Friday, April 30, 2010

Fragaria - Takes place in Strawberry, AZ ( Intro) I wrote this in 2004

In La Perra Flaca, St. Lazaro has set loose his emaciated stray dogs. Be weary of the dogs, for they know the scent of death, they know the nauseating smell of spoiled liver and tainted blood. They roam the pothole-riddled streets and rummage through heaps of garbage. The outline of the dogs’ ribs poke through their flea bitten skin. The dogs’ teeth are rotten and frail like crystal meth addicts.
The stench of sewage floats like a gaseous cloud over the desert border town. Immigrants from Sonora creep across the border to sit on dilapidated steps of junked trailers awaiting for trucks to pass by offering work for small wages.
     And just a few miles away in the metropolitan cities are Walmarts and strip clubs constructed on the aged meteorite rock of Arizona. Just a few miles away are paved roads and street lights. Just a few miles away are men in business suits that sip on lattes from Starbucks. There are golden arches that reflect the rising Arizona sun every morning.
     There are four states that border Mexico. Immigrants risk their lives every day by walking on cracked earth and crossing angry current rivers to go to El Norte. They flee to El Norte to the land of milk and honey only to find out that the breast milk of mama tierra is spoiled and the honey that once soaked the soil is now saturated with whiskey and urine. Mama tierra is livid and brutal and she’s punishing all of her inhabitants without discrimination. Mama tierra needs a papsmear, she needs a thousand bulldozers between her legs to clear ways layers of toxins and pollutants.
It’s time to summon Santo Nino de Atocha, protector of travelers, the unjustly imprisoned, and victims of accidents. However, the santos are on vacation because they’re overworked and underpaid. The santo’s hands are blistered and calloused from human overload. Not too far from Sonora, the santos are neglecting the women of Juarez because smudged red lipstick remains on the hands of two legged coyotes that savor women’s flesh. Not too far from Sonora, piles of parched bones and burgandy smocks lie in the desert and names of maquiladoras are etched on skulls and femurs. Not too far from Sonora, women are expendable, last page news, and equivalent to the peso. Not too far from Sonora a stench lingers through barbwire fences and tickles the noses of border patrol officers. Not too far from Sonora, in Juarez, meaningless breasts and wombs are strewn across vast amounts of land decaying. Brujas blancas are working overtime calling on the Virgen for assistance. The santos hands are comparable to the immigrants hands that worked on farms and built long lasting adobe houses with mud and water. White candles sit in the adobe-cubed windows for justice and peace and abuelitas still find paper board iglesias to make offerings to patron saints.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Waiting To Hear From Oysters & Chocolate

So far, my latest erotic piece entitled Orchid was rejected. Three more to go....

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Yellow Three # 6 ( The Healing Issue )

I went into my garage and started looking through old papers, magazines, books and I ran across one of my old zines. Yellow Three # 6  This issue of Yellow Three was from 2003 ! I'm going to type my intro from this issue, because I think it was pretty deep and relevant to date !  I think I'm going to reprint this issue and add some current information! This will be fun ! You can order copy(s) for $3 and $2 for postage !

Intro : This issue of Yellow Three will be the most meaningful and therapeutic issue I've created in a long time. First I must state this disclaimer, I'm not a a licensed anything, so with that being claimed, you can take this information however you want. However, if it does have a profound effect on you, please don't hesitate to let me know. All of my contact information will be throughout the zine.

If you feel that soneone else, especially a woman can benefit from this information, you have my permission to photocopy and pass it on. I want this issue to get into the hands of women who work two jobs, whom live in Watts, live in shelters, go to church every Sunday, live in exclusive areas of Maryland and Orange County. I want it to be shared. I decided to create this issues as a result of observing and experiencing discord and disharmony among my friends and family. I've come to the conclusion that so many of us our hurting inside and hate ourselves that we can't see the forest for the trees or we're so wrapped up in ourselves and only concerned  about what we want. So this issue is for everybody, but especially women, because we women here in American suffer from a racist, sexist and patriarchal society.

We're objectified and manipulated into competing and hating and sabotaging each other. So this issue is for mothers who hate their daughters, for mothers who control their families, for women who make six figures, for women who live alone, for women who've been in prison, for women who've had abortions, for women who've killed, for homeless, for upper class latte drinkers who don't associate with someone who lives in the ghetto and is on welfare ( that's classism by the way) for women who disown their girlfriends once they've found a man, for women who drive BMW's, for women who ride the bus, for women who have had sex to pay bills, for women who hate and abuse their bodies by over eating under eating and suicide, for women who are celibate, for women who are sexually active, for women who are jealous of their successful friends or family, for women who send email instead of phone calls or letters (that's so impersonal) for women who dislike lightskinned or darkskinned women, for women who abuse their children, husbands, their husbands, drugs, for women who don't listen, unemployed, for housewives, and stay @ home moms, for women who didn't have fathers, for women who grew up in foster homes, for women with purple weaves, blue contact lenses, natural hair, permed hair, etc.

I think you get the message now, I want this issue to pass thru the hands of many. This issue will contain some exercises, poetry, images, and rants that may resonate within. I know I'm going to strike a chord and hit some raw nerves that feel like cold air hitting a cavity. Please acknowledge those feelings and then let them go so that you can allow happiness into your life and healing. I could have put these thoughts into a manuscript form and sent it out to publishers. But I want to be accessible to every, not every body can afford a $15 to $20 book.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

When Winston Meth Crystal

Crystal is Aphrodite, Lilith,  Oshun, Erzulie, Bastet  cloaked in a hooded black robe who promises sweet sex and eternal orgasms. Crystal has many suitors, male and female.
Crystal can be found between the mattresses of seedy motels, on street corners, in the glove compartment or in a teen’s back pack.  She offers several sleepless nights, indiscriminate sex and the daily threat of death disguised as euphoria.
The conversation about Crystal was held over pancakes and coffee at a local café in Long Beach called The Potholder in late 2006 or early 2007. This is not an unusual engagement since, Winston and I often indulged in the act of drinking coffee over deep conversations regarding politics, sex, religion, etc.
The revelation slipped in between the clatter of utensils and bells ringing from the door of the café. “ Jackie, I need to tell you something” stated Winston.
“Ok, go ahead.” I responded as I dabbed a piece of pancake in butter and syrup.
Winston took a long sip of coffee. He maneuvered and shifted in his seat as if we sat in a dimly lit bar with cigarettes hanging off our lips.
“I’ve been experimenting” Winston confessed.
“Experimenting with what?” I asked as I took a sip of my coffee.
“Experimenting with drugs.”  he answered.
“Ok go ahead.” I responded with a blank stare on my face. Winston proceeded to give me details of drug laced stories involving porn actors and third parties. I didn’t blink as he disclosed the sordid details of this double life he’d been leading.
“So what do you think?” inquired Winston.
“Well…” I paused as I dabbed another slice of pancake in buttery syrup.
“You are an adult and you must be prepared for the consequences of your choices.”
Winston had a history of inflating and creating elaborate stories about himself. He often said and did things just for shock value.
“That’s it ?” said Winston.
“Aren’t you shocked?” he asked
“Well, what do you want me to say… or do? You want me to scold you or cuss you out? You’re gonna do what you want to anyway (pause) just be prepared for the consequences of your choices, especially since you know that you have a family.” I explained. When I think back on this conversation we had over pancakes and coffee, maybe I should have cussed Winston out. Maybe I should have displayed utter disgust when he told me about Crystal because maybe, just maybe, he’d be here today if I did.
When Winston revealed that he was experimenting with the drug Crystal Meth, that’s what I took it as, an “experiment”. I had no idea how deeply in love Winston was with Crystal. I had no idea of the depth of this love affair until almost a year later Winston’s brother called my husband one day and requested my husband to go talk to Winston because Winston was out of control. My husband and I drove to a Starbucks in the Inland Empire and met with Winston and his brother, Don. The meeting was short of a scene on The Jerry Springer or Maury Povich show. We yelled over lattes and crumb cake. At one time, I stood, and pointed my finger at Winston with anger and disappointment.
Winston was always welcomed at our apartment, any time. If we were asleep we just wouldn’t answer the phone.  The times he came over, who knows whether Winston was high or not. I could tell when someone was drunk or high from marijuana but when it came to the more serious drugs, I had no idea. It was later when other friends informed me about the signs and symptoms of Crystal Meth.  One of those signs, was an extreme craving for sugary foods which explained why Winston devoured the Starbucks crumb cake that day of our disastrous meeting. I thought perhaps he was very hungry and that’s why crumbs were left on the corner of his mouth and cheeks. However, I was wrong. It was a side effect of the use of Crystal Meth. This is why so many meth users have bad deteriorating teeth. It’s because of the use of Crystal Methamphetamine.
In January of 2009, Winston dropped by early one morning. He sat on the brick steps of my house with a newspaper and  smoked cigarette until I woke to open the door.  When I let Winston in, I noticed his sullen face, he lost a significant amount of weight, and his clothes were stained and worn. Winston was a great cook, so I asked him to cook he and I breakfast. Winston visited and cooked for me often in exchange for a typed letter, revised resume, or essay for a class. I put on a jazz radio station for Winston and brewed a pot of coffee and waited for breakfast.
Winston hummed to the jazz as he meticulously chopped potatoes and sautéed onions and mushrooms.  He whizzed in the kitchen rhythmically from cabinet to refrigerator to cupboard retrieving spices, eggs, cooking utensils.  He set the table with two matching plates and silverware. Once breakfast was ready, Winston and I sat at the bar and sipped our coffee.
“Jackie, I’m tired…I want to stop.”  he said. Winston had constantly refused entering a rehab, he thought the rehabilitation process was a waste of time. Winston worked as a mental health worker for 13 years and possessed some knowledge in regards to the system and drug abuse.
“Winston, you’re working your guardian angel overtime, one day they’re gonna throw in the towel” I replied.
Although Winston laughed at my statement, I saw in his eyes that he agreed with what I said.
“Is this how you wanna go out, is this how you wanna be remembered ? Think about your daughter.” I also told Winston that this visit was accompanied by darkness and it didn’t feel “right” to me. He shunned my feelings and answered his cell and left. We didn’t see Winston for days and then one very windy and cold night in February. Winston showed up on our doorstep. He incessantly coughed and hacked. By then, I knew these were withdrawals. My husband thought he had a cold. But from previous conversations with Winston I knew he hadn’t stopped using, contrary to what he told my husband. Winston fell asleep on our couch and could not be removed. His body went into torpor. We left him there to sleep over night and he coughed and coughed but still never opened his eyes. I could not sleep. I got up and wrote a poem about Winston at 3am:
Death is Tailgating
I have watched Death tail gate my friend.
His sharp turns, sudden taps on the brakes
or grand prix skills cannot out maneuver
Death’s fixation on his fate.
Crystal Methology is my friend’s psychology
and she’s in the passenger
seat with the window down
smiling wanting to paint
the whole town red before he’s dead.
My friend’s hands are gripped on the
steering wheel tight and zombie like.
The smell of death
flows through tail pipes and flashing reds
of motel signs and street lights
control his nights.
As air blows through Crystal’s hair
Highway patrolmen  pass and stare
while his skeletal reflection
in their mirrored shades
is a detection that Death is near.
I am just a jay walker
rushing to avoid a deadly collision
as days and nights of bad decisions
pop his veins.
No bull’s eye on my breasts
or daggers through my chest.
I may flirt with the mysteries
of the night but I do not, will not flirt with Death.

Winston slept for a day and a half. I took pictures of him as he lay on our couch as if he were in a coffin. When he finally woke, he was like a new person. He showered and sang loudly and happily in our shower. Winston then left and headed to the unknown. In between Winston’s unannounced visits, my brother was on leave from the military and stayed with us for a couple of weeks. My brother had met Winston during a few occasions but didn’t know him as well as my husband and I. Brian convinced Winston to take an exam to enlist in the Army. Brian told Winston that he could receive monies toward his daughter’s education. That was good enough for Winston. Winston went to downtown Long Beach and took the exam. The following day Brian told me Winston scored very high on the exam. In another day or two, Brian told me although Winston did very well on his exam, he had two felonies on his record. My husband and I weren’t aware of this. Winston didn’t come around for a while after the military background check. I missed his cooking and conversation. We missed his unannounced visits and debates.
One afternoon when returning home on April 15th I checked the messages on the voicemail. It was Winston’s sister, Michelle. I listened to the message and tears began to stream down my cheeks. Winston had been shot and killed the night before by a security guard. His death was covered on the local news. Many thoughts raced through my mind, was Winston under witness protection? He shared stories about helping a prostitute try to turn her life around, or about encouraging other users to do the right thing. Many mornings after Winston’s death, I waited for that early morning knock on my door, hoping that it would be Winston, ready to cook my breakfast and explain how he was able to fake his death in some elaborate undercover scheme. However, it never happened. Winston was gone, forever, and not by a needle left in his arm slumped over in some dirty gas station bathroom, but by a bullet, three of them. Crystal is GOD, she reigns on Beach & Ball ( streets in Stanton, CA). Crystal is queen of the underworld, Crystal is Aphrodite, Lilith,  Oshun, Erzulie, Bastet  cloaked in a hooded black robe who promised sweet sex and eternal orgasms but only delivered death.

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