Siamese Twin-Soul Phoenix

Siamese-Twin-Soul Phoenix

We are one unbreakable soul; a Siamese-twin Phoenix’s soul, wings spread wide, soaring distances only read about in books and computer animated on the big screen. Multi-generation sized acceptance of lessons and love; learning and loss. Feathers extended full reach and set ablaze simply for light or for warmth or amusement of others, we’ve shared a skin and shed similar ash. I see you as a part of me and me as a part of you.

You and I, have traveled half our lives to this point, apart, yet together…escaping the binds of some massively tangly, twisted times. We’ve proven to be indestructibley abiding to the core of each other’s love; invincibly loyal to the marrow of each other’s truths, and miraculously resistant to the weathering of outsider letdown. The Siamese-twin-soul Phoenix, flying high above the bullshit.

We breathe rich unapologetic philosophies and values based in honest experience and ashy grains of heart that are the remainders lessons learned and humble reminders of things that burned inside us as we held them to the bitter sooty, charcoal deaths- guarding nests of hearts too big and precious for any one person, one body, one lifetime to ever be big enough to bear. We will burn away with all we love, because that is who we are. We have a need to protect that which we love from the greedy, haughty hands that reach with wild and bold pretentiousness; all reckless and tactless together in their arrogance as they destroy in blazes any beauty not their own.

You and I have come to shadow box in circles, behind each other’s backs. There is no separation that can exist between us, nothing to separate our souls. We fight the same fight. We love the same love. We heal the same wounds. We speak the same whispers of humble survival and invite strength into our bodies and existence with each and every exhale just to have the courage and capacity to inhale one more breath…over, and over, and over, and over, and over again…until we get from one heartbeat to the next, adding up to hours; and eventually, the days- cause sometimes, the flames and fire burn so hot, that this is the best commitment we can make. And for 30 years it’s carried us, one moment to the next, to the next, and to the next.

Heartbeat to heartbeat, we speak cosmic morse code promises. I promise to give my all to save what’s left from ash and regenerate in a light that shines lessons leading pathways brighter than any starlit sky; and ask the same of you. Birds can’t fly with a single wing; the same as I could never have walked this journey alone. Your mere acceptance is all the love I need to support my flight. And together we will keep going; and when we are alone in the physical sense, this poem will exist to as a reminder. We are part of each other, forever…something extremely rare and special; something so fucking beautiful, it can only exist in the ether…something no one else will never know.

And that is why I want you to know that I love the beauty you put inside of me; I hope you love the me inside of you as well…because the two of us, we’ll always be unbreakable; the Siamese-twin-soul Phoenix.

Discovery

This has been THE longest TRUE LIFE game of Rumplestiltskin ever thought imaginable! Alas, dear impish troll, there are no more riddles, no cons, no jokes or tangents left to cloak and veil who you are.

What a great Grimm story and parallel to a life too true to situations I have the pleasure of watching unfold…like origami in reverse. Your page lies flat for me to read aloud. The story reads so different from the sounds that slid around the corners of the folded paper once puffed with pride.

The days of fancy folded pretend goodness are over. Now that I can read the secrets you once tucked inside your guise, there is no salvation, no rewind button.

The worst part is that your shame will be forever associated with the names of those who share your staples.

The fall of a fairy tale origami empire…

Links

Links

My uncle Juny once told me that when he was a little kid in Texas, my grandparents told him not to tell anybody his last name because then people would tie him to a relative of ours who had caught his wife cheating. She was found in the act while having sex with another man. So he stabbed her repeatedly with an ice pick and then tied her to the bumper of his truck before dragging her body around and through the town for everyone to witness before his surrender.

My mouth was a tunnel entrance waiting for a freight train to pass its shock process down my windpipe. Jaw on the floor so I don’t crack any teeth on the casual briskness of detail. The sadness of each word filled the final point like a sock full of pennies swung fast at my gut…generations of savings found one cent at a time- rusted up and salvaged from the pavements of our accidental lessons; bits of currency added up to this moment as he summed it up for me in a way that was more telling of a million other heartbreaks before this.

Juny sat back in careful consideration…eyes gleaming to the sky, mouth curled in intrigue. “Could you imagine just stabbing your wife with an ice pick? And then dragging her around town with your truck like that! Naaaaah!! It’s impossible to LOVE somebody THAAAT MUCH!”

There was the time that my grandmother asked me if a letter she found was from my “girlfriend,” then quailified the question with, “You better not be…gay!”

Or my mothers confession that the reason she had so many kids was because she thought that having kids meant you were not queer…and would hide the relationship she carried on with a woman she introduced as her “best friend.”

The time that my cousin Rudy Boy said, “Man, fuck the public defender; I’ll do that shit myself! ‘Guilty, Your Honor!!'”

The kids that thought I only got into school with them because of affirmative action.

All the times I’ve been told, “Good luck getting a job.” Because of the way that I look.

The seemingly universal connection to Ramon Ayayla’s Un Puno De Tierra, Tragos Amargos and Sies Pies Abajo.

All the thing I’ve seen or heard and am forbidden to repeat because my name could end up in a gang report as a “violation.” Could get me sentenced by a “shot caller,” killed by a “street soldier.”

I am bound and boxed in, tortured everyday by this shit; laughed at and ridiculed because I am still a Dreamer, still a believer and an activist. I am a writer, a speaker of hope and I believe differently.

I believe that I should never be ashamed or scared of my last name.

I believe that true love is unconditional and yet I still understand the conditioning of generational trauma, where how bad you hurt someone is equal to how much you love them.

I understand its not always a persons fault that they can’t name things for what they are, they were taught that way.

I also believe at some point though that we must take responsibility of our own education, we owe it to those who are learning from us. Like the way that my mother learned her beliefs from her mother.

I believe that my mother was wrong; that popping out a child does not determine your orientation.

And I believe that no matter how many parents you have or what their genders are, it’s still possible to fuck your child up.

It’s too easy to exhaust life with brutal and determined contradiction: breeding future links to the same familial abusive comforts; becoming reincarnated mirrors of someone else’s pain, fighting to overcome the very fence we link together.

I believe that people of color shouldn’t feel convicted because having hope is a bigger fucking crime!

I want all those silver spoon, trust fund kids I went to school with to know that I didn’t get to go to school with them because of affirmative action…they, got to go to school with me: because they could afford to pay for a degree that I held up to my standards.

I believe that I shouldn’t be excluded from board rooms or senior managers meetings because I’m not afraid to roll up my sleeves — forcing you to look at my past as I speak the future.

I believe that the romanticizing of death and alcoholism in foreign languages connects today’s pain to yesterday’s pain, and should be felt, con ganas. It just doesn’t have to be lived out just because it connects you to something.

I believe that gangs are armies responding to what was created by the war on drugs, the war on crime, and the systemic criminalization of poverty.

I believe that through all this, we can still heal! Come together to build solidarity in working toward lasting change; assist in the struggle to organize for principles like equity and justice.

Using each moment to build upon the last as we carry the movement with us.

More importantly, I believe that not despite, rather because of all of our collective histories- those that have came before us, have become us…through action, abstraction, and chemical attractions.

All those yesterday’s making up the past, making up what brought us to here, to today, to this moment, this poem, and it is this moment that will bring us into tomorrow.

So everyday, I tell myself that I will use today, this moment, this poem, to remind me to make tonight better than this morning, so that tomorrow is better than today.

Falling Stars, In Memory of Claudia Castillo

Stars fall from every direction,
Screaming silently through the night.
They stream behind the unspoken trails of wishes.
Needs, desires, and undone deeds.
My voice is trapped somewhere beneath the nothingness
Of everything that small talk is so good at hiding…
Because the ineffability of falling stars
Always hides in primitive discussion.
All the “have you heard” and “that’s too bad”
Banter try to spark the embers that are long gone,
Dedicating these moments to the ones she will never have.
Photographic memories, philosophies on paper
All try to retell the story of
The million fiery embers that lit
The moments of her life.
The embers that left behind a brief second
Of enormous illumination.
It all seems so minute, after the fact.
I watch, wondering what would happen,
If one were caught, and saved, placed back in its place
To keep lit the darkened night of the eyes that watched it.
But by the time my mind processes the thought,
The star has fallen and faded,
And the light…is light no more.
In its place is a sea of black
Made of the tears from those who sit amidst its darkness.
There is no saving or replacing a fallen star.
Only remembering its light, and the trail it left behind,
As it fell so abruptly from our lives.

Beautifully Broken

my body is covered in hieroglyphics; not a single lie is told, each mark bears the truth. each smile & tear, each battle from youth, each teacher & love lay over my flesh like a map of my path, the glory & the wrath; the passes & the beatings, the meetings & the leavings; all the times i lost, along with every win; pictographic memories all sprawled across my skin. yeah, i’m held together in stitches of ink, if you don’t like my flavor, then don’t take a drink. i proudly wear my scars & stripes, the story of my life. i am a storybook cracked wide open, telling the story of how i became, beautifully broken.

My Favorite Song

Scents ring out like sirens,
Drawing me back to the
Music of your skin.

The lyrics in your eyes
Dance across the sky
Each night as the sun sets.

And though I am bound by your beauty,
And struck down by your rhyme,
You are my only freedom in this world…

You, my favorite song.

Your Light

There is a light that emanates
from thoughts of you
which sends embers of
orgasm through my psyche.
Your smile touches me
deep down inside
and tickles the
clitoris folded between my legs of
inspiration on the left and
brutal truth on the right.
Climactic acknowledgement of
spent love,
growing love,
slow love,
deep love,
unbound,
untamed,
unconditioned love-
pushes up and brims out of my heart
with force unstoppable.
I am lit by your light.

You Are

You Are

You are my son, my moon, my bright shining star. My intentions for you are to grow deep, rise high and reach far. I want for you a heart filled with compassion, strength and courage; a life free from all forms of bondage – be it greed, hatred, substance or oppression.

For you my child, I can only speak the language of action and see that you grow up full of love and hope that you are never jaded. I will share with you my love of the pursuit of knowledge and all of its fruits; teach you that success can be personified as one who puts purpose before power, character and community before cash and spirituality before carnal instinct.

I hope you stay grounded, humble and kind. Stay close to the creator, Mother Earth and most of all, yourself. Never stop seeing yourself in your neighbor. Always remember that the creator gave you such strong hands to heal and build and never to hurt.

You were made to do big things in this world, son. There has never been another like you in all of creation, nor will there ever be again. You stand on fierce and mighty ancestral shoulders. Carry yourself with dignity and honor…and most of all, be gentle with yourself and others ESPECIALLY when it seems the most difficult thing to do.

Too Young To Be Old

How can it be
That you and you and you
Possess the audacity
To flap your lips
With your tongue like a whip
In a loud self convincing
Another
“Try again please.”
Authorities
On hypocrisies
Across the seven seas
You’re like a kindergarten class
Adding peas
Like minds
Dyslexic logic telling me
That you agree you shine through me
And all of my overgrown
Invisibility.
How can you all count to three
And then like magic
Laugh into me
The impossibility
For my young and tired eyes
To have ever seen
Anything
Of substance
Anything of beauty
Any damn thing
That could ever
Mean a thing
For me
Or for you
Or anything
That could ever bring
A lingering
Important kind of meaning.
You say,
I haven’t lived enough to see
The life that lives outside of me
And I may never age to know
What maturity brings
What it really means
To be “old.”
But when the telling is told
And I’m the one teaching
The only one speaking,
The marks of my branding
Compassion and understanding
The crash of their landing
And force of their demanding,
Scotch-taped together,
The lone person standing…
You will learn what I say
That yesterday and today
Age is age
Just a measure to gauge
The years that it took you
To stay stuck on the same page
When I am libraries ahead
With the heart and the wisdom
Of an old soul instead.

Karma

Your world was pulled out from under you.
Died in a car accident off the “K” Street overpass.
What a shame that a boy had to die and you still don’t realize what it is that you do that hurts us into hatred.
We are not the reincarnation of those kids who died.
We are not your second chance to fuck it up.
I am not my mother.
You were not the womb that hugged my fetus for nine months-
That 14-year-old stomach intense apologizing for the sickly love that made me…
The sickly love that would break me.
You were spiteful in your fostering grandparenthood,
Bathing my youth in ice cubes,
Then drying me off in dollar bills…so that your hands would never have to touch me…
And every time I shivered, I got slapped with a bill screaming double time,
With interest, for the lack of gratitude that I never fail to provide.
I owe you this disease back:
A viral reconstruction of the cum shot you made me swallow,
Before my life was flipped around,
Spread open wide, and gang banged by the biggest tragic shafts;
After you became the actress-
The type-cast-two-faced evil villain…
Basking in your delusional illusions-
The practice made perfect expert at impromptu,
Believing your own reinvented memories;
Crying genuine Visine tears.
I owe you all the ill-ass-backwards empathy you gave me as a child,
The lollipop pillow pacifier, double dipped in anthrax:
My sweetened slow death suffocation that I lived in like a hospice-
Or my mothers overcrowded casket, with a straw…
Your social high society pity plan to murder me with the suicide that Dr. Karma prescribed that pain you claimed, even though it came before you;
The unnecessary pawn shop pink slip that can only be paid back in abuses.
I owe you back all your relentlessness, for all the love you kept yourself from feeling.
I owe you reciprocated hatred for every time you looked at me, calling me by my mothers name, still believing I was her.
For every time you dangled foster care in my young, lonely and starved face-
Like a warm meal, teasing me with the threat of a way out that you would never let me take.
I owe you an about face for every time I should have turned away from your fist, from your anger, from your spite…from the unhappiness you bred and took out on me when we all became exhausted from our collective karmic concussions.
We were so wrapped up in each other that we allowed ourselves to be laid to rest collectively; cramped together like sardines inside this box of blame…
Leaving only enough room for you to shake a proverbial finger at me after I flip you my middle payments-
Two for the price of one…a clearance rack sale that saves me the breath of having to speak “fuck you.”
Fuck you for every thought that you let pass through your head that said I would never amount to anything,
For every time you said you’d never help,
Two more for every time you help out your hand two inches short of helping me…so that nobody would know that you: were the bad guy.
But, what goes around, comes back around again,
And one day you’ll find that the hand you held-
Was actually holding yours.
And I’m sure you’ll find that
Karma
Will always return to give you back all the “good times” you sold your life for.
And when you’re old and lonely and more banged up than my Pa’s screen door…
You’ll know what it feels like to freeze for reparation
And starve for love,
And live, like dead.
Falling apart as you’re breaking from from the cracks inside your wrinkled script,
You’ll be a mosaic in reverse
When I water down my cut off my Scotch Tape reaches that keep your act together
And rip the audience away.
Someday you’ll know what I felt like as a child-
Living down antediluvian confusions;
Apologizing for faults that were not mine.
And even worse yet,
Someday you’ll know how incredibly deep the breathing bleeds inside your lungs,
And the insane sting of sacrificial splinters that numb your fingers
When you’re scratching against the cheap wooden casket lid,
When you’re still alive, with a heart, suffocating in a grave-
Screaming dog pound puppy hope, unable to articulate in words,
The plea I’ve plead, to resurrect me from the grave that my childhood was tied inside by the ropes of your nightmares.
Because the heart of that child has scratched through that buried box,
Apologized for crimes that someone else committed
And solicited the acceptance of so many dolled out abuses-
Just to be of use.