Jail Smells like a Maraschino Cherry

Image by Jacob Appelbaum. This evening seems to be never-ending. Thoughts and thoughts trash about in my cranium like woodland creatures foraging in the forest—keeping me awake, I stare up at the ceiling, counting the grooves on the rafters. The minutes tick slowly, seemingly backwards, then forward, pausing for a moment to tease me as I kick my covers off, pull them back up, writhing with a fevered intensity. One thirty-seven A.M.: I have reached the point of mild delirium. The sun has yet to rise; the sky is still a dark blue. I contemplate making coffee like some people contemplate grabbing a beer at noon time. It’s a lonely kind of misery made more so by the fact that there is a number in my contacts list that I want to call, except that at the moment, I have been exiled from her gated community.

       My thoughts — the desires that are ripping my heart apart — seem to be fashioned around the one that got away. The fevered intensity has ratcheted up a notch; in my nocturnal nostalgia, the air suddenly had the faint smell of her essence that clings to my skin like she used to. It feels like jail, a jail that smells like a maraschino cherry at two A.M. I wonder how long it will take to wash that smell off my skin — a minute, or maybe two days. Her face is etched on the irises of my eyes. Her smile is painted in my memory like a David Siquieros mural. When I clutch my chest, my arms are still molded to fit her contours.

       We were somewhere in between shy, stuttering kids and bored beat poets with existential thoughts and burning libidos. We talked about books, about politics, about music. We talk shit about chronic Instagramers. But when it came to us, we talked about anything other than tomorrow (the nights we fucked, we did so as if it was the last night on earth.) But something was there. It had to have been. Underneath lust’s lacy veneer, there was something deep and profound. I may have projected way too much onto her.

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Norma Jean (The Contrast of Remembrance)

Image by Beercha. Patience is the death of hope.

The mistake others force us to make.

Virtue for the sinner in the saint in the soul of the service.

Her talons are waiting, stretching at time, torturing like Torquemada’s tourniquet.

Fueling themselves with the pain of the untouched, unwanted, discarded in the details of another disaster.

Fire from heaven scorches flesh from the riot, fully protecting the juror’s old peers in the questions of darkness and depravation deprived of detailed reset time.

Give blood for the name that you scream from the floor while she laughs and holds high the bottle of your soul entrapped and entreated and entertained to the evils of good men.

Gimme more horse, whores, who’ers down Market or Bleeker or Couch or Printer’s Alley as the skyscrapers crumble into dust and disaster following fleeting feelings of flings in cities long central to colloquial ideals.

Spike hard.  Shoot fast.  Never touch the stars for fear of the dead.

Oral bruises near well preserved stab wounds.

Lust cripples the giant now reborn in flames.

Breathe in liquidity, vaporized in dreams.

Emulate.  Isolate.  Immolate.  Innoculate.

Patience is found in a bottle of gin.

Gimme a fucking cigarette.

EVENT: World Oceans Day Hangout

In honor of World’s Ocean Day, the Online Ocean Symposium will be hosting a series of three special meetings through Google’s Hangout conferencing.  Much in the way that some of the less environmentally concerned (our outright hazardous) corporations have been using advanced technologies like conference calling and video calling to hold closed meetings that advanced their agendas and lines their pockets at the expense of the oceans, we can now freely and easily use the same type of communications tools to combat the damage that has been done and bring awareness to our beautiful oceans.

It seems surprising to think that today, with the prevalence of social media crossing over into all aspects of life, through media, technology, and even helping to spur on revolution, then not enough has been said about the values that these platforms provide, and inherent opportunities within them for even greater social, political, and environmental change.  We here at the Online Ocean Symposium are quite the early adopters, but still even find ourselves in awe of the power of these tools.

With the Worlds Ocean Day coming soon, on June 8^th, we truly have a wonderful opportunity to use these tools and not only help to advance the cause, but strengthen an already growing community of activists across the globe who know are truly empowered in an international coalition of dreamers and earth shakers to accelerate the changes.

In combination with the Google Hangout, we will be running live feeds on Google+, Twitter, and Facebook enabling us  to educate, engage, and interact with supporters everywhere.  Participants in the Hangout include organizations as far geographically from each other as Jenifer Austin Foulkes, the program manager of the Google Ocean’s Program, in Mountain View, California; Richard Vevers from Catlin Seaview Survey and Underwater Earth in Australia; Mission Blue Board Member Sharon Kwok straight from Hong Kong, and of course, our very own Andrew Kornblatt will be moderating.  Each of these organizations is taking a very different tact, yet they are all attempting to achieve the same goal, and by working together, we can all do so much more.  These are just some examples of the people who will be participating, yet it clearly displays the truly global interconnectedness that we now possess, and the power of unity that comes from that.   

In the days before social media, it took 16 years for this day to be recognized by the United Nations after its initial proposal by the Canadian delegation at the RIO Earth Summit of 1992.  In the short 5 years since it’s official recognition, it has been able to garner incredible support from organizations and activists across the world, and by working together with all of the tools at our disposal, we are presented with the opportunity to create a change that won’t merely benefit our grandchildren or our children, but that we can proudly see the initial results of within our lifetimes.  We now have the ability to gather people who all over the globe who sympathize with this cause, and turn them not merely into supporters, but active participants, and create a chorus of voices that cannot be ignored.

Marilyn

Image by Derek Harper. Hit a blackjack at three in the morning,
Metal playing bears getting lost in the sheets.
The socks may have holes, but they stay on these feet.
She fell for a kiss and a shit-eating grin.
The limbs of these trees are twisted but calm.
Wake up with whispers and fingers that twitch.
Come again, come again; I can’t, I just can’t!
Smoke a cigarette to try and catch your breath.
Come again, and once more; my God, you’re unreal!
Feed the demon drive with the goals we have set.
“Patience, my boy, patience,” she said.
Impatience supplants the old nightmare scenes.
Sleep again is denied by hopes and daydreams.
Forty-eight hours to throttle the bleed.
So come again, come again, six will be half
Of a record to beat, and a challenge to eat.
Come again, and once more, the things you have said.
You’ll come back for more, oh yes, you will come again.
For the metal you need and a trick of the tongue.
Two minds set to racing, let’s outrace the sun.

Cigarette Smoke and Cocaine Mirrors

Image by Dr.K. Malibu sat with her legs crossed under her, up near the pillows on her bed.  Jack lay curled up in a neat fetal position with his head on her right leg as she prepared a couple of speedballs for them.  He was fairly sedate, as the drugs already coursing through his blood had slowed down his thoughts, and all that remained was a dull melancholy that she distracted him from, even if she couldn’t break it, but that he knew would disappear for a while as they consumed the stash they had prepared for the night.  The pills had taken turns kicking in successfully, and everything was combining nicely in his system to leave him with a vague and soft feeling of the tingles of pleasant warmth.   Occasionally between the steps, she would reach down and run her fingers through his hair.  It wasn’t unpleasant, but he had a notion that it should have felt better.  He couldn’t decide if that was the opioids, or if there was something he wasn’t thinking about.  He watched the way she carefully worked the lighter… and the cotton… and the needle… and none of it made a difference to him.  He had already stopped thinking about anything more than what he could see.

“Why did Sapphire leave you anyway?” she asked casually, tapping the air out of a syringe.  That’s what it was, and for a brief moment he tensed up, but the drugs quickly placed him back into the womb of numbness and relaxation.   “She gave up on me; said I couldn’t make her happy.” 

“Her loss.  Sit up.”  As he slowly raised himself upright and matched the way she sat, she put most things on the nightstand, turned her body towards him, grabbed his wrist and turned it over in her lap, kissed the inside of his arm just below the elbow, wrapped a tube around his bicep:  “Bite this.”

It was already well past midnight on Wednesday, and they had already been going for at least six hours, but they had agreed to have a last hurrah together, and had yet to even consume half of the drugs they had there.  Ironically, she wanted to be sure that she would be sober late the next night, as her boyfriend was coming over so she could end it with “that loser”, and she wasn’t sure the boy wouldn’t try suicide.  He didn’t care because he knew he would be dead before the sun could rise on Thursday.  For tonight though, they were just going to dance that excitingly dangerous dance of hedonism with coke and smack and weed and booze and ecstasy and Xanax and Norco.

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Oakland, I Love You

Oakland is the busiest port in Northern California.
Oakland is a large city - it takes about 4hrs 42min to fly from one end of Oakland to another. 

Oakland is 16x larger than Wales with a population of 2,000,234 people, and every second person is a writer, every third is an artist, every fourth is a spy, every fifth is a physicist and every sixth is a criminal.
Oakland is home and workplace of 2174 laureates of Nobel, Gandhi Peace, Lenin Peace, MTV, Olympic gold medalists and NFL Super Bowl champions, and Golden Globe and Heisman award winners.
168 generallisimuses, including Georgi Zhukov, Napoleon Bonaparte and Chiang-mai Kai-sheckel were born in Oakland.
Not many know, but at the West Oakland BART station, was crucified our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ; Oakland takes its name after that great martyr.
Oakland is the world’s only manufacturer of shower curtains.
Oakland captures around 200 opposition leaders each day.
All Oaklanders limp and 99% of them have sinus issues.
Oakland has been and continues to give birth to famous phrases and metaphors like ‘Excuse me, motherfucker’, ‘hella stoopid’ and ‘get yourself in a pickle’.
At the entrance to Oakland, the words engraved in gold on marble stone read: ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs’ - Karl Marx (he studied and played professional basketball in Oakland).
In Oakland boiling water is cold.
Oakland owes San Francisco $50 since, like, April 2011.
Oakland is shaped like Shakespeare from space (he is also from Oakland).

Relaxado en Persona

Image by böhringer friedrich. A verdict is cast; the judgment intent:
One final chance to recant and repent.
Hands bound; wooden post: relinquished reprieve.
Heretics silence is proof of consent.

Feel the fiery tongues lash out to cleave.
Eternal release; thy shroud they will weave,
Narrow her eyes, soft whisper a nocturne.
Iniquitous prayer: her soul cannot grieve.

Light up the candle! Light up the lantern!
Light up the kindling and let the flames burn.
Stare into light! Air is skeleton thin.
Stare into nothing! Nowhere left to turn.

Flesh blackened to dust, charred ash made of skin,
Her laughter reveals a hollow lament.
Everyone, Mistress, must pay for your sins.
Everyone, someday, will pay for their sins.

Glycerine Queen

Image by Mstyslav Chernov. You stole your fascination from another temple.
Deserving idolatry; taking more in reflection,
Hiding chapel paintings from yourself this time.
Words pouring from heaven: apocalyptic horses. 
Send plague after plague against all who offend.
At the feet of your throne, kneeling cannot succeed.
So turn down the sun, ‘til your sight is ice clean.

Can you even tell yourself the truth?
Porcelain surface, onyx soul, eyes of death:
Is there anything behind the mask? (What mask?)
Is it too bible black to let the shadows pass?

Body of Christ just to get through the night,
Just your frustration; ne’er your damnation.
Eternity is another lie: desire only passes time.
Go stone the heretic you lit on fire.
Like the hard beating heart of the angel you ate.
Blood doesn’t taste on your cobra tongue:
You had to lay the impure soul to waste.

When your ghouls have lashed away the flesh;
When there’s nothing left, nothing to replace:
Where will you hide your shame? (What shame?)
On that same devil’s name do you still place your blame?

On the Margins of the Margin

Image by Jaci Berkopec. She was twenty-three
when I met her by chance
(drinking Jack and ginger,
with eyes as dead as the evening.)

I said “hello”,
but those words echoed through her ears.
She focused on her drink,
stirring it, hoping for something.

I ordered a Maker’s Mark neat,
sipped a couple of casual sips,
put a coaster on my tumbler,
and stepped outside for a smoke.

She stepped outside and asked for a cigarette—
we talked about Oakland A’s baseball,
about how life is hard when you’re born
with your back already against the wall.

Her neckline dipped a little bit,
into a valley of light, cinnamon flesh.
It wasn’t a full-on exhibition,
but a man could get an idea of what he’s working with.

Her body was a road map
of scars and varicose veins.
A temple of bruises
and debauched sensibilities.

I went inside to tend to my neglected drink,
leaving her to her own devices,
while I tended to mine.
San José is something when you’re on the margins of the margin.

©2013 José-Ariel Cuevas

Meth and Madness, or: An Ordinary Evening Walking Past St. James Park in Downtown San José

Image by Infrogmation.The evening rages on,
like a kegger along fraternity row
near San José State University.
Well, the sun barely went down,
but the lunatic parade at the first hint of nightfall
makes it feel everlasting.
Meth and madness,
or: an ordinary evening
walking past St. James Park
in downtown San José.
The wind reverberates all along South First Street—
sounding sad, distant, discordant.
Bus after bus whistle past…
faces beaten up by life,
kicked by consequences,
spat upon by reality
adorn these windows,
while hipsters and modern day hippies
drink barley wine at a vegan shop.
Smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes
mingle with hipster-y talk
about Apple products
and revenge porn.
Bros and bros with ties
stumble out of a craft brew pub,
smoking Dunhill Lights and regaling
each other with their tales of conquest
and who has the largest expense account
(everything is a pissing contest with them.)
The evening rages on,
howling like a feral wolf,
or like the warbling
of the typical racist on Twitter.
I walk past it all
with a mind burdened by
my own tribulations,
dulled by moderately-priced beer,
piqued by natural, menthol cigarettes,
bummed by the current feeling
of being a man without a flag,
or a sympathetic ear
(beyond my circle of friends.)
It’s 9:37pm,
I am making my way to the bus stop.
My heart has nobody to beat for,
however, time is my current master.

©2013 José-Ariel Cuevas

A Cantankerous Deity with Plenty of Time On His Hands

Image by Håkan Svensson. Nostalgia: A rosy picture
painted by a mind
dealing with the inevitability
that the present didn’t unfold
as previously planned.
That all we are
are just grains of sand
sinking down the hourglass,
thrust downward by other granule realizations
that their dreams are stillbirth.
Perhaps that explains
why every step I take
feels heavy, or as if
I am trudging through a bed of
quick-drying cement.
Some might say that the future
is a blank slate,
that there is plenty of time
to dictate how
things end up.
But I trudge along,
weary, worried
that my slate is being filled
by a cantankerous deity
with plenty of time on his hands.

©2012 José-Ariel Cuevas