awritercalledconsilio-blog

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

offerings

watch me pull off my skin

and expose my muscles

organs

veins

to the air

take my heart from out my finger bones

and hold it

to your ear

can you hear the ocean

that roars and flows within?

peel back my scalp

cut a hole in my skull

pull out the brain

piece

by

piece

see the horrors each neuron has created

see the infatuations and rabbit holes

see the achievements and unwashed laundry

see every hope that hoped against hope

only to be crushed under circumstance’s foot

swallow every memory

chew on forgetfulness

piece the grey matter back together again

if you can

i offer you a femur

and a ribcage

and four toes

use them as drumsticks

to try and beat the devils

that skirt about your feet

use every sinew

every tendon

every nerve

create a sculpture worth seeing

something to draw a tear from both the ostentatious echelon

and the curious child

write a story with my blood

so others will know

that they are not alone

in this

in this emptiness

in this desire to dig their nails into epithelium

and rip off their leather coat

they say i show too much

that there is such a thing as oversharing

and that to place these pieces

in other people’s hands

is a mistake

put your skin back on

they say

put that skin back on

and so i do

but I always leave

the zipper running up my spine

slightly undone.

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

Conversations in Tartarus

“I don’t want your firstborn,”

The devil said.

“Or your immortal soul.

I have plenty of those already.”

“I see no need to clutter up my bookshelves

With ever more trapped spirits in jars,

And all these firstborn babies

Cry and give me a headache.”

“Instead,

Give me your fingers and your toes.

Give me a lock of hair and your favorite song.

Give me your eyes and your beating heart.”

“I want the space in between two lovers as they waltz,

I want the weeds in every garden,

A single button in a glass box.

I want your first kiss under a full moon,

I want the embers that fly from a house fire.”

“Offer your third grade art projects,

And every time you drove above the speed limit.

I want the sand that blows into your mouth,

And all your baby teeth.”

“I crave each rainbow that a window shines on the carpet,

I ask for your favorite constellations,

I desire the words you regret saying,

And the ones you’d never take back.”

“There is so much of this world,”

The devil said, its fangs turning to a frown,

“That I have never known.

I crave to tap-dance, to take a bath, to write a symphony,

But I am to afraid to traverse the earth above,

So I sit in hell and suffer and suffer and suffer.”

“Can you give me this,

And the rest too?”

His yellow hungry eyes asked.

“Could you offer the sound of a hummingbird’s wings,

Your phobias and fears,

The dark shadows your mind makes into serial killers and sirens?”

I softly took the demon’s red hand,

His long, sharp fingers digging slightly into my palm.

“Oh, you wretched thing…”

I said, voice filled with regret.

“What you ask for, I cannot give.

What you demand, I cannot offer.

For breaths are to be breathed firsthand,

Not grasped and stolen from another.”

“The only way,”

I spoke into his ear.

“Is to climb up back to earth,

And live,

And live,

And live,

And live.

You must fly and fall on your own merit,

And dance and stumble on your own feet.

There is a beautiful and treacherous world up there,

But you can only find it on your own.

Take my soul, if you wish to steal another,

But it will not grant you any joys

That could compare to ones you’d earn above.”

I released his hand, and backed away,

Lamenting that I had to leave.

And nodding, the two of us departed thence,

On separate paths towards the world above.

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

atlas wept

that morning

god stood tall

and atlas held the continents in place

we were so certain of the way the earth spun on its axis

the way the sky did not demand to be seen

the way the unwavering giants stood as a monument to normalcy

and then a morning commute dropped from the stratosphere straight into hell

i pray the passengers didn’t look out the little windows

i pray the secretaries didn’t look out the big ones

and the heavens turned black and red

and demonic confetti spiraled down from the skies as

mouths gaped open in a collective

oh

my

god

and horror after horror turned the living room into a prayer hall

trying to force our hands through the screen to catch the falling businessmen

whose ties stood up like unyielding soldiers about to die

soon the crashing glass and steel joined them on the pavement

obscene mushroom clouds devouring new york

and the worst part was the absence of sirens

because there were no more fires to be put out

no more hearts to restart

only quiet, white dust settling like cancer in the veins of the city

the empty skyline was seen from south america

smoke filled the air in zimbabwe

a wedding ring washed up on the shores of hiroshima

that night

god stumbled

and atlas wept

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

THE 5 STAGES OF GRIEF FOLLOWING THE ACCIDENTAL DELETION OF AN ESSAY

DENIAL

You refresh the page. And you refresh it again. Wasn’t it just there, your beautiful, eloquent piece on the French Revolution? Surely the wifi is just messing with Google Docs. You try going onto your neighbor’s wifi. After all, they’re fools, and named their wifi “FBI Van” whilst giving it the password “internet”. Oh, the irony. Strange. The neighbor’s wifi isn’t helping matters at all. Look in the trash bin. Wait… Google Docs doesn’t have a trash bin?  Then where do all of the accidentally deleted documents go? The abyss? The nether on your brother’s Minecraft server? In a secret file on a supercomputer only accessible if you’re a grungy government-hired white-hat incel named Brian? Impossible to tell.

ANGER

Why the hell did you do the stupid assignment anyway? It’s hardly like the French Revolution affects your everyday life. Who gives two craps if Robespierre cut off the head of Marie Antoinette? It’s all old news. You like to live in the now, if only your History 1510 Professor, Pamela, would actually teach relevant stuff. Like World War II. You like World War II. There’s guns, and explosions, and killing Nazis. Maybe even zombie Nazis. You should send Pamela an email, and tell her all the reasons why her class is useless and you’ll never actually use it in your everyday life. Tell her that she should focus on fixing the broken marriage she complains about in every class period, instead of spouting facts about the historical inaccuracies of the Scarlet Pimpernel. That’d teach Pamela, and her sweat-pants wearing, ugly cat-eye glasses wearing face.

BARGAINING

Maybe, if you beg Pamela enough, she’ll be willing to extend the deadline. After all, she seems like a nice lady, right? You take back everything you said about her sweat pants and glasses. They’re lovely. Pamela is a fashion icon. You should probably mention that in your email. She’d understand a simple mistake. After all, people probably delete their essays all the time! If only people were as easy to rid yourself of… well, for Robespierre, it was that easy. Just a simple trip to the guillotine and your enemies were no more. Pamela should try that, maybe then she could finally be free of her husband who hosts too many poker nights and doesn’t like her Chihuahua.

DEPRESSION

WHY? WHY? WHY? Why did you choose to come to college anyway? Everyone knows that you’re a complete numbskull. Even Peter Frankley in your senior year class, the guy who ate paint and kissed the principal got a better ACT scores than you. If a complete buffoon like that is smarter, then what’s the point? You should quit school and become a traveling musician, playing for your living on idyllic street corners in Boston or Chicago. But then again, you don’t know how to play any instruments, except for the recorder, and even then you only know “Ode to Joy”. So really, there aren’t any pleasant options. You wonder if Marie Antoinette thought “finally, some peace.” when her head got sliced off. If so, you relate to her on a spiritual level.

ACCEPTANCE

Well, feeling sorry for yourself isn’t solving anything. If Peter Frankley can recover from hospitalization from setting his own underwear on fire, you can write an essay twice. What’s the time? 11:29. You still have thirty minutes to whip up whatever smoke and mirrors you can about Robespierre’s exploits. Maybe if you put in a pun, Pamela will add a few extra points. Well, this paper isn’t going to write itself. Hmm… this essay needs a little spice. A catchy hook, something to grab Pamela’s attention. Perhaps… ah, perfect. If Marie Antoinette thought “finally, some peace” as her head was sliced off by an angry mob of revolutionaries, then the writer understand her on a spiritual level…

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

portrait of a thursday parking lot

motorcycles are loud,

even through layers of silica.

their riders never head straight for the

rows of metal cattle lined up on the curb,

they always prance through the parking lot

like peacocks, engine revving,

tires racing,

vivid displays of testosterone.

white, it seems, is a safe choice,

but comes with its own dangers.

for surely, dozens are lost

each evening

in the sea of inoffensive color.

few opt for canary beetles,

tangerine mazdas,

lime camrys,

range rovers the color of macaroni,

but these ones are never known

to fish the key fob out a pocket,

hoping to aimlessly click.

three red jeeps.

one abandoned,

waiting by the handicapped space,

headlights hollow,

roof sizzling,

waiting for its owner

to return with starbucks cups

and heavy bags.

another restless,

wandering the aisles,

desperate for an empty slot.

or perhaps,

its fresh coat of paint reminds me,

it mirrors the motorheads.

eager to show the depth of rich pockets,

coruscating metal blinding the windshields

of secondhand corollas

and salvage title civics.

in the third, a driver waits.

hands off the wheel,

held intertwined in their lap.

the fingers form a fleshy vase,

collecting teardrops

or accumulations of sweat.

perhaps heartbreak came in the form

of a text,

or sorrow in the form of a phone call.

maybe scoops didn’t have their favorite flavor,

maybe the vending machine didn’t offer

a bag of grandma’s kettle cooked salt and vinegar chips.

maybe the track team rejected,

the drama club dismissed,

the one they thought they’d take to san diego

rebuffed them without a single thought.

maybe the equations and ruminations

of long dead luminaries

tangled and tore inside their mind,

and they left class early

to hide in a rusty old jeep.

maybe, they called their mom,

said i just can’t do this anymore,

and hung up.

maybe.

but before i can whisper

i love you

to the battered, faded car

it pulls out of the parking spot

and soars out of view.

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

jessica reads palms on sunday nights

her crystal ball lies in a dusty box

(not nearly as popular this year)

and her eyesight isn’t what it used to be

so now she reads palms

on sunday nights.

most people never visit this part

of the fairground,

so when faces peer into the opening of the tent

she always pours the chamomile

and gives her best ersatz smile

speaking in a feigned accent,

come and learn your fortune, darling.

dimly shining candles,

the smell of tobacco and marijuana in the haze

smoky lidded eyes, fingernails in creases

skin on skin, softly moving lips

occasional exclamations

as she murmurs

your life line is long,

and apollo’s curve possesses a star,

i can feel the blessings of aquarius, my child.

the customers nod

with shades of pleasure and discomfort

while she keeps her eyes closed

her index finger moving across their outstretched hand.

she always gives good fortunes,

and they always put five dollars on the linen tablecloth

as she offers them a star chart.

a good business she runs,

even in the hard times.

when they leave she pours more chamomile,

stirring in an antidepressant.

she rubs her hands together,

searching for a line

or mount or fingerprint

that could explain

the shadows that linger in the corners of well-lit rooms.

she counts the tarot cards

then shuffles them,

hoping this time all the pictures will make sense,

and they’ll tell her what to do when

the stars explode and leave shards in her eyes

that make her cry and cry and cry

when no one is around to listen.

sometimes she pulls the dusty crystal ball out of its case

and stares into it,

desperate for something to appear in the sphere,

an aligning star off the path of jupiter,

or another reason to clutch onto hope,

but all she sees is her smoky, hollow eyes

and pale hands

reflected in the glass.

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

who sunk the ship of theseus?

when i say i’m gay

my heart waves a rainbow banner about me,

and my aorta mutters a joke about not being able to drive straight.

every rod and cone in my eyes glitter,

the pit of my stomach becomes the stonewall inn

and my chest has the date june 26th, 2015 written on it.

when i say i’m a latter-day saint

i clutch a triple combination in my hands.

my arms pull a handcart with ellen walmsley clegg,

and my vertebrae turns to the gravestones of children buried on the plains.

my feet are wet with galilee’s waves,

my tongue turned to carrot jello and my shoes tied to skis.

when i say i’m a gay mormon,

i choke.

those two words fistfight up my throat,

and drown each other in saliva

in a struggle for supremacy.

all I have to cough up is a wet ball

of rainbow fabric and bible verses.

it seems those letters detest to be seen together.

all this a conundrum,

an unsolved equation,

a war.

i stand on a tightrope of barbed wire,

my toes ripped up by obligations until no longer recognizable.

faces stare from either end,

mouths shrieking and fingers pointing.

some say i should be an atheist by now,

pink haired and smoking cigarettes.

insisting i am not yet who i could be,

that there is a single, logical endpoint of

aesthetics and esoterica i should, at some point, achieve.

others insist i am already god’s enemy,

claiming i should be in bolivia,

with an itchy white collar

and tie noosed about me,

but there is more than one way to talk of god.

no matter what i say, they won’t cease their shrieking.

when are you leaving on your mission why are you still a virgin does it say something in your patriarchal blessing about this why do you still go to a homophobic church i hate the sin not the sinner they have to accept you for who you are this is a choice try grindr it’ll be fun have you prayed about it if you’re not into drag you’re probably a homophobe no unclean thing can enter the kingdom of god this is the hill mormonism will die on homosexual and lesbian behavior is a serious sin this is your identity be proud of it if you find yourself struggling with same-gender attraction or you are being persuaded to participate in inappropriate behavior seek counsel from your parents and bishop they will help you conversion therapy only contributes to suicide in LGBTQ+ youth look at what the world is coming to the church donated to proposition 8 that’s so disgusting marriage between a man and a woman is ordained of god utah valley is such an intolerant place choose ye this day whom ye will serve being gay isnt a choice but homophobia is who is on the lords side i stand with orlando choose love choose god choose choose choose

i cannot bring myself to go to a pride parade

for fear of unwanted hands and wandering gazes,

for fear that there is only one prescribed religion,

and it is that of lust.

knowing i think it only because I’ve been taught to,

but still fearing if it’s true.

wondering if my devotion merely erases me,

makes me an outsider,

makes me someone who does not belong

a traitor,

a wishy-washy fool,

a homophobe.

and every time I enter a church,

guilt infects every cell and sweat baptizes my collar,

for fear that the picture of god I paint is wrong,

and that he sees my love as a sin,

and if not a sin, a mistake,

and if not a mistake, a lesser form of love.

i dread the day when I can no longer enter a temple,

because I slipped a ring on the finger of the one I wish I could marry there.

choose, every moment seems to say.

but I cannot.

one cannot cut out half their heart and survive.

and so I remain on the tightrope,

blood dripping from my feet,

the faces still harmonizing in monstrous chorus,

CHOOSE CHOOSE CHOOSE.

i never can.

so I fall.

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

c0mp4ssi0n/was/d3ad/by/s1xt33n

we now burn every city from a comfortable distance

as long as go kill yourself

and your rediculous and cant form a coherent argument

and anyone who likes him is a racist bigot

and you’re such an ugly slut

and go to hell, homos

are written by our dirty

dirty fingertips

if we said half the things we wrote

perhaps our own voiceboxes would become traitors

and hemorrhage and break before they’d cut lifelines

and we’d be self-inflicted mutes from our own cruelty

but fingers, strangely, do not know to hesitate

not when curled into fists

nor swiftly tapdancing on plastic keys

they come with an obedience and bravery not found on the lips

did rationality leave for a lunch break?

and did anarchy take her seat while she was gone?

jesters and fools

once restricted by the distance that a single sound can carry

are now a brilliant cesspool

that drowns every

single lonely

lonely person

sitting on an icy pedestal

and any time heads rise above the surface to gasp for air

another volley of bombs are eagerly rained from the sky

you used to topple skyscrapers from up close

watched flesh give birth to ash and be forced to reconcile

with your loathing

but now from your comfortable

comfortable jet plane

you watch the ruins

and laugh

because from this high up

you cannot hear the screams

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

moondust on your fingertips

mrs aldrin / mrs armstrong / look up into the night sky / look at the silver disk that hangs by a thread / in front of a few hidden constellations / wring your hands / and bite your nails / and purse your lips together / whatever you must do to keep your gaze on that shining orb / it’s alright to worry, darlings / it’s alright to wonder if the void will take your love away / no one has ever done this before / and few will do it after / so keep gripping the hem of your skirt / and tugging on your glasses / keep following the soaring needle with your finger / counting the seconds and miles that he has been away / keep praying with every heartbeat that the phone will not ring / or that the announcer on the television screen will not stop cold in his tracks / mrs collins / one mustn’t forget you / we always seem to / your worries and shallow breaths are equal / the one you love may not be standing on an alien landscape / but he is the loneliest man / as he spins on the dark side of the moon / a behemoth between him and every living person / he orbited your heart first / and still calls to you / despite the sea of grey that divides / people will remember this / yes, they will remember / twenty / thirty / fifty years from now / their names will still be carved on the walls of innovation and the altar of exploration / you / and you / and you / are the reason that they fly / you are the flames that shoot their rockets and the code that guides their computer / there is only so much one can do in the name of ambition / and curiosity / one needs someone to do it all for / someone to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches / and kiss goodbye and try to hide their tears / someone to think of when treading on that foreign world / someone to wave to as the earth rises on the horizon / a distant watercolor painting / the continents only green brushstrokes / there must be someone to call to / when they say “hello, world” / it is you / on the ground / looking up / who should be celebrated / just as much as the one floating in the sky / it is everyone like you / who lifts the luminaries to whom they are bound / who loves the geniuses even when they fall / that are the reason we’ve come this far / you set the dinner table while they ran on the treadmill / you mowed the lawn and trimmed the bushes as they swam underwater in a space suit / you raised a family as the rocket was raised hundreds of feet high / you flew the two hundred and thirty eight thousand nine hundred miles with them / fingers intertwined / you dug your high heels into the lunar dust / and shivered against the cold void / you pulled down your sunglasses and smiled at that star / letting yourself bathe in the reflected glow / all while you stood in the living room / glued to the television / that might have been one small step for man / up there on the moon / but all the astronauts can think about / the only steps that matter / are the steps they’ll take towards home / towards the women waiting on the airstrip / hair blowing in the wind / lipstick broken by a smile / the small steps towards you

[awritercalledconsilio-blog]

CONSILIO

[Latin] (adverb) intentionally, purposefully, by design.

lovely to meet you.