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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v246) (the November / December 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Art is not Meant to be Touched cc&d 2013 collection book		get the 374 page July - Dec. 2013 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Untitled

Emilio Maldonado

Sometimes, feels like the last 15 years were spent by someone else
and then, it was me.
I’m the motherfucker,
I’m the enemy, I’m the reason.
It was my fault,
I killed Kennedy,
I paid for the poison,
the lives flushed were mine,
the loves lost were mine.

I opened the wrong door, turned on the wrong light,
went North ‘steada home,
went South ‘steada your place,
sat while you danced, drank while you danced,
danced when you wanted to talk,
smiled when you caught me looking at you,
played fun when it was time to get serious,
took that cab,
fell in the snow.

Goddamn organ grinder fucking monkey!
I chained my self.
I wore the monkey suit with pride, with glee.
Struttin’ around tellin’ the same bullshit stories,
surly, the same surly.

Wearing blinders that were meant for cowards,
I had mine fitted.
Watched Fred Fucking Anderson soar,
introducing me to dreams, synapses rewired
and clicked on by drums,
by sweat, by legs and cunts and asses,
eyes, and that spot on your arm:
the freckle I always owned,
the spot I claimed for only me,
forgetting now which one was mine,
letting someone else connect the dots!

Why does night have to be so short?

Love! Love! Love!
Three words I’ve yet to decipher, another thing I mislaid.
Nostalgia for it in the same way that I miss Mexico,
but I was raised in concrete and brick and green tree,
grey sidewalk sandpaper,
gypsies and that goddamn belt/overseer/rapist/slumlord/justice
that meted out welts
and screams
and death threats for ten years.

Platform shoes but never looking cool,
haircuts, and never looking cool,
tears on dirty cheeks (how the fuck were they always dirty?),
and gasping for breath,
thunder and fear and love and lust,
pride! pride...

Alleyways, shining in Chinatown with last night’s piss and this morning’s rain.

Nostalgia, for someone else’s stories, smells that went into different noses,

I’m running outta steam faster than a drum solo...
the trouble with life, the arm, baby strollers with broken wheels.
When will I get a meaningful erection again doc?
When did I ever mean an erection?
“Who let that guy in?”

I’m staring across a room and feel my blood rise,
‘cause that’s all I have left.
I’m all growls. It’s not even 4 AM.

I miss being whispered to.
I give to everyone but myself.
What I keep are the regrets and the jealousies.
I hate the look of my breath on the baker’s window.

Je suis desolee.
Je Desiree Tous!!!
Tous Motherfucker!!!
Le Tous!!!

My god, I forgot your freckles!
I said I would never forget them.

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