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3:36 AM O.

DON’T BE A MARTINEZ

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Emblazoned over the fucking mausoleum.
“What drove the kid?”
“A fear of his ancestors.”

So I ran. I ran away from everything that made my blood.
I abandoned Christ, and found plenty of reason for it.
When Father looked me in the eye on a Sunday morning
and told me man would be arrogant
“Man is a fool
to think he can reach the stars
in God’s domain.”

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When I was a kid
I wanted to be a scientist.
For sure a meteorologist, because I was terrified of tornadoes.

When I was a kid and they asked me in sunday school what I wanted to be, I always went straight to Scientist. I never knew what kind, but that was it. The closest approximation of a life as adult as I could imagine.

I’m pretty sure the church beat that out of my head.

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I find my god in art.
The Rothko piece should have made that clear enough.
I don’t believe in your Christ, or Messiah;
It’s nothing personal.

I don’t believe in him,
because then I would have to say I don’t believe in the Prophet either.

Moses. Buddha.
All of them.

a million mingling inks
or something like that.

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I find my god in art.
This past weekend me and she went down to the contemporary
to make a promise before god.

We made separate promises.

This girl walked me down to the picnic table of an altar
and we spoke to god a little bit
side by side each other.

I find my god in art but that’s the thing innit?
Ain’t that the great grand fear?

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pheeew-
I had a really bad trip when I went to memphis.
got all scrambly in the head On the Road to Memphis.

Had a friend,
this is true,
had a friend who absorbed so much THC in one sitting that he saw the black demon spirit come to him, as in a waking dream, over the backyard fence;
saw this black void of a figure come slowly out from the sun to him,
eclipsing,

Saw this hideous terrifying spirit satan
and cowered to his feet, shouting back:
“The Christ O My Lord;
Please Sweet Beautiful Jesus,
Jesus Christ My Savior,
In Your Name,
PROTECT ME.”

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and -poof.
the spirit was gone,
so goes his story.

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Yeah, I scrambled my brains up a bit like that.
& I can tell you a lot more about him too.

but for now I’ll sleep.

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Move to California.

What do I do from here?

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I quit writing for a while because I just didn’t have anything left in me. No love nor god to guide me.

On the love end, well. She was off in some other city, having late night LCD Soundsystem nights into her city, riverwalks and city parks strewn from tip to toe in lights, No curfews, no lack of rights.

She said not to take it personally, that she was leaving the city, not me.

But I am this city.
These streets are my streets,
these potholed veins my blood streams
these bars the future haunts-

my
broken obelisk.

This whole goddamn time* reeks,
you know?

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She was abusive,
though in this warped mind I’d argue
she wouldn’t have been if I didn’t let her be
and maybe she just didn’t want me to let her be
anymore.

There seems to be something rotten in that, huh?

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My sister asked why she was here
i didn’t really have much an answer.

“So that we know what bad looks like,
for when I finally find good?”

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hmmm.

 

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*town.

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Hello Stranger.

I don’t know you, I know of you, but I can not say that I could tell you your own favorite songs from the radio, or your favorite place to be. I don’t know you.

And yet, here I am, day in day out, asking you to know me.
Asking you, bringing myself out here, pleading (essentially)
for you to obsessively consume whatever I put out here,
to hang on to every word and dissect while digesting
pulling out my strands of thought to dance in the limelight of your eyes.

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Isn’t that selfish?
and yet, how do I repay the kindness shown?

Not very well, that much is true.

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She doesn’t want riddles
she want’s the mexican work ethos.

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That ain’t me tho, huh?

nah.

I was the kid that made room in his heart for you.
The dad had the work ethic,
he worked and slaved harder than any of em,
built this house with his own two hands
for me,
grand column pillars and resonant tiles
and white as heaven’s clouds.

And what have I done?
Where are my grand deeds upon this earth?

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When I was a child
my aunt’s spoke to me,
all of them, some of them, one in particular,
the brother’s lover on my father’s side
said this to me:

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“Don’t be a Martinez.”

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