“I sit here before my computer, Amiguita, my altar on top of the monitor with the Virgen de Coatlalopeuh candle and copal incense burning. My companion, a wooden serpent staff with feathers, is to my right while I ponder the ways metaphor and symbol concretize the spirit and etherealize the body. The Writing is my whole life, it is my obsession. This vampire which is my talent does not suffer other suitors. Daily I court it, offer my neck to its teeth. This is the sacrifice that the act of creation requires, a blood sacrifice. For only through the body, through the pulling of flesh, can the human soul be transformed. And for images, words, stories to have this transformative power, they must arise from the human body--flesh and bone--and from the Earth's body--stone, sky, liquid, soil. This work, these images, piercing tongue or ear lobes with cactus needle, are my offerings, are my Aztecan blood sacrifices.” ― Gloria E. Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Man with a hieroglyph face

The city lights flicker a pale orange as the spark plugs in the twilight night recede and die out with the light pollution that fuels the dreamless madness of caffeine fueled adenosine blocked out insomniac trippers, hopping from one drug to the next.

This one keeps you up and this one can make you go down
                                                                                                                        down
                                                                                                                        down

They both rob you of you, but who, or what the flux, r u anyway?

Here, take this, watch this, consume this, be this, you want that, you need more, more, more!
HA HA HA HA !
What do you want to be ?!
HA HA HA HA!
get a degree~ be all you can be!
HA HA HA HA!
the show must go on !
This roller coaster never ever ever ends! only you do! so do you! do you?
HA HA HA HA!

Neeeeeeeeeeext!


The red and blue neon flashes "open" as the white fluorescent lights shimmer down on the monsters, next to Red Bulls and a handmade sign advertising Tostilokos.

It's witching hour and I am too far down the aisle to realize the terror in the tomato, and I am too self-conscious to even think twice about the strawberries, tu sabes.
Down the aisle Whitman and Ginsberg frolic among the bananas, and a man with wrinkles and a hieroglyph face paces back and forth between 27 varieties of Colgate toothpaste.

I'm here, at an slant angle to the shelf, searching for Juanita's canned menudo, mm mm good. 
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