words

the wells have been dried up for some time now
and nothing looks or feels the same anymore,
nothing gets us out of bed with passion
or inspires some semblance of hope,
meanwhile the bell summons the faithful to the vespers
while the rest of us sit on cracked concrete slabs
waiting for the sun to burn out,
waiting for the universe to start moving inward,
waiting for that stray bullet with our name written on it
to shatter lungs quicker than fear.

the smell of restlessness chokes the air
as we rap our knuckles without rhythm,
not knowing where it all went,
why those holes no longer look back at us,
still we’re unsure what to keep and what to spit out,
what words mean and what they don’t.

the dirt beneath our heels no longer a memory
but an abstraction of delusion,
something from another day we stayed at home
smashing the seconds between eyelids heavy with indifference
and those rays keep shining down with no indication of fatigue,
we stretch out in the shadows and breathe in the fumes
trying to recall what it was before it all went dry.

-S.C. Martinez

the black bird haunts me again,
those dark eyes that know it,
that breathe it,
dreams of what’s to come,
losing sensation for all others
in this straightjacket fashion.

many tongues speaking many lies,
those eyes grow wide with sight
as planes cut through the sky
and apathetic hands reach out
finding no one there,
gently gripping the night.

accused of all but faith
she hides behind white curtains
and lets the sunlight in
an inch at a time,
cascading down her skin,
the perfect topography
of pale peaks and valleys
that drive my thoughts to madness
while i forsake all others
for this lust i have in me.

not a wish but a need
wrapped in pretty paper
discarded on the floor
beside the mattress
with the other casualties
of this endless crusade
to right what has been wrong for so long.

and at the heart of the monster
lies a ruin of genealogy
burned out ages past
when the fires could still be lit,
now littered with empty promises,
dark thoughts,
that pretty wrapping paper
and countless other bits of trash.

-S.C. Martinez

she’s so original, she says
the original,
she’s one of a kind,
model # 00001,
and the rest are just
trying to be like her.

she’s original, you see;
she doesn’t like fake people
because those who are original
cannot like those who are not.

it is written in stone
like israel and palestine,
left and right,
christians and
everyone else.

she’s so original it hurts,
with her fake tits
and pierced lip,
eyebrow
nose
and tongue,
oh yes, my dear
all very original,
there is no one else
quite like you.

and dyed-black hair,
don’t forget that–
that’s original too,
the digital camera
stiletto heels,
it’s all you baby.

she likes to kiss the girls
to get attention from the boys
because it’s original, you see,
and her tattoos, well,
they’re original too,
she drew them herself
they’ve never been done before
and if you ever see anyone else
with them
you tell them they are liars,
frauds
fakes
cheats,
not like her.

there can only be one original,
so if you see a woman like this
on the side of the road
don’t stop;
it isn’t her,
it’s just a copy.

the original would never hitchhike.

-S.C. Martinez

i was sitting at that table
when my friend,
the groom,
stood up
presumably to make the rounds,
to do what his mind said
the proper soon to be husband
would do,
leaving me there
with his very soon to be wife,
two women i did not know
and one i had met only once
a year or so before
in a drunken mixture
of liquor and guinness
chased with cheap beer
and menthol cigarettes.

it was awful;
they talked without pause
about shit i didn’t care to hear
and subjects and people
i knew nothing about,
but i sat there
glued to that chair
by the fear
of lapsing into a moment
of insanity,
a temporary lapse in reality,
of waking up later
only to find that i had
drank every drop of alcohol
in that place,
pissed on the cake,
shit in the sink,
punched the maid of honor
and then collapsed
like a viking king
onto a table that held
so many different meats
and vegetables
and disposable forks and knives.

i had only been sober a few months
and so for me, right then,
the only way to escape the dullness
of that barbershop chattering
was to break the levee
and drown myself right there
in front of god and the bride and the groom,
consequences be fucked,
maybe trick a bridesmaid out of her dress
and then put it on myself
and tell war stories to all the children
about a war that had never actually happened
outside of my head.

but instead i sat there
and i listened
and after a while
the fear passed,
i went outside and smoked a cigarette
came back and had a Pepsi
and then my friend,
the groom,
gave me a present
for being a groomsman;
a silver flask
with my initials engraved on its front
reflecting that sunken in face of mine
right back at me,
the laughter not quite reaching my lips
but loud as all hell in my eyes.
life is funny that way.

-S.C. Martinez

i fear that i have grown too accustomed
to the feeling that it produces,
the momentary numbing effect on the brain
and therefore on this terrible mind;
it slows me down to right around
where i need to be in order to relax
and just exist for a brief moment.

now on nights when i cannot indulge,
i find myself reeling–
not as powerful as the ghosts of my love affairs,
but equally as controlling,
in a sense, as it becomes difficult to release,
to return to that previous state of comfort,
where i needed nothing
and no one but my own company
to understand the finer points of this.

i’ve become conjoined with the effect it can produce
and so i experience phantom pains at its departure,
not enough to lay me down or lift me up
but enough to feel the difference
of standing in-between those ends,
looking both ways for a signal
that will ultimately bring me home.

i have become human once more
and it will likely end soon,
i will return to a more animalistic approach
of living and dying each day
by this genetic calling card
of digging through the layers of my neuroses
for some clue to this.

or maybe i will continue to dive deeper in to the well,
keep having these intoxicating nights of leisure
and momentary thoughts of what if,
what if the words stop coming,
who will i be and what will i do?
tomorrow night i’ll ask myself again
and once again, i will neglect to answer,
i will expel legions of smoke
into whatever room i find myself in
and i will watch it gather
under the light of the television
or the moon, or in the reflection
of some woman’s eyes
and i will command my army
to invade the thoughts of others
and when the night is done,
i will then reflect for a brief moment
before it takes me back home
with rapid eye movement and mental projections.

-S.C. Martinez

most people–
ordinary people–
will never know,
in the true sense of knowing,
will never understand
a girl like you.

don’t fret over it,
don’t let it embitter you–
take it in stride,
embrace it as
a gift from above.

drink your nights,
smoke your days,
be comfortable
in your skin.

stretch to the sky
like flowers
on a windowsill.

they’ll say things
when you’re not around
but to your eyes
they’ll love you,
try to absorb some of you
to feel better about themselves.

this is just the way
of ordinary people,
but don’t let it become
your way.

drink your nights,
smoke your days,
but don’t fall too in love.

be sure and come back down
to earth
every now and again.

-S.C. Martinez