I became a full Mexican even though I was only a third
because the truth would muddle the impact.
Wit is brevity, and purebreds have more value
than mutts in dog pounds and in poetry.
I fleshed out my life with reality TV.
I had been an amateur until reality kings
perfected my POV. I plagiarized pop lyrics
and sprinkled in “soul.” I created a grandfather
I had never known but had seen in novellas
I watched with my abuela, a word I never used
until election campaigns introduced it to me.
I never learned Spanish. I chose French
because the goth girl in class introduced me
to the Cure, cocaine, and poetry,
all things I remember more fondly than Cancun,
which I went to, not with the hope of connecting
with my ancestors like in the poem, but to get laid.
As usual, reality got in the way.
The euphoria did not last long anyway. It never does.
I want neither climax nor validation, but salvation
in a world without God, magic, and passion.
Compared to those, art is masturbation.
Even if my truest poem were published,
it wouldn’t change anything. The climax
ends too quickly, and the buildup just wastes time,
so why take Prozac to extend the grind.
I lost interest in Katie right after I graduated,
but I held onto her for my imagination,
but no medication can keep me dreaming.
I’ll always wake up alone, surrounded
by people I don’t care for. I stay in the club
because if I ever find comfort in being alone,
then I may as well already be dead.
Words lack substance when confined to my head,
so I vomit on Facebook to show the world
I’m not dead, dumb or blind to what’s around me.
I just close my eyes because I’d rather live
in dreams where I just fuck and eat. No need to cut
life with drugs, media, and friends.
I turn off my phone when asleep;
I no longer need notifications.
I’m in control. I’m free.
I can run on water, I can eat meat,
I can abandon everybody and remain guilt-free.
I can see my baby when he was still three.
He’s the only person who matters to me.
He’s the only reason I wake up when I still want to sleep.
I never loved another person.
I love Lady Gaga, not Stefani Germanotta,
Lana del Rey, not Elizabeth Grant,
and not even Katie, not as she is.
I flesh them in poems but hide when I see them.
Even if they loved me, I would lose them
just like every crush that quickly turned to dust
as soon as I saw them without imagination’s makeup.
They’re nobody I want. I’m not the angel they need.
I’ve taken a vow of celibacy, not out of religion,
but because there’s no reason to do anything
for a quick pick me up that barely lasts half a day.
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