Princesa. My girl. If we dated I know I would get dumped quick; probably over the phone.
Instruments. Some people play them. I've been playing this set since eighth grade. I can say I'm mediocre now.
The "Hawk-Gun." My best tattoo. The longest and most painful. I was listening to the artists friends retell their drug convictions and domestic life. Don't make meth at your home, kids. Rent out a room at the Warren Inn like an adult.
My wall of accomplishment. Or my mom being too generous with her framing.
1993. That one year it snowed in El Paso. Mom decorates plates when it snows.
My journal. I started it in Fall 2005 and Its still alive. I'm on number 24, or 25. Poems, short stories, electric confessions, and colorful caricatures of El Paso life.
A clue to how deep my dementia runs. This is my weapon of choice when the zombie apocalpse arrives.
This contraption was purchased at a Mexican circus. Inside is the negative to a picture of my Mom and I enjoying the circus. The circus was always a fun thing in Juarez when I was little. Funny how life is centered around different arenas.
A poem I wrote last week.
Scattered Thoughts of the Flesh Mosiac*
I'm at a starting line And I should stop while I'm ahead. Mirrors are for beauty not for doing yourself in. If there was a God I would hide inside his cloak. Away from bad jokes And those tired morning chairs. Clocks are for living Not for telling time.
*Don't do drugs!
1 comment:
24 or 25 journals, i envy you.
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