Facebook is probably the worst thing to happen to a young person’s life.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that society has you laid up, and stretched out and quantified by its measuring stick and mold, which was bearable, maybe, because it was only a common understanding.
But the fucking facebook, Jesu Christ, it is a living, breathing virtual reminder of
- how fat and unattractive and thusly unsuccessful you are
- how little your life has, no kids, no man, no career, no thing
- how unable you are to compete with these little skinny debutants. Little girls really.
- how stupid this chase is anyways.
I am 28, fat, and fucking furious about it all. To think if, if I had tolerated all that racist bullshit (harmless, when you realise, words are words, don’t let them get to you) and stayed in school, how different my life would have been.
Of course it was just a shit school in the forgotten sureste of Mexico, but it was a school nonetheless, and able to quantify me for this fucked world, where all that matters is a paper, to prove to other ‘papered’ fucks, completely incapable themselves, but with papers, and therefore respected, and paid to sit in an office and eat green golden plums with salt and pepper, but not before posting the thousandth insufferable picture of it on social media, probably facebook, with an impossible hashtag. ¡que puto!
Not gay. I’m not stupid enough to be a homophobe, but que puto, as in, oh fuck it…
there is no way to even escape my own foolish words.
I need not explain myself. Those who detest my thoughts and words will do so, regardless of how eloquently politically correct, I would aspire to be or not.
My life is bland.
I have nothing but rage, and bile, and regrets. Bitter yesterday’s coffee which tastes awful, but which I will undoubtedly need to survive more moronic chatter and bullshit.
no i am not an attorney like my mom. yes. I am a failure in your eyes.
no i will not give up on art in belize. this wastleland has so much potential it chafes my legs as i run.
run which is pointless almost
it is so hard to unrun genealogy and metabolism and poor dietary habits and more than casual drinking
I have not been able to weigh less than 170 since I turned 25.
I would need to get into another terrible and dead-end relationship, where all i am is a “fuk-ting” for some man. Who will chew up my self of self and pride and diginity and spit it and me out.
chew up bones, marrow sucked out.
Then have him desert me as a captain does a sinking ship, one which he himself, has wrecked, ravaged and set a blaze. only then would my weight dip that fucking 170.
Run as I might, all i get is tired and depressed.
¿que ha pasado después de tantos viajes a San Francisco?
desde los 16 años la ciudad me ha cautivado. por completo
No other place has completed consumed, confused and teased me.
Only to throw me 1000 miles an hour against a solid brick wall of rejection, despair, beauty and jealously
I can’t have it, but I can be teased by it, every now and then, when Belize City, even Belize country become unbearable because as I was told:
“he was wearing a red shut, the shut was black though, full up ah blud, beca ih bleed ou’”
because as I read:
“the man would not chopping the other, even after warning shots from police. He was shot in the legs, only then did he stop.”
Because Belizeans, this Christmas, thanks to PetroCaribe money, will have the option of TURKEY or HAM, not both. Not dignity, not hope.
no solution to the crime-ravaged space
no thinking space, no love, no culture, just trash, smut and TURKEY or HAM, not both.
I am so glum at Christmas
I see no prospects but suspect that maybe BELIZE would have 11 more years under this corruption
souls completed corroded by the aspiration to small time hustle off huge investments
like a bulldozed NOH MUL
like a built-on Blue HOLE
like young black men white washing city streets with clots and blood every night headlining the news, every Friday front page news, and you would like hopefuls with Cheer?
I don’t know if I could escape this place
it is me
it is my soul
I am so much a part of the collapse
the long lunch hours doing nothing but escaping public servants’ duty
waking up too late
long after the sun had risen
too long sitting down eating tacos and agua de calcetin coffee with too much sugar and cheap creamer
not beginning a day well, and calmly, before diving into chaos.
while daydreaming of eggs benedict and mimosas, and yes my day dreams have always been larger than my capacity heavier than my flimsy wallet
travelling to West Africa in search of myself, because corn-rows, nor hot combs, nor relaxers (di perm), nor afros, nor dreadlocks don’t get me to my roots
the understanding of what I am
who I am
Always looking for the white boy not because I think he is better than any other, but simply because I read about him in a English reader in Infant II. When dyslexia, still prevented me from putting shoes on the appropriate foot, but still able to read, slowly, but read still.
And I remember a sad boy, they called him FRECKLES. He hated himself, and did all to change himself. y ni puta madre
in the end, he learned to accept himself.
I have been looking for him, ever since, so that he can teach me.
I still hate most things about myself.
I am too black in California. too threatening to HomeLAND SECURITY with my dreadlocks, and poverty and going to MILL VALLEY, CA. So he asked me in HOUSTON in IAH, why am I in USA, to be a liability to someone? That I need insurance to be there? That I need money to be in AMERICA if even only for 2 weeks. And I had never been so angry, and humiliated in all my life. Him safe behind his little plastic box/cubicle office. The only thing that gives him the right to treat me like BANANA BOAT trash is the fact that he was born north of the Mexican border and I was born south.
The only reason i allowed him to, is I will explain to feel big, I had 5 lbs of red snapper in my suitcase and a rum popo. But really, I actually wanted to get to SFO.
How fucking embarrassing it would be to turn back and be back at Philip Goldson International and face that horrible prick of a woman at the UNITED stand, who even though, me and she baan da di same fukin place, she drap da condescending bull shit pan mi
bou how ah need wa credit card fu pay fu fees in the airports in the states. Because they don’t accept cash.
And how do I tell the female version of simple simon that I know all of that, that I was just there earlier this year, but that partying the night before at horrible KARAOKE at THIRTY THURSDAYS was far more important than properly packing and therein, putting my WELLS FARGO debit card in my bag.
wan latta fukery
blood stained streets
sweat soaked sheets
soda-biscuit drain-free, easy to flood streets, courtesy of Monster MAYOR Bradley
saying “I asked the people what they wanted drains or streets, they said streets, i gave them streets”
This is where I live and this is what I am
also featured on www.landings.com/marathon.html