Category: ibiza

BINGE

written august 2017
ibiza, spain

thin: emerging hip bones
fat: leftover tofu pad thai, not cold nor re-heated, found in purse at 4 in the morning and eaten in bed without clothes.

times were fat and so was i, the miserable erroneous life form that was like the others yet different, living on a so-called island (which did cling to the rest of the world with speedy little metal missiles carrying passengers and pirates to and from distant lands)

it was said the island either wanted you, or didn’t: if it did, it kept you. if it didn’t, it kicked you out.

it didn’t want me, and i knew it. but i was stubborn.
my binge-eating habits erupted there, the stress of constant, daily rejection, the sense of not-belonging so great and powerful that it bled me dry at times of the very will to live
each night i sat
taking nervous sips and sweating bites and chewing as if chewing on my problems,
which, i suppose, i was.

sometimes i made myself laugh about it, “twenty-four: the age of hot chocolate at 6 am still awake for no good reason” (other than chronic sleeplessness.) halfway living off garbanzo beans and sticks of imitation crab, spinach and cream cheese and “pan payés” and generic corner-store gazpacho from the carton, never, ever, ever in a cup. every dirty cup and plate was a ridiculous burden on my anxious mind, for this house of mine had very strict rules and there was no room for untidiness
but keeping tidy inside a hurricane mind is not at all an easy task.

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AGOSTO

written august 2017
ibiza, spain

it is august and the air is thick with dust and sweat of all the neighbors packed like sardines in their salt and oils, the workers’ anguish, backs bent and throbbing, tourists’ money and cocaine in their pumps and their cocktails and their jewelry. august and my skin is full of holes and i have itches i can’t name and i sleep on a bare mattress in the corner of a two-bed room beside an argentinian dancer who’s gotten tendinitis in both hands from serving too many bevies at the disco. she’s not allowed vacation and could in theory provoke permanent tendon damage or lose small motor control in her hands thanks to working too much and being too sober and possibly due to not fucking enough (an argentine theory.) sometimes as she sleeps a perfect boob slips out from the sheets and stares me in the face and i am forced to consider for the trillionth time the magnitude of my mediocrity. i go to the gym and i train in the flood of moisture that is my own and everyone else’s and i step outside and the air’s even wetter. it’s become a fight to reach the oxygen.

juan said in june the island is “shiny” and fresh and clean and beautiful but august is the month that she begins to rumble like some angry dancing goddess bleeding down her thighs ready to shake the clinging bodies off of hers,

only the desperately stubborn hang on

ibiza__1

ibiza, 2015

________________________________________

1

chasing one little baby tick of unblackened weed around the rim of the pipe, warm in my bone-cold fingers: cold white light and me here on this dingy old velvet couch listening to the boys in AIDS’s bedroom pretending it’s a real gym. they listen to eminem a little too much, but i won’t givem shit for it.

genezareth and hannah are considering busking on a corner on weekends; seabass was turned down for a resto job due to his lack of a work visa; bethany was selling Christmas cards for a euro apiece; i was considering selling knit caps, AIDS and I have discussed becoming regional camgirls.

we are sort of brutally poor, but we do our bestish. combat creeping depression with routines and rituals: open the shutters every morning and close them up every night, go for hikes, go for runs, do pullups and pushups and abs, chat together in the sparsely-furnished kitchen all squattin on buckets and low stools on the ground. we are all in balls deep for bernie sanders.

written fall-winter 2015. entry 1 of a series.

MISTS

you are
nobody
you are
nothing
you are the
absence
of bodies
and things

you are gone
from my skin
like a mist
or a phantom
you rose out
left some stains
nothing more

the clouds are red-black
and the wind
cools me down
i haven’t felt
the wind
in ages

NACHO

hey nacho
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just
can’t
even

AL INFIERNO

pero vaya tío ya te digo una puta poema en castellano
a ver como me sale

mira, hay un hombre
quien vive en una isla,
o sea — encima de una isla

k adentro está lleno
todo ocupado por diosas bailadoras
con sus espíritus indignados y sudados
mientras sus tierras se queman al infierno,
el lugar dónde se crecieron sus hijas y sus
perros y sus hijos y sus
monstruos,
los mismos que luego se convertirían
en pescadores y cantantes
y cuidadores de cabritas,
en bailadores y bastante cabrones,
como suele resultar.

esta tierra está marcado y dolido,
y se nací al seco, con muchísima sangre,
cubierto en lagartos, y en la hierba seca
con un par de colinas, calas torturadas,
gente marrón con las manos y las almas
pequeñas y duras,
o sea compactas, listas
provechosas, cuando les toquen ser.

pero este tío de lo que hablo
pues él no viene de aquí,
su sangre es de otras tierras, más verdes y altas
con más cuevas pa poner casa y más paredes
para escalar,
dónde la gente se dispone de la espalda bien dura
y donde los perros
comen gatos y se ríen,

y él, igual que sus ancestros,
su espíritu no cae tan bien
ni con el sol ni con la humedad de aquí,
se moja la espalda y el cuello con
trabajo y lleva el ceño siempre fruncido,
concentrando o aguantando pero
siempre empujando, eso sí, es
algo en él que lo lleva adelante y k to trae
hacía mí

y lo veo

como si fuera escondido en las sombras
de un bosque en la niebla,
invierno y con frío y no sé cómo pero él
aún
sabe mi olor y lo detecta
desde lejos,
viene pa buscarme
y me encuentra a menudo,
soy su presa y el es mía, que a mí
él huele de montaña y de fuego,
y la única cosa que quiero
es quemarme en ello y al final
me quemo
en él

real men

only REAL MEN please

 

a REAL men:

-UniversidAd De La kAlLe

-into “butt stuff”

-can survive on pussy alone

-30min underwater breath-hold minimum

-can ask questions

-NOT allergic to shellfish

-SOMETIMES wears thongs

-ability to pivot right AND left

-does NOT use a pillow

-allergic to yogurt OK

-personality unimportant