Sid Branca
0

This bed is a ship

manymistypes:

April 17, 2015 - sidbranca / thisbedisaship

as a girl, my favorite painting was of Joan of Arc
I saw it in person at eighteen and I wept
and it wasn’t just the acid
but the whole thing was so much larger than I thought
she and I were the same size
but she was always a part of something bigger than herself

I guess I sometimes long to believe in something
because I know that I believe in love
but maybe God doesn’t stand you up
or give your cunt a cancer
or leave you for a seventeen year-old on Valentine’s Day
or whatever, hypothetically

I realized in the bathroom I’d been bleeding from my thigh all night
after the show Sara almost set her hair on fire with a candle
these are the things that saints do, because they are too busy looking up

I told her about my current sense of devotion
and she held my hand and smiled
I remembered the morning I watched her body turn into steam
curling up around a mountain
and the freezing waters we plunged into, laughing

I imagine myself in the distant past, a zealot
kneeling and killing beneath the banner of my god
the voices of saints ripping through my thoughts
with the sound of knives through canvas sails
or Rilke decoding the dead

here, now
I have my tarot deck and my love affairs
the sun on moving water
great people, bad habits
Saint Stevie, Saint Malört
and the way these loves I feel
make me try harder to be good

Sid Brancamany mistypes, poetry, sid branca, joan of arcComment

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 Brancasid 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 Brancasid branca, writing, poetry, national poetry month, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, spanish, family, feelingsComment