06 November 2005

Last Word Latina

Today is last word Latina who personalizes everything. Opinionated on everything, and argues about things that no one is really arguing over. When the other person isn’t arguing just saying something different or trying to lay the debate she made up to rest to continue the lecture or discussion.

Needs a pill to fix this she can’t seem to keep from ignoring. Over exhaustion and stress she piles up sleep deprivation like her dept for school and living. Whose parents disowned her for being a lesbian and deciding to go to college. And they haven’t decided which they’re more offended by. Her sex or her leaving so many sisters and dishes. For education over kitchens. And here she is so eager to invite me over to her independence and room in a coop and cook and laugh and not be reminded.

Only afraid of father and god, or god the father, or her father, god? She forgets now. It’s been so long. Took care of god by becoming an atheist. But can’t stop believing in fathers, like anthropomorphic mythological owners of everything and the future with thick belts and loud roaring snores that make the thunder she can’t sleep because of.

Quiver in Latina voice, pinches, pricks soft cracks and sings sighs. Is a moan to be a Mexican girl. And moan takes two vowels to makes its own sound. voice. sex. she writes without gender. Today was not loud in class because she wasn’t even listening when she tried to because today was so much poetry, thought out of fingers and obsessions. Desperation today wants this book she is to be written and shelved. Burned and boiled. Eaten. Shitted out and on. Story to run from blood like stabbing, eyes out ears to let go pulled and punched back in kind of book. Today is aggravating hiccup poetry and heart slow up esophagus. A cough to wheeze grind throat and air and hiss and choke over. Her eternal in-betweens. Work and trying not to faint. Keep it together.

Notebook in her chest lets the writing get thicker when it needs to be closed shut, wrapped with wires to keep it from bursting confetti of printed pages, bloated binding with words in life boat papers escaping sinking stories, coma and quote people jumping from burning binding, consonant children running from perfect lines, demonic boys as girls as boys howling out isles from first gruel communion church where she doesn't even try to compete with that word. Echo hollow church thunder tortillaed in her. Content at the end of day with microwave veggie wraps, empty thoughts and glass she stains her windows peace and power. No doubt debate pressing in her dark comforting quiet.

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