Samizdat Del Norte

         My blood is A positive, which means other A positive and AB positive people can receive my blood and organs. This may sound sort of random but I, uh, wanna give my liver to Someone.  Well actually HALF my liver.  Apparently livers can recover to be fully functional.  So I have spent many nights dreaming we are compatible; Someone doesn't actually know their blood type so it remains a dream.  I think giving up half a healthy organ makes an excellent valentine.  There is one drawback however, they don't want it.  Its not that we aren't compatible, its that WE'RE not compatible, see?  I love this person but they don't want to kiss me, so therefore, no transplant.  I'm not holding the organ hostage or anything, its just that I want to do it so that WE can have a future.  If there is no we, what is the impetus?

       I am the only fool I know who gets themselves into these situations. Call me Fool.  Fool loves Someone.  What is it exactly that makes us-the human race-produce these gut wrenching cinematic ideas about love?  Personally I believe romance is like a good frosting; glossy, light, bad for your teeth.  Obviously its not the cake.  The cake is harder to make, but it's what you came for.  Still when we look for love it has to be whipped to a peak.  I mean, really, organ transplant to save our love?  Well, who else is gonna give them the thing?  That dude in Sacramento? 

        But I digress; Clearly I don't get the happy ending.  I don't know what I am getting but I decided I needed to write three paragraphs.  If anyone out there is feeling helpful could you tell me if I use these semi colons correctly?  And what the hell is wrong with Livejournals spell check? I didn't actually pass english, thats where I learned to draw.   I'm in California now so I went to visit Punker Island-a spot in the old Okie Dog parking lot where some thrashed tables were reserved for, what else, punks-and stared at the garbage and faded parking stalls.  This place needs a broom and so does my life.  I wonder how much it costs for a heart transplant?

Yesterday my boots clapped against concrete;  today my shoes crunched on pine needles and slip in fresh mud.  Both are a necessity but only the latter allows me to hear my lonely breath.   In there my knees ache; out here only my empty hand aches.  Right now the mist clouds a distant volcano, but the emerald water and sheared stumps bear silent witness to the smokey impulses that happen here.  Everywhere there is new earth and flowers and creeks; a dangerous but necessary hope that wafts from the incomplete peak.  I feel the same when I look at you; danger amongst the flowers.  Again I look and I see a future too, here by the deer bones, there by the beaver tracks.  We could find it together, amongst the blasted tree trunks and brand new lakes.  I slip.  My breath mingles with the fog that hides the mountain.

He would run barefoot down Paisano St. toward his nieghborhood, called El Chamizal because the tall grey-green Chamiso plant still grew in this part of town, where the grey cinder block houses didn't have running water but alma y corazon were plentiful. The river surrounded his neighborhood on three sides, just like a big American hug, welcoming and promising. There, mama would be making tortillas by the glare of a bare light bulb. The side to side slap of the dough in her hands was like a metronome of childhood memory. A few years later the new projects in the second barrio seemed like a dream, residents could borrow the lawn mower once a week! Here the sidewalks were not broken, there was a real lawn and street lights. The best part of course was that Marcelino, his best friend, lived down the hall. Time and again a new roof would signal a new start. Until the American dream became a reality in the suburbs; his very own lawnmower now occupied the other spot in the two car garage. But no matter where he ever was, the barrio, in the barracks, or on Main Street, it was never home until the tortillas came off the flame, hot, crispy and familiar.