March 12-18, 2001: John Buchanan and Jimmie Arnold Sanchez

The Pea Machiavelli has put a tap on his own telephone, when he picks up little metallic Ferris wheels burst to life, frenetic gray winter flowers spinning like the grim grinning palms of the hawkers making the walnut dance in the crypt of the midway, late, when the local moon’s rube pockets are inside out empty, he listens, a fist with wide red eyes to the naked dialogue, fingering it gently here and there, and here, looking for the least bit of secret unrevealed insinuation, analyzing the marked protrubance of verb where it meets the waxing flesh like a white whale breaching,  the craned flow of a noun as its delicate pale curve softly slopes to meet the suddenly shock of coarse bristly adjective, seeking, seeking, adverbs dart into alley shadows when they hear his wingtipped auricle approaching, tap-tapping through the fog, punctuation scurries helter skelter into damp dirty holes like wharf rats, pronouns kill the lamp clank home the dead bolt, cork  the kids, from off of the oily black harbor water jaded freighter whistles randomly belch and moan, their echoes black popcorn rising wet winged and chronic  that limp across the sky gathering about him like a murder of crows, descending listless,  hoarse voiced and cranky, whores so worn so depleted they can only turn a buck under the fish eyed glare of an eclipse he studies, sipping his coffee cold from a chipped scrimshaw, sweet with Cain sugar.

Jimmie Arnold Sanchez
impotentphoenix@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Jimmie Arnold Sanchez was born in the Philippines but was raised in and around LA and is now a proud Valley girl He is currently a 4th-year sociology major/queer (LGBT) studies minor, waiting for UCLA to either kick him out or graduate him He is horribly terrified of both options, so he’s buried his head in books of poetry.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Jimie Arnold Sanchez and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Twilight I exist In the space between the flash of lightning And the roar of thunder One one thousand Two one thousand I exist In the breath after achoo But before blessing, Before the bomb blast But after the bomb-drop, When the sound is sucked away And the still silence is so shrill It can maim Three one thousand Four one thousand I exist In every Hollywood blockbuster When the bullet has been released But has not burst the beating heart Of any and every terrorist, alien, spy, and mafioso Five one thousand Six one thousand I exist In the screech of brakes Before a bus explodes And in the instant before the Last exhalation of a dying man Seven one thousand Eight one thousand I exist In the pause Between the I and the do, Between the I and the love and the you, In the space Between the eye and the hurricane Nine one thousand Ten one thousand . Butterfly When my finger is behind my tongue, You can’t hurt me I become invincible I become a rock When my finger is behind my tongue When I reach down inside myself, I can pull out the bad parts And make myself whole again When I reach down inside myself, I become invincible When I swallow my finger, I swallow my tears– I swallow my fears My dreams become real– I can no longer feel– All my wounds start to heal– And the only fucking thing I have to do is Kneel And swallow my finger When I jam my finger down the back of my throat And vomit all over the porcelain bowl, I am tickling my inner child Come out and play Come the fuck out so I can play When I ram my throat And spit blood into the water, That is just my heart bleeding Into my cauldron I am making a love potion Just for you I am bent I am bent over the toilet I am bent over the toilet Because I am bent When I am licking my finger with the back of my tongue, I am giving you the best head you ever had And I blow my wad when you do When I start to retch, I am no longer wretched I am no longer the person I used to be And I can come out of my chrysalis And fly I am as light as a feather I am as light as a tear Making ripples in the water Of the porcelain bowl When I start to retch Over the porcelain bowl, I can buy back my soul I am taking control, Reaching out for the goal, But it’s taking its toll When will you give me My goddamn parole? blue (the first line is from your blues ain’t like mine, a novel by bebe moore campbell) your blues ain’t nothing like mine your blues are blue but my blues are so blue they look black from here, from here from there, from down on the ground and up in the air no, my blues ain’t nothing like yours my blues are dark blues yours have too much white in them they can never be as true blue as mine your blues are so white they get light, they get light, and they float to the top of the heap in a fight against my midnight and i? i sink to the bottom i am blue because i am black and blue because i am brown my daddy’s black and my momma’s white mixed to turn me blue and you? and you, why are you so blue? when’s the last time you turned black into black and blue? and are you too yellow to stop it even if you wanted to? just bow your head, and look away, pretend you heard nothing, and cough i am turning grey being blue; being black and blue cuz of you you’re too yellow to be golden.