Nov. 20th, 2016

  • 11:28 AM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
soft. like raindrops, or candle-light;
like your favorite dog-eared book,
and her most perfect cup of coffee,
quiet every Sunday morning; gentle
like peaches washed by tender hands,
or daffodils swaying in the breeze; soft
like fingertips finding one another magnetic,
always drawn together in hallways, in pictures,
at speakeasies, fidgeting under tables,
pulling apart, after; us hiding love, hoarding it,
both of us embarrassed we're not sixteen again
and unafraid of hickeys, or fucking up, fucking up again
not afraid of hurting each other with--not afraid, punto.
soft like her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her everything,
and how her hair pools in your lap, gentle: an ocean at rest;
soft like heart-beats. (th-thump, th-thump.)
like thumbs ghosting knuckles and rib-cages and thighs,
fingretips fluttering up your side;
you are a sparrow hiding from a storm and i but two hands
hoping they can hold you right; you are soft like a first kiss
never given but always longed for; soft like poetry, like
tonterias whispered in the shell of an ear, like promises,
me forever hoping words can make a difference in you,
reach where nothing else can touch. you are sakura in bloom;
you are bubblegum; you are leather and spice and
the smell of violets after a lightning storm; ozone and earth,
you are gentle like the touch of winter in the dead of night,
like cotton-candy, pop-rocks, and dates with redheads;
i know i am filled with knives and shattered mirrors,
with broken windows and glass stained for all the wrong reasons;
but in you, i see how even someone made up of sharp
can still reflect rainbows and fireworks
all the way up to the sky.

- "soft,"

Nov. 15th, 2016

  • 8:16 AM
pridefall: (You ruined it noncoolkid | Dave)
It's quiet this morning;
Like the scene of a massacre,
Like the ocean at dawn,
Like church after service,
Like hallways at airports,
after every plane has left
the building.

Nov. 9th, 2016

  • 12:19 PM
pridefall: (the saddest icon I have | art)
I woke up this morning,
Like most,
To the song of gunshots
And school bells ringing
Like Gabriel's horn at the fall of Jericho
--Apropos, then
That our next president
Will make gunshots
and the counting of hours
A reality.

- i am afraid

Nov. 7th, 2016

  • 1:27 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)

If This Be Blasphemy

The first time we fucked, I saw God.
—and no, that is not a metaphor to explain how:
that night, I learned both Braille and Scripture
at the tabernacle of every bruise and bitemark
my lips drew like penance from between your thighs;
That night, I was not Baptized at the mouth of your river,
nor born again, resurrected virginal and absolved of sin
like every faux-penitent atheist before a plane crash;
Madrigal, my God’s-honest truth is this: with just one word,
you moved me. Brought faith to the faithless, you soothed me
like every great parable should; you renewed me:
slowly, at first; your gentle hands took consideration of:
each quiet space others had left ragged within me;
I came to you a shattered wreck, drowning; but you,
you reached inside and nailed fistfuls of wood and iron
around my heart like you still believed in saviors;
you are no saint, but in your soft ministrations,
I found myself: that self still yet a shipwreck, yes;
still lost, my hopes and dreams stretched thin like sails,
battered and worn from a lifetime spent seeking my
True North—not for myself, but in others; love,
before you? I was just wood better left for kindling,
simply a boy hammered into the shape of a man,
but after? Though I am yet still a warship, sinking;
your name sieves from my lips like floodwater, and I
I am a man drowning that still believes in anchors.

this is not a prayer, and I: no pious Franciscan,
no irreligious Pagan seeking benediction for:
how your nails etched the words "Holy Christ,"
into the length of my spine; it did not take me
years of study cloistered in your embrace to come
to and understanding of the language of your teeth
—only practice. And patience; for in our holy parapet:
I found God waiting both prodigal and ancient,
Her only Rule of Law to go forth and conquer
every inch of you between: the door, my desk,
the wall, the floor, the wall, my bed, the shower;
my teeth as plowshares; my tongue a blade;
my hands Conquistadors, each mad to claim
your temple as my holy ground. In your sighs,
I knew Her Sole Commandment dealt more with:
drawing my name from your lips, eyes shut and
heels digging, fingers clasped tight between mine;
our bodies a Testament written to reconcile two truths:
this—what felt a mutual Inquisition, but instead became
our unironic retelling of every Spanish occupation;
you: Cortez by way of Quixote, lionized by word of mouth;
and i: every brown skinned boy looking wide-eyed for God,
only to find Virtù and redemption in all the wrong places;
love, we do not ask one another for forgiveness
in this: our war against all common sense,
because the language we speak by candlelight
has no word for “impropriety,” only:
"Yes," "More," “Right there,” and "Oh God, please—fuck me."

you are the Walls of Jericho, fortified,
and I: Jerusalem by way of Scheherazade;
my words exist only to prolong the inevitable,
for I know that every church crumbles, and
not even Lucifer could adulate perfection
without the want of something more; us
we want love with a knife in its hand,
we want love on a mountaintop, all truth,
its edge poised to smite our non-believers;
but I see you, and think hymnals; think Maria.
Think Eve. Think Savior. Think of shoulders, and
holding the weight of someone else like a cross
never meant to be borne in anguish; we fucked, love
and every Sunday thereafter, I have known Heaven as:
waking up to the smell of coffee, and her:
barefoot and hair still a mess, her outline dripping water
as though it knows there is nowhere else it would rather be.

Nov. 6th, 2016

  • 4:28 PM
pridefall: (But that would make sense | Spider-man)
i am an ocean of meaning,
but humans, ah; we cannot
subsist on tidewater

Nov. 6th, 2016

  • 8:05 AM
pridefall: (fml intensely | Naota)
I dreamt you came to fix me
And instead fell on shattered glass
We spent the night discussing
what that meant, every shard
Protruding from you like a knife
But never once did we try to
Pull the pieces left over
Out of your stomach
I still wonder what that means,
Sometimes.


- untitled

Nov. 5th, 2016

  • 4:03 PM
pridefall: (the saddest icon I have | art)
4:03 AM:
i wonder sometimes, quiet,
if i'll be the one you apologize for.
like, if they ask what's wrong--
when trying to hold you, love you,
try to give you everything in the world,
everything i tried to and failed;
and instead, you flinch--my memory
like a ghost walking over your grave;
i wonder if, when they try to kiss you,
claim your neck; your wrist; your thigh
the scars you told me were tiger stripes;
your lips--will you already have a mouthful
of i'm sorry and i can't right now in your throat,
each syllable waiting to explain in detail how
your coat of thorns, your reflexive twitch, this:
your new litany of: "Please, could you not?"
your: "Please, stop. Just stop," your every:
"I'm sorry, I just need a bit more time."
were all things not borrowed from,
nor inherited;
but given.

- scar tissue does not preclude the wound

Oct. 30th, 2016

  • 9:26 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
Diaspora, diaspora;
call me a lil' Ponce-born nigga,
with more awkward consonants
and st-st-st-tutters than Rican blood,
and motherfucker: tomorrow,
i'll bring you a lion screaming loud
'bout how he was raised in a den of wolves,
but never lost his Pride.

Oct. 26th, 2016

  • 7:08 PM
pridefall: (Pervert Seal of Approval! | Jiraiya)
I think we call our girls Jeva
cuz it rhymes with/
sounds like the word
Jehova--and well,
I'm pretty sure we all
want our lovers to be
a little God-like, in the end;
no?

- "the intricacies of spanish romance,"

Oct. 26th, 2016

  • 5:34 PM
pridefall: (the fox with no hound | Gin)
Every dog I've ever had--
bright-eyed, bushy tailed;
scared of rain; proud as wolves;
silly, silly, loving, terrifying when
caught loving us more than
we could ever love ourselves,
--each has been taken from me
without exception
so, naturally: i hate the movies
"All Dogs Go To Heaven,"
And "Homeward Bound,"
because I know soul-bone-deep
that if i ever called--
whistled loud enough to bring
down the moon for them--
not a one of them would ever come
running back to me.

- "they say dogs live seven years for each of ours and i don't think that's an equivalent exchange anymore."

Oct. 24th, 2016

  • 7:59 PM
pridefall: (fml intensely | Naota)
there are some poems i keep to myself
hoarded in my chest like hummingbirds
or sparrows, or parakeets, or
--more often than not,:
like the laughter of
hyenas; because
every night i come close to writing:
"this poem is about how i once considered suicide,"
is just another scratch mark i need to make on a wall
somewhere between Rincon and Mayaguez
detailing every reason i know
about why i'm still here.

- "you don't know where i've been,"

Oct. 19th, 2016

  • 9:23 PM
pridefall: (the fox with no hound | Gin)
the presidential election is
running on the background;
but all I've heard tonight in Mayaguez
are police sirens, the screech of
ambulances and tires; gunshots
and several million people
hoping blind for a better tomorrow.

- "i don't sleep most nights because every apartment complex in Puerto Rico has more bars on their windows than most jail cells"

Oct. 19th, 2016

  • 9:22 PM
pridefall: (Truest Words Ever Spoken | Anis Mojgani)
i made a joke the other day
(harmless, i thought)
about how i keep finding your hair
in the strangest of places,
and you said
(harmless, i'm sure)
that next time, you'd come to me
with every black strand lain submissive,
the tangle of your nightshade turned from:
raging ocean to placid lake,
as though my saying:
"i am telling you now that,
even without you near,
i am still finding pieces of you
in even the smallest of places,"
were something i could ever think
an insult.

(i'm sorry.)

- "this is the poem where i admit i don't know how to feel about letting people back into my life."

Oct. 18th, 2016

  • 4:54 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
"Twenty things you learn when 20miligrams is what it takes."

One: no one will ever consider your condition severe until
“severe enough,” looks like: chemo-shock-group-experimental therapy; until the words friendship and patience
begin to rhyme with infringe upon and tolerance.
you will, to your family–and at best–become the stress
that sometimes tears apart marriages, or makes every
holiday less a time of celebration and more
everyone, in every room you’re in, now scared
they’ll become the unwilling participants
of a train wreck.

my cousin did not consider ADD an actual disease until
i screamed myself hoarse (metaphorically) explaining how:
i no longer read books for pleasure because the stories in my head are half highlight-reel, half-static;
that i no longer play videogames
or date women
with too much lag between: my turning on the system,
and putting in the time to get my money’s worth
–action, to me, is no longer how every movie starts,
but more a necessity to keep my interest going;
so, two: you will learn to love those who understand you,
and fear the ones who look with pity in their eyes,
well-meaning and sympathetic,
but also assured
that all it takes to overcome what ails you
is will-power and a positive outlook on life

except, three: homosexuality was not removed
from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses
until 1974, and
four: both the queer and mentally ill communities have the highest rate of homelessness and depression of any “minority group,” world-wide, so five:
you learn to hate every pedantic vegan-chuffing yoga-nut
pseudo-spiritualist telling you that alternative methods to medication work for everyone, always, and all one needs is to
realign chakras and drink more tea, go out an exercise
and think “Yes! I! Can!”
to quell things inside of you that are less infectious bacteria
and more a virus specifically curtailed to ruin your life;
because, six: over half the children forced into experimental programs like conversion therapy
commit suicide
rather than let someone else try to
“fix them.”

because, seven: even doctors treat the mentally ill as if they’re lying,
and, like every good realtor:
they can take one look at a shitty house and make you think
the word “fixer,” should always follow “upper,” in your prescription.
everyone in the industry is trying to sell you something–
i take a cocktail of meds and vitamins every morning in an effort to
function like a “normal human being”
– whatever the fuck that means–and, still"
there are days where i talk to my psychiatrist and i can tell he only wants me in his office for my money, and half-an-hour of doodling;
that friends hang on and ingratiate themselves because
Adderal and Ritalin are at 2$ a pill in Mayaguez, but 15$ in Ponce;
so, eight: you will learn to despise engineers, and chemists
and, nine: you will learn to despise lawyers, and med students
and, ten: at some point, you will swallow your every pride and moral
because making 100$ or more a bottle
when you only pay 6$
is too good an offer to pass up,
and student loans don’t pay themselves.

the saying goes “fake it till you make it,”
but, eleven: actors like Johnny Depp, Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hanks, Cillian Murphy, Leonardo DiCaprio, Eddie Redmayne, Julianne Moore, Jared Leto, Matthew McCConaughey, Daniel-Day Lewis, Russel Crowe, Dustin Hoffman, Robin Williams, Robert Dinero, Winona Rider, Anthony Hopkins, Heath Ledger, Kathy Bates, Edward Norton, and Jack Nicholson, et al
have been rewarded for their portrayals of mental illness in cinema for decades,
and still top such charming lists as “Best Actors to Play a Retard,”
on the first page of any google search;
because, twelve: the world does not want mental illness as a reality,
they want the comedy, the dramaedy, they want less vaccinations for children,
because apparently the threat of autism is more damaging to society
than preventing the rise of infant mortality rates world-wide;
which brings me to twelve: the virtual space film offers,
and how it turns real-world crisis and disability into entertainment,
is not for you
–is, in fact, thirteen: a fucking baldfaced lie, because
thirteen: none of us can fake this shit and win awards,
when not being “normal,” in Hollywood
automatically disqualifies us for the running.

the world, fourteen, will want you to stay quiet,
and out of sight, and out of mind;
because even though most medications will destroy your liver,
and most prescription drugs are riddled with side-effects,
they think it better you evened out and compliant
than anything approaching an embarrassment.
the mentally ill have no communities because every village
abhors that which brings disease.

fifteen: aunts and uncles taught me that suffering goes both ways
when Alzheimer’s turned my grandmother from a redwood strong enough to carry three generations of children, (their children,
and children’s children) into failing lungs, loss of self, and shit-caked fingernails,
so much of her brown like the soil of every garden she’d spent decades cultivating within us.
my father and i watched for ten years as the strongest woman either of us knew wasted away to nothing (a vegetable, the doctor said once when he thought I couldn’t hear, and never before have i wanted to kill a man without remorse)
but, sixteen: you will learn families handle the phrase “terminal,” in different ways, and
seventeen: it is easy to hate, and scream, and wish worse on others than to understand what it must have been like
to watch your mother go from Mary Magdalene to
a corpse wearing an EKG machine like a halo.

every father, i think,
prays that their children will not be born “a certain way,”
and that their legacy, whatever it may be,
will surpass every foundation set to support them;
but, eighteen: there are entire generations of gay,
and bisexual men missing from history,
their stories devoured by the Reagans and their hatred for
anything that did not fit their conquest of America;
In another poem,
I talk about how my time in military school taught me
nineteen: that when were are forced to pretend,
or hide what we are:
less student came back every semester,
and no one ever said their names again;
as if none of knew what auto-erotic-asphyxiation,
or scars cutting horizontal down the middle of your wrists
could ever imply.

you are allowed to be angry.
you are allowed to want more than pity and
“I’ll be here for you, whatever happens,”
until they’re not, or won’t be, or cannot;
you are not supposed to fit in this world,
nor settle for being pushed aside and forgotten;
there are forms of art where chaos
and broken shards of every kind
meld together to create something beautiful,
so

TWENTY
this world is not for you, nor made to accommodate you;
but goddammit, that does not mean you are defined by
every awkward angle and too-sharp, or too-sudden
pieces of you that others cannot navigate.
you are not broken, or incomplete, or just reduced to the sum total of every prescription you’ve ever had;
you are not your pills, nor whatever it takes to swallow them;
in fact, hold up;

TWENTY ONE:
you are the ocean,
are the ever constant ebb and tide,
the push and pull of titanic forces,
each beyond our mortal control;
and, yet:
most good things in this world,
i promise you:
simply want to extend their hand,
and feel from where you are coming from.

Oct. 18th, 2016

  • 2:35 PM
pridefall: (Only Data Streams | Tron)
Let me swallow your spiders
And cough up our butterflies
Love is simply a metamorphosis
Of two parts: you and I.

Oct. 16th, 2016

  • 11:32 PM
pridefall: (Here I lay my Burdens Down | Art)
The secret to beating
Dragons or insomnia
Is often remembering
The princess waiting
On the other side

Oct. 14th, 2016

  • 3:34 PM
pridefall: (ye shall be made to know me | Lezard)
She talks about rules as if
bargaining has any place
in our love; as if we are not:
a hurricane and a forest fire
each of us so named after
the devastation left behind
in our wake

Oct. 8th, 2016

  • 2:14 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
Even rough and tumble
Sweat slicked ew don't touch me
Morning breath don't kiss me
I can't breathe this is too much
Too close, too hot; I hate holding hands;
Mayaguez in July, Ponce everywhere else
at the eye of a hurricane
Arm half asleep tossing and turning
Head at best a mess, a mess, a mess
--You are still the best sleep I have had in months.

Oct. 6th, 2016

  • 7:11 PM
pridefall: (Only Data Streams | Tron)
when i was five years old,
my sister pulled a prank on me
that went a such:
"you need to try this, Ian
it's a new thing of coke
and thought i shouldn't give it to you
i don't think a little bit will be enough
to get anyone in trouble,"
but it wasn't coke, not even close
it was bottom of the pot, black charred
barrel sludge--the kind of coffee filtered by:
sewer grates and knives,
drunk by old, hard men with calloused hands
and tired, vacant eyes;
a swift kick in the teeth, in other words
and from then on, i've always hated the taste
of early morning anything
like breakfast and the smell of coffee beans
somehow always translates to:
betrayal far too young, too fast,
and all too strange for me to understand
everyone looks at me weird when i say i don't like coffee
and i've written poems about it before--
explained how the skin i rock is so stained by:
cocoa butter metaphors and almond chocolate similes, and
how my never quite finding caramel or mahogany adequate ways
to describe myself tastes the same way coffee and
hating your own culture for twenty years burns--
maybe i'm a bit bitter, i guess?
but breakfast has never been my thing, growing up
and i've stopped trying to defend it, grown up;
it's just who i am:
mornings mean less to me than everyone else,
i think
because i never had breakfast as a kid,

(and this is where the poem just dies)

Tags:

Sep. 29th, 2016

  • 8:02 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)
things we forget:

Bobby pins. Bedtimes. Sunrise.
Pennies. Directions. Direction.
Stop signs. Text messages.
Phone calls. What it takes to keep in touch.

How to breathe when we kiss.

The smell of grandma's pancakes.
The way your brother folded paper planes.
How your sister pinched harder than a crab.
Addresses. Phone numbers. Skype Dates.
Calling home Sundays, every Sunday,
and telling dad you missed him.

Birthdays.

What your first best friend looked like.
(Before the cancer)
Your mother asleep in a hospital bed.
(After the suicide attempt)

That coqui don't exist everywhere and people hate them.
Goosebumps. 1st Degree Burns. Your first miss. Near-miss.
Your complete failure at not bumping noses when we kiss.
How hard it is to say goodbye to dogs, or cats, or fish
even though you've lived with them all your life.
Scars. LEGO pieces. Medication. Car keys. Brushing your teeth.
Letting go of what doesn't matter. What does. What happens, after.

Every color the sun can paint inside brown and black eyes.

The poem you woke up wanting to dedicate to someone only to lose it in a dream. Inspiration. The Quadratic Formula. Shoes.
Where she used to leave your wallet. Your bed. Her earrings.

Loose change.

That tears can be happy. And not all silence is golden.
What songs my mother used to sing when she cooked.
The soft hum in her throat when she combed my hair.
Our father's absence. His working harder than a ghost
to keep us firmly rooted in his world. The size of his hands.

Heartache.

Breaking up with imaginary friends.

Where I buried my dog. Where we buried my grandfather. His grandfather. The younger brother I never met.
When to turn off our cellphones. When to stop texting and call.
How you fell out of love with them because they never returned your phone calls, never had time for you, always ran away and
all you wanted to do was make sure they were okay. Breathing.
For six years.

the sound of my grandmother's voice when she read to me.
(before she lost her teeth, before the feeding tube)
how my father cried the first and last time he beat me.
(how i would not see him cry again until the feeding tubes,
until after the first and last visit we took to see his mother before she passed. how i cried. the tiny shudder of collarbones.)
that strength comes from wounding, from taking chances,
and how none of our great questions were ever answered
hesitantly. that only failure may yield the unforgettable lessons.

That life goes on. Will always go on.
How everyone here has made it thus far.
through 100% of their bad days,
And all we need do is forgive ourselves.