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.

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.

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

Cinema Vérité

Life before my eyes
unfolds like a cinema
of the absurd
and (self-)absorbed.

The plot lines seem
jagged and crooked,
as if the city has given up
spending on its infrastructure.

Love is born, and then it dies,
all the while,
traffic lights turn from green to red, to green again
(life goes on, whether you want it to or not.)

I observe all this,
self-conscious of
being a bad actor
in someone else’s movie.

©2012 José-Ariel Cuevas

Remembrance of Future Passed

My friends and my lovers, I ask you this please,

Do not sanctify me in deaths cold release.

Neither sully my name, nor embellish and lie.

Recall me the same, as you knew me to be.

My sins not forgotten, nor trespasses forgiven,

For I shall not forgive those who trespassed against.

As a sinner I lived, I shall remain when I die,

No flames of cremation can cleanse blood from my hands

Nor should my departure steal flaws from your minds.

Scatter my ashes o’er the land of my youth.

Let the wind guide my course, as it did in my life.

No more shall I protest, no longer cause strife.

With no maker to answer, nor judgment to face,

No blissful salvation, nor eternal damnation,

Freedom will at long last be my final peace.

Dance not on my grave, nor tread light on my name,

But, please, my dear friend, recall all is the same.

For while you remain, there’s still more to gain,

And mourn not for my passing; do not whittle your time.

Life is never a burden; more reward for a crime.

A life lived as mine, was full worth the cost,

So carry on, carry on, and continue to run!

There is still plenty to do, and little time left,

When your sunset comes night, leave behind no regrets.

Theological Casino

Image by Paul GlazzardAt times, I stand at a crossroads—

belief in the pre-ordained runs north and south;

belief in life being a series of coincidences running east and west.

I find myself here whenever I ruminate

over where I have ended up

(usually with a pint of Guinness.)

Is it all a consequence from walking this crooked road,

or is it a Jobian trial?

And for some reason, my imagination leads me

to this Christian parlor room, where more and more,

Pascal’s wager is becoming an attractive bet to take.

©2012 José-Ariel Cuevas

The Sky, Reflected

Image by bortescristian. The sky, reflecting 
and refracting,
seems like a vast,
celestial wasteland.

(That is what I see
while I wait patiently
for my coffee
to cool down a bit.)

An ocean pushing time
back and forth,
forth and back,
vertically and horizontally.

Here I sit holding a one-man congress,
while my near-and-dears
are leading important lives
(that is how it plays out in my mind.)

All the while, the well-to-do
that pass by me like errant cattle
look at me with that look they reserve
for the ones they hold with disdain.

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