GARFIELD
9.4.20 | A.M
Monday. Poor, martyr Monday. She’ll have to fire two employees first thing in the morning. She hates her job, but who’s going take care of Mom? She’s got the charisma of a half finished cold cup of coffee. I guess that’s what endless to-do lists will do to you. That spring in her step? I don’t buy it. She probably stole Saturday’s cocaine. She’s trying her best.
Fuck Tuesday. If Monday is a well, then Tuesday is some child’s aimless rock. One more thing thrown at the bottom of nothing “just to see what sound it makes.” Tuesday is thunk! It is also plop! splat! bump! clank! thud! slosh!, and on a good day, buzz.
Wednesday smells like the warmth of intimacy. No, not sex. Intimacy.
Thursday, likes to live in the forbidden things. The only history taught on Thursdays is the one never written. Thursday’s righteous. He carries within him the superiority complex of one who’s been experimented upon, and come out alive. Thursday is rock-paper-siccors and always taking your turn too soon.
Piece of unsolicited advice? Stay on Friday’s good side. I’m not saying she’s bad or anything, her bilingual experience is unique, that’s all. Her and Monday carry the weight of the week (Friday, more than Monday really, but we don’t point that out) on their back. The difference being; Friday’s mini-van shoulders will never pass up a dance.
Saturday picked up Friday’s make up from behind the bar’s dumpster, she nursed it back to health with breakfast and a few mirror-facing orgasms. She ran away from military school and has been hitchhiking her way to freedom ever since.
Sunday lives just off of Premature Rd, up there by Melancholy Hill. I’m sure you know the one.
She knows exactly who she is, but unlike Saturdays almost boastful overcompensation– Sunday pours herself in her mug just right. Not a drop spilled. She’s the sweetness of breakfast for dinner, the type that tries to role-play morning with the moon. She doesn’t ask too many questions, she doesn’t need to. Her eyes are the color of loosing all the things we love, but getting to love them anyway, and being all the better for it.
If she wanted to, Sunday could carry the martyr of Monday and the petulance of Tuesday. She already embodies the tenderness of Wednesday and rebellion of Thursday, albeit with more subtlety and grace. Sunday’s duality rivals Friday, and despite just as free as Saturday, Sunday decides not to act on that chaotic immediacy. Instead, Sunday meal preps for the rest of week and laughs out-loud when she finds a funny shaped potato. Sunday lives alone.
HISTORY
9.3.20
Olle, white man;
Wave a wand and wash away the flavor of mortality in the Rio Magdalena, make it so only the live ones float.
Turn off all the lamps in my country. Keep the dead from haunting my people at night.
For the children, blow up bombs exploding bread, toys, and prosthetics.
From the encyclopedia of memory, cross out all the names of friends and family gone missing. Maybe then they’ll stop spitting straw paper at the back of my neck. Colombians are untimely like that.
Also from the encyclopedia of memory, cross out words more severe than missing.
Remake our jungle perfume – rework the formula entirely; more anaconda, more moss, more jaguar. Replace the stench of mass graves with river dolphin. Substitute gunpowder for dart-frog. War for Orchid.
CIVIL WARS
9.2.20
two hats and one head full of mercury
that’s what you get when you try the quick fever fix
she’s all culture and grace
mermaid cooing echos of today
the type that make you see from the back of your head
that skin colors me familiar
drips bits of bookmark in Cien Años De Soledad
that familiarity thinks it’s a Tiple
and my heart some type of Bambusco
Then there’s Mnemosyne
who lives in memory lane
too there to be here
“I feel like I’m just all mistakes” she’ll say
then draw your contour in insomnia
me?
well, I’m all a – muse
sleeping with titans
with panties in a bunch and cultural aftershock
HISTORY
Draft III
(Entry for the “SHORT SHORTS” writing contest.)
8.31.20
Sustainability Blues
We couldn’t possibly exclude Earth from this conversation–not now, not while she does her best to keep her rotund axis-chin raised through the universal runway.
Can you imagine?
Attempting to maintain your planetary dignity while doing the cosmic walk of shame, still flaunting your moon while the Milky Way cringes at your burns.
“I tried to warn her,” the sun will say.
“Those bastards did her dirty and now she’s really let herself go,” whispers Mars to Jupiter.
Scorpio is visiting the house of Venus right now, so it’s understandable that her emotional orbit for sympathy is a bit distracted. Any other day, she’d gravitate over to bring Earth about the house of Pie.
Pluto thinks everyone should fuck right off, but that’s Pluto for you. Always making something out of nothing, solids out of gas. He’s still holding on to grudges that died in the 90s.
Zooming into a more…human experience–I know, I know, you are all dying to know what Mercury is thinking. Patience, dear reader! We will circle back around. For now, please turn the page to chapter Colorado, paragraph Telluride, line Rocky Mountains.
These are the ridges of Earth that haven’t surrendered their grace. Nor would they ever, not to us. The Mountain Goats made a compelling enough argument, and have settled for part time equilibrium, but that’s a different story.
Mountains are nothing if not direct, flaunting their geological puckishness to anyone with sense, and sense you will! Those buttes? Yes you may touch, but don’t you dare ask them to bend over. You can’t sweet talk a mountain the way you can sweet talk strong people who fall victim to the kind. No, while Earth is essentially playful, she plays a bit rough at times. That much is inherently obvious when your hands are grasping for mortality at the cellulite of Earth’s great bluffs. She’s a great poker player, that one.
Earth is the touch of our senses. Air can pride itself on olfactory supremacy; the prejudices of water and fire can steam out the rest. Earth takes the cake of sense and sensibility. Right now, however, Earth takes the cake, eats it, and washes it down with a pint of ice cream (originally procured to soothe the fire blisters). Earth, Majestic, Feminine, Baubo Earth has got a bad case of the broken-heart blues.
You may be tempted to dismiss her insistence on poise as melodramatic, at which point I’d like to remind you of Earth’s precarious position; there are only half as many opportunities for planetary purpose as there are fish in the sea (what’s left of the scaly beasts anyway). Just ask Saturn, whose monotonous romance with his rings has left him envious of the third planets’ most recent affair. He too fancies the capriciousness of carbon creatures and their wild-card indiscretions.
Ah! Of course, we wouldn’t dare exclude Saturn from this conversation–not now, not while he mourns make-believe altruism….
GARFIELD
8.30.20
we’ve discussed water and air
let us go ahead and define fire
fire is the happy ceremonial reunion between oxygen and… well, matter. particle piñatas, atomic red rover, instances of chemical “wooptee doo’s!”
so, if we assume all of this is true – and it is, for 2020 is the year of the proverbial cosmic pumpkin – then we can also safely assume that the burning down of police stations holds hands with the swaggering homecoming of a million jovial little molecules.
there’s been match-works in my retina ever since
I picked up English (along with many of my other bad habits)
the type that ignite interest. That micro-perk on your neck. A kind of listen that makes ears all the more self aware of their belly-buttons. Holes are like that; gluttonous and insatiable despite curiosity being such and inspiring drill sergeant.
however you interpret this twinkle in my eye
depth, wisdom, madness
in reality it is simply the unnameable tickle of the spine,
a rise in spirit, a kind of wild-card joy being the direct result of
the secrete heart having a very,
very private experience.
and what a pleasurable pocket mischief
to tear minor rivets in the wallpaper of society
catching knowing glances with yourself
painting in double meanings with the brush of word-stuff
the happy little homecoming
of days and dreams
"For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction." -Kahlil Gibran
BOTANICA
8.28.20
rosehips
the unexpected type – the foreign type
the type that leaves the doggie flap open for you at night
the type to intentionally leave lipstick stains on the milk bottle
yesterday i was water
today im a capricious breeze
blowing up the skirts of the mountain
tasting the river drip down your leg
tell me about the rising house prices in Colorado
and i’ll tell you how i just imagined my hand
playing realtor in your cunt
drawing boundary lines with margins of
arrowhead, cattail, and reed
you don’t need to know my name
to make lily out of ponds
DREAMS
8.27.20
stout nights and stargazing
ive failed at many things
including, yet not up to
finishing school, empanada making,
most baking in general,
cross-stitching, knitting, embroidery, any type of art involving visual prowess,
mastering the splits,
perfect posture and figure,
figuring things out,
monogamy,
polyamory,
most types of relationships if we’re being honest,
remembering how to get home
or what home looks like
but success can eliminate as many options as failure
and right now
i am dancing on the hula hips of options.
building callouses on my waistline
that true tough, you know?
not the type that stretches rhino leather over your skin
after all
doing so deflects pain
as well as pleasure
DREAMS
8.24.20
nostalgia and hope
guard the bridge of authentic experience more rightously
than Americans their Southern border
you and i
we are functioning above the summit of our
physical potential
even our complaints
have a voice like biceps
FOOL.S.GOLD
8.21.20
we’re in a desert here
a desert in drought no less
now is not the time to highbrow your nose at the glass half air
that type of attitude doesn’t hold water
or whiskey
they mistake my water for fire
and yes i wanted heat
hot salacious sizzling smokiness panting warm breaths and exhalations
but i wont pass up a watered down experience
hydrating, some say
a lukewarm pool – so shallow and warm it can
melt the ice cubes in the dog bowl of desire
water being the ace of elements
diving from the clouds without a parachute, wings or safety net
running over the steepest precipice, and blinking not a lash.
being buried, and rising again
water walks on fire
and fire gets the blisters.
what was i talking about?
a yes, deserts and droughts
fine whiskey, cheap soda and beer
smiling back when
gap toothed zippers show their molars
suburbia
driving ourselves into a climax cul-de-sac
would you please stop switching gears?
give me crescendo rev give me smooth and constant
that sweet combination of pressure and
oily slick, vibrating frequencies intooo o O…
.
.
oh yeah, as i was saying,
the drought..
FOOL.S.GOLD
8.19.20
enter sex stage right
sauntering into the picture in a silk robe
maybe a nude platter of figs and fine cheeses.
would it, on a feat of petulance enter stage left, perhaps? Does it knock first, or does it slide in slyly, too quick and slippery to be denied; or, would sex barge in forcibly, red-faced and green-berated, pushing all other things aside.
that almsot rain
tapping morse code messages against your window
“you can stay here a little longer” it says, “there’s more where that came from.”
but it’s 10 o’clock, as if ten o’clock were the name of some fatal diagnosis
and sex leaves when hearts start racing