. . .will be available tomorrow, September 11th, 2013!
I have a rocket inside of me. They put it inside me some odd years ago when I was young, maybe younger, or younger than youngest. The rocket is white or maybe black or maybe even red? The rocket does have a color only I’ve forgotten what that color is from years having passed. I figured the color of the rocket must’ve faded or maybe I must’ve smeared it like paint across a canvas due to water, rain, tears. I’ll just say for now the rocket is colorless. The rocket is big. It’s the length of my torso. The tip of the rocket peeks at the crest of my chest; the bowel of the rocket peeks at the base of my cervix. The rocket wants to fly, somewhere, anywhere. Perhaps to the end of the world and back? Perhaps to heaven and hell and back? Perhaps from the north end of the pole to the south end of the pole and back? Wherever the rocket can fly it wants to fly there. In a general store, I am fourteen. I am tall for fourteen. Kids at school call me names like “daddy long legs” and “Amazon woman”. I don’t think it’s funny, but they do. Their adolescence pose jealousy because I can touch the sky and they can’t. In the store, my ash brown hair is split down the middle and braided in two. I’m chewing gum and browsing the magazine rack regarding anything on rockets. I want to be an astronaut woman but I don’t tell my mom. My mom wants me to be something but she’s not sure what because she thinks I’m not sure what. I pop my gum. Please don’t do that! the boy who had been standing at a near distance casing through muscle car magazines snaps at me. He doesn’t look at me as I look at him. He’s got messy hair. It’s blond. Looks dirty but smells clean. He looks eighteen. Black t-shirt worn down jeans vintage combat boots. I pop my gum louder and the guy, no longer the boy, purses sturdy lips and cringes in his athletically built body. I’m amused, and so I pop my gum again just to amuse myself some more. The guy furiously slams the magazine against the rack. I know I should be scared but the guy reminds me of my dead dad. He was always furious. He liked to slam things against things and call names just to call names. I finally turn away from the guy. I start to pop my gum again only this time I pop air. The guy, and to my amazement, shoved two fingers into my mouth and yanked out my gum and threw it on the floor. The guy has brownish-blue eyes. Once fierce are now serene. He studies my face for a moment and something within me sparks coercing my insides to flutter. I’m Darwin he says. I swallow air. You know he smirks like Darwinism? I choke on my air but I’m still breathing. You believe in Darwinism? I ask in my girly-girly tone. No. You? He asks. No I say I believe in rockets. Darwin is amused. His rough hands slip into both his front pockets. They move around and suddenly I’m intrigued to what lingers behind his button fly. I turn away, embarrassed. Seconds later I turn back to him to say something to him but there’s two sticks of gum being shoved gently into my mouth. Pop all you want Darwin says. I bite down on the gum; it’s minty. So you like to fly? Darwin assumes. I nod. I want to fly to the moon I concluded. We’re racing down a deserted road in the outer of the skirts of a small Texas town. Darwin has the pedal to the metal and my heart is racing a thousand miles per second like a rocket drunk on its fuel yet it can’t keep up with his Super Sport. It’s metallic blue. A crosswalk resides down the hood. The thrushers are cranked wide open. The sky is blue. The sun is brilliant. The air is hot. The scenery all around is a blur. I see nothing but the denim blue road ahead which reminds me of Darwin’s jeans. Suddenly the Super Sport fishtails to an abrupt halt. Both our bodies jerk forward hard then back. I have to catch my heart at the base of my throat. Darwin flips the gear in reverse and drives the Super Sport backwards a few yards on the road before he continues onto the fields of foxtails. I glance through the back window and the Super Sport is nearing a tree. I turn around in my seat and notice it’s the only tree visible from my vantage. The Super Sport parks beneath the tree. A swift breeze grazes the car the way cows graze fields. I like you Darwin says. I like you I tell him back. Good he says. I’m fourteen I say. So he says. I’m to young I say. Darwin has a spark in his eye, the same spark that caused my insides to flutter earlier. Fourteen is not young he says it’s the right age to fly to the moon. Darwin leans across the seat and puts his mouth over mine. His tongue fidgets with mine because I don’t know how to fidget with his; I’ve never kissed a guy before. Darwin wrestles with my tongue for awhile until my tongue finally gives up and gives in. For a moment with Darwin I feel like I’m eating a banana split. The ice cream is soft and creamy and feels velvety like Darwin’s tongue. The strawberry topping is delicately sweet like Darwin’s breath. The pineapple topping reminds me of a tropical island, like Gilligan’s. The chocolate topping is like sampling forbidden fruit. The whip cream reminds me of being on cloud 9. The nut topping feels like my feelings for Darwin. The banana reminds me of Darwin’s cock. The cherry reminds me of innocence lost. I enjoyed my banana split. I throw the container into the trash can and Darwin drives me home. How was your day? My mother asks. I flew to the moon I tell her. In a record store, I am fifteen. Darwin tells me to take my hair down after we raced to our make-out place to make-out. Instead of a banana split I have a sundae, and Darwin drives me home. You’re late! My mother gripes. Yea, but I’m home! I gripe back. In a clothing store, I am sixteen. Darwin tells me to take off my clothes after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and have sex. Instead of a sundae I have an ice cream cone, and Darwin drives me home. You’re passed your curfew! My mother bitches. So ground me! I bitch back. In a liquor store, I am seventeen. Darwin hands me a beer after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and drink and have sex. Instead of an ice cream cone, I eat a burger, and Darwin drives me home. That’s it, you’re grounded! My mother yells. Try and ground me! I yell back. In an Adult store, I am eighteen. Darwin sticks the DVD porno flick into the player after we raced to our make-out place, now his apartment, to make-out and drink and have sex. Instead of a burger, I eat some leftovers, and Darwin drives me home. I want you packed and out of this house! My mother screams. Whatever! I scream back. In a drug store, I am nineteen. Darwin hands me the stick and tells me to pee on it after we raced to our new apartment where we make-out, drink, and have sex regularly. How are you? My mother asks when she visits our new apartment. Pregnant I tell her. In a wedding store, I am twenty. Darwin places the wedding ring on my matrimonial finger which he forgot to do earlier because of his nerves after we raced to our new home where we don’t make-out, drink, or have sex. How is the pregnancy? My mother asks when she visits our new home. I’m overdue I tell her. In a grocery store, I am twenty-one. Darwin hands me the baby to take the groceries off the caravan after we raced to our home where we kiss, share quiet dinners, and make love. How is the baby? My mother asks when she visits the baby. It’s not a baby I tell her It’s a rocket.
Black Listed Thoughts in a little black book by poet Mike Meraz. . .I had a black listed thought that consisted of abortion and your right to bear arms but somewhere along the way my uterus got shot down, and sustained two bullets from an AZ political drive-by thuggette who wants to prosecute the women responsible for aborting an unwanted child as it might be considered “evidence tampering”. What kind of America are we living in when a woman has sex or is a victim of rape/incest and SHE becomes the criminal? Okay, bad question. Okay, I love my guns. I have a 12 gage double-barrel action-pump Magnum Express shotgun adored by the ATF; a Smith & Wesson 6 slug revolver; and a Semi-Automatic Springer double-shot handgun. Now I’m looking to buy a BAR 1918 as well as a Corner Shot rifle. . .all in the name to protect my Unit Core God Uterus. I have a daughter, and I weep for her future as I fear a pre-communist uterus country unfolding with her uterus being held captive by the Gyno-Government.
So I put together a list of things to do for your uterus before and after trying it out:
0. Paragraph A-Do abstain from sex. Paragraph B-This excludes nymphs.
1. Do keep your uterus clean and fetus free, see #0, Paragraph A.
2. Hang a “Do Not Enter” sign on your vagina.
3. Do not smile at the bartender as he may think you’re interested and spikes your drink.
4. Have a sit down between your uterus, your vagina, and the 33 Degrees Delegates and ask what their POV’s are on this political uterus/abortion war.
5. Have your tubes tied at the onset of your birth.
6. Build a prison inside your uterus for sperm-victs.
7. Talk to your great-grandmother, your true Ob-Gyn
8. Do not self-abort with hot water, that is so 1950’s or is it 60’s?
9. If you have to abort, take a high-ranking political rep and hold he/she hostage with extreme prejudice, then negotiate through a bullhorn, “Either the rep gets it or the fetus?”
All in all, I think women should be left to their own devices (and I don’t mean IUD’s, but speaking of IUD’s. . .): Pro-Choice, Pro-Life, Roe Vs. Wade, yadda, yadda, yadda. Sex, rape, incest should not even be an issue with abortion as this is America and should always be a right like a right to bear arms, and all that And Justice For All crap. Now back to the IUD. . .I need to have my IUD replaced! And I’m really hoping my Ob-Gyn doesn’t ask: Copper or plastic? ‘cause I just might answer: A Hysterectomy, please!
Back in February 2011, I completed a novel titled “Growing up Traffic” now re-titled “HUSH” about suburban teens subjected to prostitution by other suburban teens. Unfortunately this novel was not what some agents were looking to represent, and other agents who took an interest suggested that I tone down the novel as it was graphic and somewhat intense due to the nature that my MC is only 14 years old. But because I was reluctant to do just that, simply because I felt it would only take away from the premise of the novel itself, I decided to leave the novel “as is”. Since it has been sitting on my shelf (aka, flashdrive) I decided that I would either do one or the other: Self-publish or publish it here in 2 Chapter increments at a time, three times a week. So I’m going to do both.
Before I start publishing, a quick warning to the fainthearted: This novel does contain scenes of physical abuse, violence, drug abuse, kidnapping, child sex exploitation, and graphic scenes of rape, gang-rape and incest.
Your comments are welcomed, good or bad, and will post once out of moderation. I thank you for reading, and for allowing this piece to shine here.
Devlin De La Chapa
———-NOVEL FOLLOWS THIS POST BELOW———-
Well it’s another year. . .another year of trudging through the economy while trying to avoid being hit by the fiscal cliff, which btw, was somewhat resolved at around 2AM this new year’s morning.
Aside from another year gone, I spent the last few days preparing Queries to Lit Agencies for my new and latest YA novel, “ROMEO”, a unique derivative to the much beloved play, Romeo + Juliet only with a paranormal twist. So I have my fingers (tightly) crossed in hopes to garnishing an agent and a book deal this year. As time progresses, and if my query makes it past the slushpile of an agent’s inbox, I will post it here. Until then enjoy my latest poem.
If Robert Ford were Jesse James
He had collected a memoire of the man
perhaps one too many times, particularly around
the time the last of the snow had fallen and faded,
fallen and faded like hot whiskey cold sweat
off the brows of dense calculating eyelids
in saloons or at the table of ever changing galleys.
Right around the time the wild foxtail wheat
had become aplenty beneath his feet,
he dreamt of Jesse James romancing as
Thomas Howard, trailing his footsteps, each
becoming less than a shadow of a coward
despite a soft unpleasant voice that cracked
like bones when spoken or badgered upon.
Right around the time Zee, pleasant and contrite,
was left a betrayed and loyal weeping widow,
still frames of horses and black lacquer stenciled gold
empty rocking chairs and holy matrimonial secretes
whispered on clean white cotton linen sheets had
become the muffles beneath the four of seasons of what
the future revealed in scripture of what was to be foretold.
Right around the time wind of fire had spread across the plains,
he had lost the inspiration of who he was to what he desired;
A gentleman, perhaps; An outlaw, first and foremost, it seemed;
A trusted hand holding down the hammer on humility
or perhaps, humanity, but never a true cowboy. If Robert Ford
were Jesse James, he would have stripped down his legendary guns,
laid down his best suit coat above the muddy terrains and let
the sins of his ghosts cross into the sunset of no regret-