consonance my assonance.

[Hint: you should always read poetry out loud.]

she layers prayers into her morning plait

and plates her doubts for breakfast,
every morning waking sore when
he keeps whores like secrets.

she throws cravings into craters 

forged by kites diving for 

prey.
while he dare upbraid her, fair maiden -
paying favors, steer the stray.
breathes as if her blood weren't seizing
vehement breeze inside her veins.
scold her searing skin with tears
so vile even roaches complain.

under unborn creases in her face
she sheaths her teeth and swears to stay.
endanger her, label her crazy
muttering maybes in the shade.

Eh.

God, I hate Facebook.  I posted something the other day that, let's say, got mixed reviews.

On one hand, the last time I received that many "likes" on a status update was when I announced my father was cancer free. Yeah.

On the other hand, I offended some of my old friends. I probably offended a lot of people who did not respond, and probably just am generally offensive, so I am trying to figure out how I feel about this. Since I am feeling largely guilty and bad, I will divert my attentions from Facebook and post what I really think here. 

Here's what I said:

 I am an atheist and I celebrate Christmas, not because I condone the Godly rape of young women in order to conceive heavenly Sons, but because I love lights, and hot chocolate, and friends and families, and the warmth of the kitchen when the oven has been on all day.

I was mostly trying to convey my love for the season and my excitement for the coming days with Jared's and my family by juxtaposing my feelings with blatant, uninhibited blasphemy. 

I was told that my post demonstrates a serious misunderstanding of the story of the birth of Jesus. We can start right there.

Everyone knows Christmas originated from the pagan celebration of the solstice and that those traditions were hijacked specifically to grow the Church of the Great Baby Jesus. If you don't know that then you either can't read or flat out don't pay attention, so I am a little sick of getting in trouble around a holiday that was stolen to begin with and continues to be further defiled every single year. 

I was also told I need to reconsider my definition of rape. Nothing pisses me off more than this, partially because we spent so much of the summer and fall listening to halfwit old men tell us that we deserve our rape babies, and partially because rape is rape. It is not something to be interpreted like out-dated and irrelevant holy books.

What I can tell you is that some sort of exchange happened between the Holy Father and the Virgin Mary and ended in such a way that she had a fuggin embryo attached to her uterus. I get it - God is God, he can do whatever he wants, however he wants. I suppose that means he could have transported some magical swimmers straight past Mary's cervix, but at what point do we stop to question the motives and morality of a deity who impregnates virgins? Either God is a pervert, or Mary is a liar. In either case, calm the fuck down, I was making a joke. 

Sometimes you realize you've said or done some stupid shit. Then you remember it does not matter.

i will write down every word,
sing them onto every wall
so when we vanish from the earth
love will carry on.

sentence fragments from the walk home.

I find myself wishing that prairie dogs were hedgehogs
though I really just wish they were unicorns because
think how well they'd match the snow.
I pissed in the spillway because it was already empty and
i figured we all need some help sometimes.
once my body felt less like an imminent steaming yellow explosion
you can bet your ass i walked faster.
a boy said hi and I asked "what's your favorite color?"
he said the snow
then handed me a blue balloon.
the more steps i take, the quieter the cars get
the creek roars instead. the closer the
air gets to freezing, the cleaner my lungs are.
Sun can make you drunk.
Shame on you, moon, standing out, half naked
no cloud curtains to hide behind.
trees are just old ladies, been listening so hard
for so long, they don't see why we speak.
so they nod over their glasses, knots for freckles.
sometimes more a shake.
I feel like a child most of the time surrounded
by jesters hopping about like adults.
hoping one morning for my eyes to spring open.
i'll drink twice as much light when i'm grown.
it's a frustrating pattern
being addicted to sociopaths, batting your eyes at them
then scolding the butterflies.
I mentioned water and ten minutes down the road now it is solid.
you can even see where the ripples muttered their last words.
after the sun was down the clouds turned manta rays
grazed over the mountains looking
for a place to sit. the moon is taller now.
posing, skin showing
leaning against nothing.

Update.

I know that like, two or three of the people who read this blog do it purely to keeps tabs on my life, so I will post a short update.

In October, I played a song of mine at Herman's Hideaway for a talent contest. Most of the, er, talent was... er... karaoke. Anyway, sum a long night short, I won $500.  That's a hundred dollars a minute, for those doing the math. Mostly I just had a great night getting to catch up with about two dozen of my favorite people.

One of the other performers that night was a rapper, he went on unfortunately early, found me after I went on telling me how moved he was by my performance.  Exchanged numbers, and within a few weeks he had invited me to perform at a hip-hop showcase and birthday party he was putting together at Herman's. He offered me two ten-minute sets, serving as the "intermission."  I was stoked.

That showcase was last Thursday. On Monday that same week, I came to the realization that I could use some help, so I made J play his drumset with my tunes. It is worth mentioning that anytime we play together, everything instantly sounds better. Instantly I feel like a complete package, like a cohesive idea. I could not ask for a better companion for my musical career.

We did not bring the drum set to the show - too much of a hassle, so I asked my roommate to borrow his cajon.  Effectively, I was completely out of context, planning to open with a two-part polka-waltz medley of Home and Old Typewriter in the good ol' very-not-hip-hop key of C major.

Oh, and I had one too many beers and completely forgot all the words to my own goddamned music during the first set. If you are wondering how I dealt with this, I pretty much took the few lines I could remember and mix-and-matched the words in the correct melody.  I left the stage feeling like I should never be allowed to perform again.

Unfortunately, I was tipsy enough for my voice to sound stellar, so within twenty minutes I had shaken a dozen hands and received half a dozen phone numbers and business cards.

Got to see a lot of talented writers go up on the stage, and will be making contact with all of them. Only three women performed whole night (and one of them was me), the other two were badass.  Reminds me that there is a serious shortage of female representation in the music industry as a whole, especially in a few select genres. Time to fix that...

I sat there for three hours and did nothing but drink water and mumble verses to myself before my second set at 11:30.  It worked out though - went great.  Decided to start with a short slam piece to fit the mood, then played Sing, followed by a new and improved Color Wheel.  It was so much fun, and my confidence was so fiercely boosted.

And the following two nights I had gigs with Moses Jones. Life is sweet.

A brief departure from the subject of love.

My wife is right. We need to talk about this.

Here is the deal. Guns are made to kill. Killing is the sole purpose of owning and operating a gun. They are made to be a quick and efficient tool for piercing straight through the flesh of another living, breathing being. That. is. it.

They are not made to injure, they are not even made to blow the locks off of doors. They are specifically designed to murder - several times over.

Herein lies the problem with guns. If you are a goddamn civilian, pay your rent delivering tacos to the tables of middle class families, or typing figures into Excel documents, installing cable or car stereos or toilets, making cakes, designing buildings, cleaning peoples' teeth or chimneys, or selling cars or perfume or insurance or sex; if you spend your spare time knitting or hiking or singing or drumming or sewing or doing sit-ups or watching trash-pit television or slamming down bottles of Jack Daniels, then why the fuck do you need a gun.

Maybe you go out and party sometimes, maybe you live on a bad side of town. I live in Aurora and I ride my bike to work in the dark, go for runs in the park. I carry mace on my person in case I am approached by a shark. I understand you want to protect yourself, but I will never understand why "protecting" yourself means that you, as an average-ass dude, have such a goddamn boner for the idea of stealing life.

No matter what the argument is, it comes down to this: you are ultimately trying to protect a right that does not exist - to kill another member of your species.

Not to mention, I would not trust 98% of you people with a gun. Truth.

 if my heart were big enough to hand out, piece by piece, i promise we'd all wear love around our necks.

Children's literature out of context.

Little Bunny Foo Foo -

I don't want to see you scooping up the field mice and bopping them on the head.

Seriously dick move, dude.

"Energy cannot be created nor destroyed. It only changes form."   

Cheese

Last night, J and I went to Beta to see Kill the Noise. I got home at 3AM, knowing full-well that I would be waking up at 6AM to run a 5k in an ugly Christmas sweater.

By the time I got home later this morning, I looked around the kitchen for something to make/eat, and remembered the anaheim and bell peppers sitting on the counter - they were starting to look a little soft, so I figured I could give a shot at roasting them.

Then I fell asleep for a few hours, woke up to my stomach yelling at me. I decided to make an old standby, figuring the morning run and lack of caloric sustenance throughout the day warranted a treat. This was one of the first meals I ever learned to make, thanks to mom. Queso and beans. You can even call them beanses if you are feeling nostalgic (a family colloquiallism that dates back to 'buelita's comical troubles with the English language). But do not ask me why it isn't queso y frijoles. It just isn't.

Queso: I warmed half a roasted anaheim, half of a roasted green bell pepper, some minced garlic, and some tomatoes. Then I added monterey jack cheese and milk - warm til melty and delicious.

The beans were a standard can of no-salt-added black beans, plus some tomatoes and chiles, minced garlic, salt, black pepper, cayenne, chili powder, paprika, and a splash of the red wine I was drinking.




It was good. And there are leftovers for days, which means I need to hit the gym.