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calles de los dolores y trastorno de tensión postraumática your methods are unacceptable :: beyond human restraint :: things get confused i know :: the heart’s a white sepulcher and no man guards its doors :: against the growing dark :: incessant blades beat air :: incessant blades :: what means are available to terminate :: gook names :: with extreme prejudice :: you may use those :: blades beat :: easier than learning their gook names :: your boys don’t know any better than :: gook names :: dead men hanging from trees so far from the known world :: how does it come to this :: being blown to hell :: incessant :: gook names :: in panic mode trigger finger instinct efficiency :: incessant blades beat air :: blades beat :: dead men hanging :: gook names :: no sin committed :: no dead men :: to forgive. ................................................................................................................................
she laid down ................................................................................................................................
[on viewing subjective catastrophe] this one tiny corner’s rose petals to ease my eyes. (he asks me to translate.) (the tongue of an angry man.) (he tells me, i don’t know how i feel about this.) (any of this?) (i want to grab his shoulders and shake.) (jesus, feel something.) (he walks away.) (he can’t hear me.) (he smiles.) do you know what it is to witness an unraveling? it is being at the right place at the wrong time, or being at the wrong place at the right time. both may break you. think. wanna peek into my notebook? there may be clues hidden in it: instructions for viewing subjective catastrophe. rules of derivation. don’t gasp. don’t choke. up. look up. cradle your neck from holding the gaze. keep your eyes to the sky and think of heaven. ................................................................................................................................
in the penthouse resides el más supremo, and none but the servants are allowed entrance into his suite. barefoot, and with brass anklets jangling, they bring him the softest cloth and silks woven by virgins to drape upon his divans. lazing about in linen robes, he gazes up at his ceiling, a clear dome filled with night sky. there in the stars, a tattooed prince, a many headed beast slain by his hand. there, the string of pearls given to his princess. there, she waves away malevolent spirits by mimicking the ocean. el más supremo sips chilled palm wine mixed with blue curaçao and the juice of calamansi, served in hollowed out buko vessels. what meat has been scraped from inside of this shell, the chefs soak in this same azure cocktail, then sprinkle with sea salts and green sili. what a banquet for el más supremo’s eyes, these panorama sunsets the color of orchids, trees of the beloved orphan spirit swaying in guava scented breezes. processions from afar bring the offerings of pearl farmers and miners of silver. those who harvest rice fields also come to bring tribute. from above he cannot smell the salt of their bodies, nor can he see the lines carved into their brows. from above, the numerous are so very small.................................................................................................................................
what things i have cast into the sea i have done this in order to forget my child if not for this you would curse your fathers their names their fists smother my every cry i have done this in order to forget my child the villagers tell me this is for the best their names their fists smother my every cry our medicine woman’s hands and tongue severed the villagers tell me this is for the best both age and fire have blinded her our medicine woman’s hands and tongue severed the air is rank with the fragrance of death both age and fire have blinded her my own mother has cast me away the air is rank with the fragrance of death i have bled and so i am impure my own mother has cast me away oh holy mary oh mother of god i have bled and so i am impure pray for us sinners take me into your folds oh holy mary oh mother of god the priests tell me i may yet be saved pray for us sinners take me into your folds under night’s cover they creep into my bed the priests tell me i may yet be saved they say in god’s name this is for the best under night’s cover they creep into my bed they teach me to pray force me onto my knees they say in god’s name this is for the best they tell me i am going to heaven they teach me to pray force me onto my knees i want to believe them i want to be saved they tell me i am going to heaven if not for this you would curse your fathers i want to believe them i want to be saved what things i have cast into the sea ................................................................................................................................
in her memory, the tattooed angel often, she speaks of the tattooed angel whom she found sifting through the foulest smelling garbage. no cherub was he, no plump and rosy cheeked babe, but a glorious archangel, who would otherwise have been armored in gold, and sandaled with leather, had he not been hit by hard times. this one wore no shining breastplates, no crimson cloak billowing in aethereal winds. no, this one bore the leanest muscles; his every sinew and ripple inked from throat to navel. slithering along his spine, a ruby serpent, its eyes bright as morning star. and there, where the ribcage opens, yet another serpent, goldened, slick. this one coiled into a perfect circle, devouring its own tail. concealed in the deepest pockets of his fatigues, no splendid archangel sword with which to slay those fallen from grace, but a balisong, compact, eloquent, deadly. the archangel disappeared when the winds were chilly, and she believes he slept in the bowels of rusted dumpsters. during rainstorms, these echoed with his verses, as whalesong resounding within the hulls of great ships. he sunned himself on fire escapes at summer solstice, and his chants and incantations ascended past rooftops, touching the feet of old sages. yes, he was a vessel of song, she smiles, remembering the honey of his voice, how she swayed weightless, euphoric with his body, filled with ancient words of so many tongues, and the lamenting of seafarers on starless nights.................................................................................................................................
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