weirdameriica

When I was about 14 years old, I made it a mission for God that I was going to "handle" the Devil by conjuring him up & yell at him of all goodness sake to not take for granted all the things in life God gives us.

So I went to the local cemetery, which was just a walk down my street away, to go stomp on some graves and wake some of the spirits up, so they can get the Devil's attention for me.

I figure, if I stomp on some of the graves, I can "wake up the spirits" and ask for the Devil, personally. So that, I did. Upon the entrance of the grave, with this very mission in mind and intent, the black crows that lined it's tree began cawing sporadically and violently — as a warning not to enter and do what it is I came there to do. Upon walking a couple of steps inside, my pantyhose then began to rip on both legs, horizontally. It didn't snag on anything, and I felt a male presence.

I began entering and found a woman & man's grave and began stomping on top of them, before making it back home.

A guest of my father's (I was living with him at the time) was staying the night, and upon a location behind the couch, her and I both felt a menacing male presence.

A quarter
is where
the duality of life
is at the flip of a coin.

Where there’s two sides
to every story. 

The portrait of an identity
on one side,
the foundation of one’s soul
on another.

A life that scratches at chance.

A gleam on one side,
shadow selves on the other. 

A quarter life crisis
is a dance along
the edges of duality,
into an insanity. 

That flips it’s shine & shade
on it’s head. 

Not knowing
where the change
may
fall.

A quarter life crisis
is a flip
a flight
a fling
that lands
on it’s side;
exposing the possibility
of duality
but lading somewhere
along
the rough ridged edge.

I.

He bent his knees to mine
as my train arrived
and gave me a breakup,
and an ‘i love you’
before he could exhale –
my legs still warm from his body.

It became commonly performed
and recited
as if it were his religion,
the train stop acting as his sanctuary.

The memory still haunts me,
but I move forward
with my face kissing the sky.

II.

Winter is everywhere
and I pave the steps closer
to my shelter,
pacing my breath with musical hums. 

I familiarize myself
with the unwelcoming scent
of cat urine
as I turn the door
into the apartment. 

Shes lying there
effortlessly composing sentences
with fixed detachment.
Carving my presence
with an emotional landscape
of withdrawal. 

Every word she speaks
feels like the end of a sentence.
Isolation sets in,
and she closes the door behind her.

III.

I retreat to the backdoor
of the building
and strike a match
to ignite the cigarette
between my lips.
Laughter
and
words
are exchanged below me
and I recognize her voice.
She never smokes in the back.
I shrug
and remove myself
towards the front of the building
in respect
to her unspoken wish
to avoid me. 

I exchange a few breaths
with the air
and retreat back into the place
I cannot call my home. 

As my body sinks
into a sea of blankets,
I daydream of a future
where I belong.

I “like” all the men
who
beat on their chest,
claiming “I am mind”
and that
“women are crazy”
yet
“better with babies”
And here’s where it starts not to rhyme :

Would you hand a woman in an insane asylum, a baby to care for?

In front of the feet,
of girls who can’t speak,
gaslit all their lives

I beg of you dears,
to start seeing clear :
it is them,
who’ve lost their minds

An exciting moment presents itself to me,
but I reserve the feelings. 

I freeze the moment in time
until I am safe enough to feel happy about it. 

Months from now,
I’ll be able to relive this memory
and let the feeling sink in. 

For now it’ll remain as insignificant
as the lint inside my pockets. 

Sheltering the idea
of someday feeling them
in the palm of my hand.

I.

I was born a golden china doll,

least that’s what everyone

taught me 

to be

II.

She sang I was her only 

sunshine

made her happy 

when skies are gray

over and over

until I could smile 

through the pain

III.

I learned 

how to close my eyes 

one day

where I lived 

more awake

IV.

I took spaceships 

to other worlds

I understood

 more fully 

than me 

counting

down 

the days

V.

Every sunrise 

I’d wake 

like an internal clockwork

to the echoing songs

the birds 

would line the walls 

of the parking lot 

below with

I was frozen and sore

but with my eyes closed

I knew

a vivid world of feathered creatures

had come to give me the wings I prayed for

VI.

I'm afraid

it's not rejection

I fear — 

it's grasping

the splendor

of

my

universe

I tuck

hidden

from behind

a

worn

down

wink,

and

losing

all the

splendor

to

a

line

drawn in the sand.

They don’t know him like I do.

One day he got the creative idea to “chase the sun”, 

I rode back-gun 

while he and my uncle 

rode shot. 

They had conversations about the world in scientific terms
that left me wanting more. 

They were both patient men,
gradually explaining each of my questions with pose and grace -
loading me with the energy of their beautiful minds. 

And when it was too complicated to answer, 

HE the one, told them all ‘she’s too young to understand’
and knew precisely how to distract me once again
bringing my mind back to the present - 

“we are here to chase the sun”. 

I remember my beam of energy
condensed in a tiny body,
wanting to decide from the back
where to go,
and they drove
to the distance my little fingers pointed. 

I wanted to see that sun up close,
and absorb it’s energy
like a healing sanctuary of light.

Fast forward.

My father comes crying into the room,
which I’d never seen him do up until this point. 

His face crumbled into his palms
as he sat on the edge of my bed. 

I ask him what’s wrong. 

“MY FAMILY LEFT ME, I MISS MY FAMILY”. 

I hold him in my arms and as I rock him
& let him know it’ll all be okay & to just let it out. 

When I tell him that I’m family too,
he stops crying abruptly
and hurries to leave me alone in the room. 

He leaves the house
& drives somewhere
with a bed in thebackseat of his van.

Fast forward.

I’m in his car and we’re driving to Sacramento again.
It’s always usually 2 hours to get there no matter
where we seem to move. 

I’m dark like the shoeshine

on the pedestal 

at her feet.

My tiny legs can’t dance

after stained carpets

and rugged hills 

anymore

because they echo in a haunting

of her,

the queen.

A worker ant

who’s home

doesn’t have doors 

anymore

the queen,

who’s life 

I’d give mine for

my crawlspace is out of time

I wanted to grow wings and fly once,

like her

but I think I’ll grow feathers 

instead.

Live life as if you’re on fire 

& 

burn burn burn

golden

Like the sparkling red bright

shining

on the end 

of a cigarette

Stay golden — 

like the speckling yellow filter

you crush

TIGHT

between your tips.

Live life as if you’re on fire

& 

burn burn burn.

I want to have him steeped — 

in the wrath I use to stir my tea

and make him feel the feathered down

till the gentle white falls all around

him

and his waist-side curve

of a crooked smile

where words escaped

and

gutted

my insides

I want him in my deep

right above the knee’s

and around my waist-side curve

in a life measured in hours, minutes — 

for just a fraction of a second,

what I would give

to dance

the thin line between,

with him — 

where words ignite

a pulse

to

our insides

I gently trace my fingers along

the edges of

where

the mountain

meets

the tall baby blue

above

I follow

the ridge

like a maestro

speaking language

with

a

soundless

caress

I know you

with eyes closed

In the darkness

to

where

I imagine there —

how to smooth

your edges

As we have been driven by our fear state, we seek immediate gratification, relief. We turn to films and shows of the lives of others we can escape ourselves into until we become non-living even just for a moment. 

In our rooms, our doors close so we can exist in a virtual reality. We’ve stopped caring about one another. We can remember the last time we made friends with our neighbors, as we knocked to see if they can “come out and play” - as we grow older we grow logical and we have forgotten where our hearts are. 

The world confuses us into a pretend adulthood where we refuse to see ourselves as children once. 

That we in fact have an inner child who wants to touch, connect, to come out and play. We are being groomed into an existence that’s autonomous, like the machine’s we will become. Where we believe in the logical realm is perfection - the correct dosage of feelings to where there are none. 

Because we lost cope with being imperfect.

We all talk about our days in a bland and factual manner, then we move on until we become even more so. Until we become so isolated, for without feelings - what’s the point of relationships. 

I bent my

knees

to the earth,

and

asked

to be rooted

down.

Besides

my mattress

is

a

warm place

where

the carpet fibers

have etched

my knees.

On Sundays

I would

tighten my palms

together

and

ask 

for the source — 

when 

the only light

I see

would be 

the

lamp

on my

nightstand.

Burying old memories,

only to have them 

resurface — 

as our surroundings 

bring forth

familiarity

and in turn,

teaches us

to live for

the feelings of

nostalgia — 

to bring us back

again.

I miss all those late AM prank calls to the sex hotline.

"Hello, this is Park Ranger Kelly, stuck out here buck naked, in the middle of nowhere..."

I remember how after he died. How it didn't hit me & I could still hear his voice in the distance of our room to 'come back'.

He used to say "I prayed for you, and you came". And how I remembered us together in a past life, married, spending our days talking about life & living — the purpose, drive, and meaning of it.

He was my eternal sunshine.

The greatest of all time.

Till we meet again...

so I could love you again...

live in peace, 

always watch over,

and know you are fondly missed.

Melancholia has reached me beyond the splendor of celebrating life, everyday. I'm told to get a gratefulness journal and count my blessings. You know, simpleton things, such as gratefulness for oxygen and clean drinking water — but I want more than just the spectacularness of the mundane. 

I want to be felt. Absorbed. Known.

Reach within me and tell me how I feel. 

There are emotions that rely on the description of my existence I fail to mention, for the words I cannot find suitable enough to describe such a kaleidoscope of different feels. 

How does one describe existence? 

Language doesn't due justice, just try and put into words how a song made you feel. You can to an extent but words make everything fall flat, in comparison to the abstract and varied states of existence, being, breathing, changing. Each note, a pulse of rapidly beating emotion.

A painting is easier to describe than the vastness of internally eternal space within one's self.

Ask me why I exist — the answer: I just be. 

I didn't ask for being created, but I'm beyond grateful that I can touch the space created for me to just be.

Going through a melancholic depression...wondering when it's going to clear for me. Children have so much creatively humorous energy that I borrow, in it's waves of euphoria and giddiness.

I wish I was a child.

As Kurt Cobain once said, 

"I wish I was like you, easily amused."

My letter to the Government,

I met 3 hostages released from who they describe as "The Devil" aka "Satan" - a gentleman with horns & black skin color, though I know him to be white and who's real name is Gabriel, aka Adam my husband. My name is "Sera", meaning evening, aka "Sarah" - Satan's savior, otherwise known as Jesus, with the "t" in the name Satan signifying I died on the cross back in the 1900s, who's also a letter away from the name "Sarah".

The hostages were reluctant to tell me his location or to take me to him, out of protection, but I ran into them in front of Cardena's grocery store off of Julian Street in San Jose, California. The third hostage I ran into was in front of the hotel off of The Alameda in San Jose, next door to Whole Foods grocery store. I'm guessing he (Satan) is hiding out underground, in the sewage tunnels or tunnel above/below, as the catacombs in France is relative to the situation and could be his old stomping ground. If you can, bring those devices that can sense thermal heat through walls & buildings, but look underground for him between those two regions mentioned above (Julian St & The Alameda streets).