Mente Mezcla

There’s an element that makes us Lighter than air Fills parties with colorful joy,  Objects of desire  For each lil girl and boy.  Light and floaty, easy and true Primary colors Red, yellow and blue  But if you know what I know,  You know  What it really can do. Silence. Restful Silence. Sinister delight  And I’m so exhausted  That I just might. 

They always told you you had skin just light enough to be high-ish yellow, a nose big enough not to pass, but to pass as beautiful and hair curly enough to be straight when required.  The sun-kissed you with a dark freckle right by that nose, your first year. So you were ok. It didn't matter how your cousin touched you, because he was a kid and you were a lil'er kid and that was just playin, right, doctor? And no one wants to admit damage of those goods before it is time to damage them. ...To forge you, the iron sword you would become, from yellow to a golden bone (Nothing matters as long as you use that murky-colored ground to create a middle space: safe, still light skin'ted)

What I need From our future machine  Isn’t in your mechanics Pedantic antics  Those wheels and cogs don’t respond when vigorously stirred, lines blurted   Years of scribbling to you  and for you  on bar napkins Tossed in bins,  black screens with orange font Never knowing what the fuck you want  Old school  College labs, notebooks:  every color of the rainbow  Shit you’ll never know  I lived for you,  But died for me  All for the love you didn’t see  The truth is… I need you here, near, dear  in it with me and in me.    No fear.  Pine My branches are thin,  but can hold a heavy load Your snow, my wind  and all the truth we spin  Identical waning gibbous moons poison bloom, ripped paper cranes   Fire dragon blood, cool blue Neptune In remembered kisses  Lips stained: teenage dirtbag red  Still I wanted you  Wrapped around me in every bed   Pine ...

I looked up the word pine,   Asked Siri, hoping   she’d have only one definition,  “fresh scented trees, often found on Alpine slopes,”  the kind coveted by  monied, tall Europeans swishing between pretty death traps on sticks,  boards or wheel-free wieldy mobiles  avoiding injury or worse:  breaking altogether.  I didn’t want the other definition, because if undefined, if ignored,  I could spend another 25, 30 years,  avoiding its tickle  at the back of my throat.  Its tingle at the base of my spine, intoxicating, icy, spicy kundalini.  But looking up at you: My pretty rewind machine  You are the perfect height, eyes locked perfect fit, bodies entangled perfect scent, fresh and rugged 1793 miles and less than two days is a gap  that changes nothing  When I remember standing  next to you (or laying)  hands clasped.  It’s pure  like snow immaculately, immortally  dressing those t...

There’s a word in Portuguese,  Maybe just Brazilian Portuguese… I’m not clear.  But I learned it last night from a man bouncing people from the Dubliner,  An ironically named drinking hole,  also far from its roots.  He was  1/3 urban cowboy, 1/3 Rastafarian, 1/3 the Sheriff yet to be shot.  This is the word:  Saudade It was described as never being able  to come home, that things will never be  the same.  But when I looked it up,  Because hearsay manipulates language,  I read something different. What it is:  Constant longing. As if something’s missing from what you once had or Believe you had.  And I thought, “FML!” as the kids type… (no one says much of anything anymore IRL)  What if that’s it? What if what I left, I’d never regained  What if: that WAS IT. What if I once had it, whatever it was and I can’t stop feeling its loss even if it actually Wasn’t what I thought it was.  Because  Whe...