
of where gravity
is out of the equation,
that danger zone
where oxygen isn't present,
where the void
is all that's left?
What is it
that we bicker about?
Each one throws a jab;
let's see who
throws the hardest rock,
who knocks who out.

You have a seeming way
of exposing the truth
about my ego.
Nothing stings more than you
pinning my imperfections,
my twisted survival mechanisms
that reveal my unwhole.
Congratulations!
To you I owe for solving
the femme fatale riddle
which has plagued me too long.
What's meant for me
is meant for me...
I mean, what's meant for you
is meant for me.
You take me high,
and I bring you low.
I take you up,
you bring me down
this see-saw sick life.

The fact of the matter is,
neither one of us
has the courage to
let the four winds blow.

How did we get here
so close to the edge?
What was on our minds
the whole time we
walked closer to the end?
And it's not just us,
it's everything else
everywhere else
that has also lost
the quality of being,
of seeing the reality of things,
of another big bang.
All we know is that
there are fundamental principles
that confirm the existential question
that tugs at our feet.

To kiss it all away?
I don't know
who's more cynical,
me or you?
At times, I feel
this bickering is
Dr. Jekyl swinging
back into Hyde--
the natural progression
of a developing baby,
of maturation.

For now, all I can do is
cloud this moment with debauchery,
like a hopeful drunk
hoping that tomorrow
I don't lose myself
once in a lifetime.

The Rattler of My Soul

“A wake,” you said,
and in the middle
of the hustle and bustle
I stood at a-ttention---
entranced by your gospel.
Your cosmic trance
pulled me out of
the juggernaut,
and I returned to Saturn---
where · logic · has · expired · milk.

With you I peel surfaces
off the universe,
and listen to the airwaves
of the unknown.

But the sound of madness
spewing on the floor
is mesmerizing.

When you knock me off cloud nine,
I get a temperature
over one hundred,
and my heart
pounds my soul.
And the rings start fading
and I lose Saturn.
And I’m back
pushing along,
lightyears away,
waiting
for my ship.

syllogism: lull

The lulling of the masses. I am the mass. The lulling of me.

''hija de la mala vida no soy''

Hija de la mala vida
Que mas se le puede llamar
Ha alguien que esta a tus pies,
A una pendeja.
Perjudicada.
Me acochillas el corazon
Con tu indiferiencia
Con tu malestar
Con tu desorden
Con tu desastre
Con tu desdicha
Con tu desmadre
Con lo que sea
Carne y hueso soy hoy
Horita por lo tanto
Por lo pronto
Por lo ya
Imposible hacerte entender
Regresamos a lo mismo
Tu y yo sabemos
Que la naturaleza sabe mas,
Que pleitos entre Dios o gobiernos son pleitos perdidos
Y como eso yo no busco pleito
Con tu desmadre
Con algo que no se puede ganar
Es tu lucha,
No la hagas mia.

Natural Selection

She's adaptable.
She can be flexible.
It is her flexibility
that makes her stable,
the post for the anchor--
the ship, rocked too much by the waves.
This part of her nature
maintains the rat race:
Darwin's notorious claim to fame.
So don't let Prince Charming
boil your blood.
He's debunked, dissolved, inadequate, a fraud.
Trust yourself,
trust your instinct,

said the sage.

"Verde"

Eres verde como la naturaleza,
como las ramas de un arbol en
en un pais de maravillas.
Me haces envejecer
con tus polvoras magicas
que hacen cantar a los pajaritos
y volar a las adas
y dar libertad a mi monstrosidad--
una desdicha que empudrece el alma
si se queda enjaulada
en la base logica del mazmorra,
donde incomoda al ser del centro,
ese paraiso que tiene la Tierra
(inmejorable entre todos los universos).
Verde, eres vida y eres muerte.
Verde como la gangrena,
la que corre por mis huesos,
y maligna como mi consciencia.
Verde como el musgo,
como la atmosfera
de un planeta extraterreste
en el espacio, en el unico lugar
que da aliento a mi bella fiera.

"Codigo de Conducto"

No te estas comportando como una señorita.
Entras a la hora que se te da la gana.
Te revuelcas en una fosa de vivoras, sin vergüenza,
preñas tu razon con el cancer de tu generación.
Una señorita no se comporta así.

Muchachita, ¿estas ciega?
Escoges un Don Quixote sobre un rey de la selva.
Andas de mal en peor, en vez de caminar gateas.
En plena flor marchitas tu madurez.
¿Que quieres de la vida?

Mujersita, estate tranquila.
Te la pasas arrebatando estambres.
Una señorita como tu
necesita un caballero en armadura brillante,
uno que te finque un castillo
en los acantilados Blancos de Dover,
para ser felices y comer perdices.