I fell asleep sad last night, sad about things that weren’t said, about being in the shadows and hearing only mangled whispers, forcing me to invent, imagine in dramatic poetic endings. That is what poets do when not given words, we make them up, even if they aren’t accurate reflections of anything except of the landscapes we see on the inside of our eyelids when we sleep.
Last night when I slept, I had a dream that I was inside a fiery explosion that burned 96% of my body. I was ashamed. I didn’t want to tell anyone, not even my mother of the charred skin I hid beneath my clothes.Then I found myself in a dark room, that was some sort of a zoo, except there were no cages, just hanging glass frames of animals moving up and down.
What is left after 96% of your skin is burned? Do you move inside and burn what’s left inside the body cavity, destroy any working organs? And then after that? Can you burn your soul down to nothing? Ash to be discarded, blown away.
Sometimes I wish for miserable complacency again. For not knowing hope cuz then you want too much.
Never trust a poet to keep your secrets.
They read between the lines
and weave together fragments
creating a story quilt
that can fan flames but also smother them.
Never trust a poet to be discrete.
It’s not in their nature.
They are like parasites
sucking molocules of life
to survive and making them their own
making them into a song
they are compelled to sing.
Never trust a poet not to kiss and tell
telling is all they know
they paint portraits and landscapes
with their bodies, their mouths.
Never trust a poet
even if that poet is you.
I feel like I’ve been living in borrowed space, borrowed time with borrowed people for a little bit now. It’s been a week or so since I’ve been locked out of my online casita, MamitaMala. It’s funny. I was Mamita Mala before I was a blogger and yet, blogging and the community carved from it, has been unbelievably important, full of impact and implications. So, call me an addict for missing the blog as an outlet, but it really is an extension of myself and my life reaching in and then out.
So the chica, who struggles with the desire for home and homeland, the mujer who fights against borders, outlines and claims another space, an tent city for my exiled words, aqui.
It feels a little silly, the attention paid to the details here. The dark colors reflecting my morning/mourning mood this morning and now the meticulously designed banner courtesy of Xolagrafik , (mil gracias Nezua for capturing) reflecting the Nuyorican poeta/puta. All this for a home that is not permanant, pero rather an in between space.
Pero it makes sense. It reflects my in between heart that knows where it wants to be but has a long way to go to get there.
So si, bienvenida to the neon lit ciudad until it too, burns away.
..and I am talking about more than my blog. And yes, I am talking to you.
Take what you will. I don’t know how much more I am expected to give, to hope, to dream at night when the mornings are the same.