momentously

I need you often,

more-often you,

like we were tonight.

I told you I loved you

and you asked if I was intoxicated.

I felt it I said it

I want you in doses

of tumbling, of blood and

sweat and grass

on our knees.

I love you like nostalgia

and endorphins.

I want you sometimes,

like your fiishnets and the hole

in your sweater

were the sexiest things.

I imagine,

mouth against neck against

waist,

but only sometimes.

I am distracted with our tumbling,

our words, our text, our heels,

momentously thrown over

heads, to hill, to head, to grass, to blood,

to sweat, to hearts,

to heads, to tumbling, to falling, to landing,

separately, yet again.

authentically-ethnic

so this girl from queens sends me a letter.

lecturing me about the native americans and fry bread,

how it wasn’t until federal rations, that indians made fry bread,

maybe I should have told her, that my tribe was not

federally recognized till the year I was born, so there were no rations,

maybe I should tell her, that my great-grandmother

 didn’t make fry bread, she made tortillas and pigeon soup,

 a single mother with eight children,

all picking cotton for survival, and no I don’t think that is a

ETHNICALLY-AUTHENTIC-TRADITION EITHER,

This was survival, the history of my ancestors is

about survival, not being authentically ethnic.

my mother has fond memories of pigeon soup, and fresh

tortillas, I have my grandfather, taking me for walks to

mexico city to buy pan dulce, in all actuality, the

bakery was only five blocks away, off Milpas street

in Santa Barbara, but we always had that journey,

how can I call my myself a REAL Indian, when i have

tortillas and pan dulce in my vocabulary,

how can I call myself a REAL Mexican, when I have

two lines of aryan German blood running through these

veins, I am not real, to choose an idenity is putting on a

costume, playing make believe.

 I don’t want to make you believe anything.

you already have it figured out for yourself.

short-story-short-winded

left a part of your heart when you went away,

my heart is thirsty and eager,

I am going to write a story,

where we are girlfriends, with

semi-matching tattoos and poetry that

rocks san francisco.

I am going to write a story of love

and hate, beer and tofu,

a cat in a studio, punk rock and gwen steffani,

making coffee on the stove on a sunday afternoon.

I have a tendency of writing people into my life.

the side effect, is that it always concludes in

one chapter. once it starts getting interesting,

and I am hooked on the story.

I could not imagine

writing a whole novel with you, having babies or

mutual property.

but I'd like you to stick around long enough,

for the plot to thicken. so depth can be added to your

character. character,

like a charming closet-sized room.

I guess what I am saying is,

that I am not giving up on this

short-story-written-long-distance.

let's just skip to the good part, o.k.

 

© luna maia