Black Gold...

Reference to Chaco War. 

Walking Around...

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,

insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.

I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,

alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

- Pablo Neruda

The Ugly Truth...

Don't give me a choice

Give me a reason to stay

'Cause I'll make the same mistake, again.

The Red In My Hair...

The day we became men and women, we locked the kid inside us and hid the key from us, we threw away our innocence and we covered wonder with a seriousness that we believed was befitting of age. We didn't see anymore, we looked, for what we already knew. We took aid of our shiny new glasses, with diamonds and titanium, but we still missed the truth. We heard like fast-dry programmed in our washing machines. We laughed like we cut our meat. The skies didn't turn bluer or the flower rosier when they heard us laugh, they looked at us with confusion and with fear. We painted our faces black and red so we could slip in the dark and leave by the back door, we forgot to remove the paint. We talked in hushed voices, one spoon sugar, one tablespoon salt, a pinch of spice, a sprinkling of rosemary, we followed the recipe, we forgot what it meant to experiment. And we kissed like rituals, we forgot a kiss was meant to be a journey to discovering hidden wonders...we instead took the fastest train and got down at our station, a ticket in our hand and a map for the next one.Our love prosaic and our spirits like the cocktails they serve on a Thursday night, watered down and cheap. Our friendships were like transactions, and oh yes, we kept a separate drawer for the receipts, we were such good accountants. We dreamt like the wallpapers on our walls and we lived our lives like the algorithms we wrote. And the one thing that grew in our life were our fears, like hound dogs they never lost the sight of us. Chase, catch and kill the game.

The day we became men and women we handed the reins of our lives to society and we erased the memory of the time when we lived, truly, for ourselves. We became what we always feared and when someone asked us, we said with a shrug, "Oh it's not so bad after all". 

Entanglement...

Create some magic today. 

Straps&Strings...

The only thing I love about Valentine's day is the awesome discount on sexy lingerie! :)

Relax...

Bad things are going to happen.

Your tomatoes will grow a fungus

and your cat will get run over.

Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream

melting in the car and throw

your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.

Your husband will sleep

with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling

out of her blouse. Or your wife

will remember she’s a lesbian

and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—

the one you never really liked—will contract a disease

that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth

every four hours, for a month.

Your parents will die.

No matter how many vitamins you take,

how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,

your hair and your memory. If your daughter

doesn’t plug her heart

into every live socket she passes,

you’ll come home to find your son has emptied

your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,

and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.

There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.

When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine

and climbs halfway down. But there’s also a tiger below.

And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out

and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point

she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.

She looks up, down, at the mice.

Then she eats the strawberry.

So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse

in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,

slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel

and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.

Oh taste how sweet and tart

the red juice is, how the tiny seeds

crunch between your teeth.

- Ellen Bass