dear lblogg, what's happened to my interface? none of the tools are visible, none of the buttons are available. do you just want me to leave ? i am composing in html box and i think what will this look like when i post? no sense to preview, i want the real thing.

el favela

you'd think i'd be immune to the shanty towns
lack of hygiene, dirty water carried on 
head or hip or maybe if lucky with a stick,
 two on a pole.  but the age of cholera begins
on a different continent and the bugs,
while similar in symptom, are as different
as koala and polar bears, so we die, nestfuls
of us, the living can't bury us fast enough
all the rains, all the rainy graves
 of water., let us drink, let us baptise
in this holiest of holes and complete
the becoming of the circle.





*






it's been quieter now we're old.
you tried to tell me how it is,
the fading, the forgetting. i'm glad
so many years are gone but why
is my uncle still pulling up my dress
why do i still pretend to sleep why
do i see the skeleton head of shock
theatre and mom ever since
she saw that hitchcock movie psycho
 scared to take a shower
even though she had a nice tile one
with a sliding glass door in the master
i am still walking in on her as she bathes
water  on skin, curled
upon herself not exactly hiding
breasts but not forthcooming saying
oops excuse me, i left my brush
then grabbing it and leaving like most
of the good times that i had with you
or anyone else because only pain
sticks by us, even when all else has passed.







































*







la favella is in my heart
she sings to me with a thousand
coughs in the wee morning
hours her perfume like the water
treatment plant, her hair tangled
power lines i grasp as we journey
the long ride in the back of the van
fueled by rumours and dreams.
we're coming to america haunted
by what it used to be. cardboard
signs become roofs and beds
which cannot keep us dry.

on the tv a man resembling my uncle says this land is not for us, says they are the elite, says go home, go home. but this is my home. this tiny scrap of wood and plaster pinned with electricity is where i live. we use memories to fuel the fire, but even the hard ones burn too fast in the long long night.

and that's the thing she said

 i want to look out this window and pretend
i have insight into what's out there.
but it's the same unfiltered courtyard
the same eyes staring from blackout
curtains so a glimpse of the sky
feels like some sort of freedom, crickets
sound an anthem for hot
  summer breezeways that lead to
  alt worlds.  i just want you to understand
it was too much to bear. the judgement
and questions ,implied or existant,
seemed unwelcome either way 
we couldn't talk anymore, standing
in a time poisoned river surrounded
by dead promises and rotting dreams
mourning the hot iron's unstruckness.

or maybe that's all in retrospect.
the sun does its usual thing out there
i've been stuck inside all day but i know
looks are deceiving. it's a sauna
outside, barely worth getting dressed for.






























*



i gave a party and only a third of the people
who responded showed up. there was way
too much food but i blame myself
for not checking in with the kid before
ordering. all i get is vague answers so maybe
that's the thing. i need to communicate
better, stop making assumptions.
i shoulda just made reservations
let them deal with it all. same price
easier on the body. or forget parties
completely because for reals
how is that better than just
buying the shit she needs outright.
the way i figure it, those blankets
and onesies and single box of diapers
cost about 30 bux a piece. and no crib
in sight.
somehow your desire to throw a shower
which is different from a dinner or party
became my plan and burden to bear.
it really sucks that's what i did. why?
i thought it would be cheaper. but not
in to day's age and time. nopes
it's better to have it a place
and just show up with the presents
and that's how you have a get
to know you gathering. live n learn
but i don't think i would need
to do that again.

shit. i just want to talk about it
and feel not so much justified
as damn woman, as shown a bit
of gratitude. yeah it's like the pops says
she's not very grateful. but
maybe she can learn.