This bed is a ship — Sid Branca

manymistypes:

april 16, 2015 - sid branca
i’ve been losing my patience lately, just sort of generally
the more I fuck up the less I can tolerate the failings of others
the timer is about to go off
and I find myself briefly de-prioritizing kindness
and yes I know how regrettable that is
you throw your mexican beer against a concrete wall
and I’m pissed because we’re talking about politics
and you’re pissed because your heart is a goddamn freight train
and you’re not sure why the line’s been stopped so long
I try to tell myself there’s something comforting in knowing
that everyone else is fucking up about as often as I am
all the canceled meetings and answered phone calls
and the irresponsible late-nights and unwise mornings
don’t let it stress you out, kid,
the world forgives because the world forgets
just because your great-uncle pitched The Shot Heard Round The World
don’t mean there’s a wikipedia page every time you drop the ball
whatever happened to being punk as fuck
whatever happened to giving your superego a rest
whatever happened to baby js and forty ounces
whatever happened to a little self-love, a little love of others
remember: April will be over soon
remember: after a long day of dumb shit, you still got to listen to The Cure in the dark and come like six or seven or eight times and in the morning hang out with a pig-like dog while drinking coffee
remember: better times are coming
remember: times just ain’t that hard

Sid BrancaApril 18, 2015sid branca, poetry, many mistypesComment

manymistypes:

april 15, 2015 - sidbranca / thisbedisaship
today I was thinking about learning spanish,
mostly for small reasons centered around myself
to sing Selena songs at karaoke
to save myself the gringa tax and occasional embarrassments
to have something to talk to my little brother about on the phone while he’s at his new school because lord knows I’ve forgotten all my calculus and I am too afraid to talk to him about anything real because I know we both still have slugs in our blood we are both not always well we are both not always sure whether we are having the appropriate reaction we both have built such delicate structures to keep the madness rushing out and breaking everything so let’s please for my own sanity’s sake stick to adjective agreements and dormitory food
to better make my way through southern california
to remind this boy of his mother in panama
before his fluttering hands push his hair back and pick at tablecloths and move drinks up to his lips until they finally settle tight around my neck
while he is finally very still, while he looks me dead in the eye
but then I wished I could tell this man standing on the sidewalk
that he didn’t need to feel bad in that moment
that I had been there
that I have taken many trains on other people’s dimes
that I likely will again
and now, alone in bed, I simply have my fragment french
and the half-remembered ending to someone else’s poem:
todo cuanto los dos hemos callado
lo tenemos que hablar

Sid BrancaApril 16, 2015sid branca, writing, poetry, national poetry month, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, spanish, family, feelingsComment

manymistypes:

April 14 - sidbranca / thisbedisaship

Sid BrancaApril 16, 2015poetry, fetish, tw corporal punishment, many mistypes, sex work, feminism, equal pay dayComment

Sid BrancaApril 13, 2015many mistypes, sid branca, poetry, national poetry month, poetry month, feelingsComment

manymistypes:

april 12, 2015 - sidbranca / thisbedisaship
A magazine article tells me that I make myself so busy
in order to avoid my feelings
I tell the magazine I’m not sure how she thinks it’s possible
for me to avoid the thing that makes up my very existence
but she is right that I should not buy any more office supplies
until I’ve used up the ones I have.
I realize that I am behind in a lot of things
and that I’m a little freaked out
and that a graduation ceremony is perhaps more
a ritual of fear than it is of pride
but despite the wires that run in my blood
despite the great oozing weight that smothers my heart
despite the white hot rage in my fingernails
and the fear and the fear and the fear
(daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy
do not let me be so trite as to become you)
when I manage to unclench my fists
when the nights are warm and my lips are wet
I surprise myself by finding
a glowing bulb of joy inside my chest
and that it’s mine
and that I think I might be happy.