Success

I found this poem laying around my drafts in gmail. I think I wrote it about 6 months ago. It is very reminiscent of my writing style about 10 years ago and that tickles me.


That lazy afternoon beneath
 the Asian pear tree out back
you told me that I
would be happy
with a job that pays decent
with a truck that starts most of the time
with a wife, two dogs and a garden to greet me at the end of a day
and that I could
       do better,
you wanted more for me-
you told me that I have gift
and pointed to the the garage full of half made sculptures
and poems written on black boards
You told me that I could be famous or at least well known and I-
I thanked you.

I thanked you because I didn't know what else to do,
 you meant that I was special
that I was a flower that had yet to bloom,
an activist yet to find a cause,
a revolutionary looking for a revolution
that there was more to me somewhere yet to surface-
But what you did was
   call me complacent
what you did was
   stand on a pedestal and look down
and here I am with dirty hands and empty pockets
 wanting simple things,
things I never thought possible at
16, just a number on a nameless social workers case load with a brand of "at risk" stamped in red,
without a family, without a home and without words for who I am-
things I never thought possible,
as a transsexual,
as a brown man without an education,
as a survivor without memories
as a writer without words,
complacent, it sticks in my mouth like too much bullshit and peanut butter,
like I sold out,
like I did something wrong
like I didn't dream big enough
and I never knew that dreams could be judged
but I have
  what I wanted
  those things that -
well, let's face it we know the statistic
People like me "just don't make it"
and here I am with
a place in the world
a place called home
and a garden to call my own
and baby, it's not complacency that you are looking at
but success,
and it's not yours
its mine
beneath the Asian pear tree, with a dying branch
that I promise to prune come winter
and there are lentils cooking on the stove
and bills that we have the money to pay
a bed waiting for me,
do you have any idea how many nights that I have slept without a bed?
No, it's not complacency,
and I may not exhibit my work at a gallery and maybe I will write letters instead of books
and I may love that beat up Chevy that starts most of the time
but please
be quiet and listen
there are blooms dreaming of the fruit that they will become on the tree
birds belting out a lullaby for the day
and our dogs are playing a game of tug of war while the sun is hanging on the horizon dead set
on just one more moment of light
This maybe your complacency-
but this is-
   my success.

Fruit shipped from Glendale (or a conversation with my Grandmother)

"Ay Dios Mio,
mira mi hijo
Titi Minerva had too much fruit- you know the ones
from China or Korea
Ah, they call them persimmons
She sent each of the sisters 20
I set two aside
   for you
They are not the soft ones
I don't like the soft ones, do you?
These are like apples, I don't think they are ripe, do you?
I hope the ones going to Puerto Rico make it,
I know that my sister in Colorado already got her's
Minerva just had to much fruit this year
and persimmons just don't grow
around here."

* First draft of poem and have never tried to mix English and Spanish.

The Devil was an Angel Once

"Concepts being relative and context being everything," I am ugly. We all have our series of firsts. This is my first foray in hating myself. It started like fleas, just one little black bug just below the elbow. Now twenty years later, it's a full scale infestation. The disgust is a constant itch and I have given up on scratching.
They say that even the devil was an angel once, and I feel confident that neither one of us is ever going to get our wings back. I remember the first time my wings were clipped, and it was me with those shears. I suppose that most people have moments where someone told them that they were stupid, fat, ugly or unwanted. A moment where something is stolen: innocence, happiness or truth. This is not one of those moments. This is not my moment recounting hours standing in line for welfare, playing with matches or my father calling me a slut with his hand up my shirt. This moment is not one of something someone did to me, but  something I did to myself.
There is something in the smell of the park; wood chips, sap and skinned knees. This is the park somewhere East of Los Angeles that I learned to ride a bike, that strangers aren't friendly and that I was hideous. The memories of this park are thick with smog and hot with the Santa Ana winds coming and going- often without warning. Playing in the fountain, my first introduction to llamas, the discovery of what certain types of men do in the bathroom. This is life times before I became one of those men.

This time it was overcast and I don't know who was there or where the other kids were.
Maybe it was a birthday party, or a barbecue or just a random lunch among friends. Maybe I was five or seven. These are the fuzzy details.

I was a graceless girl; chubby, with buck teeth, stuffed into awkward pink leggings with a floral pattern and multi-colored tube socks. Already a loner, already steeped in shame.
I was softly petting the top of a wooden bench, relishing the softness of the wood, fingering carved names, dates and pine needles. Lunch was almost ready.
The adults were crowding the picnic area, much like too many condiments, voices polite, fingers- with varying shades of pink nail polish smoothing out wrinkles in hand-made table cloths.

I know that there must have been Farrah Fawcett bangs with Pay-less high tops. I know every one was clean and white, that is, except for me. My shadow was instantly dirty and my brown skin screamed something menacing.


I don't know where my words came from, when one mother turned to another asking where her toddler was.
"He's heading for the street".

The look of panic in her eyes, still haunts me. Blue, wild and frantic. Her body preparing to run, beginning the lunge of a sprint.  My own voice is still ringing in my ears, a horrible jingle stuck on an endless loop, with an evil laugh. 

The blue eyed, heavy bottomed toddler was spotted (in a safe location) and the mother turned to me and quietly asked why I would say something thing like that. In other words: what the fuck is wrong with you?

And my heart stopped, eyes teared. I wanted to vomit, I still want to vomit. Something in my world shattered, and I didn't even try to pick up the pieces.

 Like I know better now, I knew better then. My answer to the dismayed mother has never come. But it was this moment that I learned that I harbor something vile: the possibility of cruelty, of lying, of feeling. This moment  exposed to me the simple fact that I am ugly. It's not an ugliness regarding physical beauty, that came later but one of hate and heart and mind, seeping in and staining every experience cheap and valuable alike. Sure, kids say the damnedest things. Even then, that very night, the moment began to haunt me, the look in the mother's eyes, my own voice, cruel words, the stench of sap. Sometimes years go by and I almost forget that awkward girl, and then all of the sudden I take a misstep or laugh too loudly and she comes running back stuffed with snot and shame and she clings to me no matter how hard I try to shake her off. I suppose we all have our firsts- be it a first day of school, a kiss or our first trick. This was one of mine that began to bleed into every first that came after.

Now, that childhood spark of self loathing has become a disease, attacking every moment, thought and memory. Hate has become obsessed with every atrocious thing about me . Perhaps, the ugliest thing about me is how much time I spend wishing to somehow be beautiful. More and more, I am finding myself on my knees begging for those alabaster wings back, still packed into those leggings, buck teeth and tears- just a misspelled poem covered in fleas- written by an inarticulate god.

* Intro quote by Ivan E. Coyote

The Hips of A Secret

This is the original free write, which I like on its own. The second piece is more of a finished product but still in a rough (and I mean rough) draft phase, it is also meant to be read out loud. So excuse the format and run on sentences.


The goal was for it to be perfect.
Almost real, almost pulsing, almost beating.
You asked about it today- my heart locked away in the garage.
You asked why it wasn't finished and if it had chambers and veins.
The last time I touched it I cut it open, just beneath the aorta.
I want it to told something- pennies, incense, secrets like Pandora's box.

But I can't touch it.
Won't unwrap the hard clay.
Afraid that I will notice the little imperfections.
The shadows won't hang like the hips of a secret or the veins might not be beautiful like a 
perfect Sunday afternoon.

I haven't seen my heart in weeks because I just might break it.

***********

It's always startling to see your eyes, it's the eyes they say that give you away. Well that, and they say, that boys rarely blush. You blush and stutter and I hate your eyes. Mud and coffee ground brown, wounded lashes with heavy lids like sighs. It is always the eyes that give you away,  that  thousand yard stare, the way they buzz around a room, flocking exits and shadows and baby, with eyes like that, the tattoos- the awkward combination of love notes and bathroom stall scrawl- ain't fooling anyone. I remember when you could flirt with those eyes, and San Francisco had you by the balls.  You were wrapping limbs around concrete and high ways, tip toeing through the days first mimosas and morning glory holes. Jacking off to Gershwin and feminist theory, blowing Foucault blind and washing it all down with a tall boy and Judith butlers apple pie. You were queer as a Monday is long, confident and lean sandwiched between the tenderloin and section 8- in those days you were packing, in every sense of the word.

and now look at that weak chin and those shaking and dirty hands that can never quite settle. Somewhere in the years between San Francisco and Seattle, you tripped over fault lines, lost your confidence, your wallet and your favorite pair of shoes. And there's a way that your lips twitch and tremble, when there is something you want to say and every fucking time you swallow and look away. It's obvious by the way you stand there, that you hate your body, belly, hips, hair and thighs and I know somebody told you once that your scars are beautiful, that struggle is beautiful, and hope is beautiful. and it's clear with you standing there a naked little bird that can never land and unsure what to do with those hands, that you want to be beautiful.

and how many cc's does it take to get you to understand that gender is a universe and we are all stars and that you can (think/feel) ugly things and still work on that heart you are sculpting out in the garage.

and I know the goal was for it to be perfect, almost real ,almost pulsing, almost beating. And she asked about, why it wasn't finished, if it had chambers and veins. The last time you touched it, you cut it open, just beneath the aorta. You want it to hold something- maybe pennies, incense or secrets like Pandora's box. But now you won't unwrap it, letting it gather dust and cracks. You are afraid of the little imperfections- perhaps the shadows won't hang like they do on your favorite Sunday afternoons, or the veins won't curve like the hips of a secret, and you haven't seen your heart in weeks because you are too afraid to break it.

So instead of standing there, and looking at me -unwrap, your heart, take your tools, carve in every scar and secret, carve in the space between who you were and who you are, take your memory's and nightmares and wedge them in with your clay. Stain it in truth, whiskey and dreams. And if you break it, build another one, and this time- build a spare.

And we are back to those eyes- stone, cold and sober, and that shivering body and head of nightmares, empty handed and heartless. The truth is-I just can't stand to look at you any more. So please step away from the mirror, turn off that bright light and go and build that heart, even if you break it.

**************
and for the record-  I have eaten Judith Butlers apple pie.

Pine needles and dry heat

 What I remember most is the smell of her hope chest early in the morning and her enthusiasm for lightning storms. Pine needles and dry heat, a fiery combination.

She was a storm chaser, even in some of her weaker moments. She would take my sister and I, one of us in each hand and lead us directly into the storm. People use to think that she was our baby sitter with her blond hair and fair skin in contrast to our darker features and thick curly hair.

With the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning,she would count the seconds between lightning and thunder. Should it be far enough apart, we would go to the nearest park or field, walk to the middle and lay down on our backs. She would tell stories about the storm, my favorite being that the angels were bowling. I could picture this clearly, for I had seen bowling on cable TV at the houses she cleaned. The angels were always a warm alabaster with harp like laughter. And the loud rumbling shaking Los Angeles was their marble bowling  balls spinning down the the lane of clouds heading for the perfect strike that would then light up the sky.  To this day I have never been bowling, though it is on the list I started at 18 years old, keeping track of all of the normal things I had never experienced but need to. I keep it tattooed on the back side of my heart, just below my embroidered list of secrets.

She is tangled up in my secrets and my dreams. Every few years, for just a moment, on some random street corner, I think I spot her going into a coffee shop, coming out of a bank, pumping gas. I use to think that something happened, big and bad causing her to go into the witness protection program or forced to become an agent for the CIA. I would lay in my bed for hours, figuring out just how it happened and just how she would save me. They call this maladaptive day dreaming, but I swear it was wishful thinking. I needed her. Maybe I still need her.

It's rare now, that I see someone who knew my mother but when I do that person never fails to mention that I have her mannerisms. Mannerisms that I try to find myself- secretly- late at night when I have had far to much to drink. I can't help it, I am always looking for her. I grip the bathroom counters edge and look directly into the mirror (something I almost never do). Is it in the way I hold my hands? The way I shape clay? Make coffee? My smile? My eyes? Someone told me once that I have a woman's eyes, but are they her eyes? What pieces of me were gifts from her? What pieces can I cling to and pretend to feel safe, safe in that childlike way of knowing that if I had a nightmare that she would stay awake all night warding off monsters, protecting me in my sleep. I would give anything to feel safe while sleeping, it will be twenty years this summer since I have truly slept.
I can no longer tell you much about her, not much more than a handful of half memories. She always had a diet coke in her hand, a Marlboro red and one of her closest friends died of AIDS in the early 1980s. To this day, I smoke more then she did, think harm reduction is sexy and I have soft spot for women who drink diet coke. But I know the moment she died- I lost something more than a mother. I lost Sunday morning stories of owls and high school , falling for the spell of the hope chest- rummaging through the linens and possibilities,  growing up along side my hero, lost a feeling of safety, and ultimately I lost the person who was supposed to teach me how to live.

Watching someone die is different then watching them live, especially when it comes to my mother. Even when she fumbled, she was graceful, even when she was broke, she wasn't poor, even when she couldn't protect me- she could meet me in my dreams. Some times when people die they become superheros or saints. She was my superhero even before I knew or understood that she was dying, before I understood that we are all dying and living simultaneously or that to live is a matter of personal choice. She chose to live, even when shoved up against her last breath. It's about time I begin to do the same.