Someday I’ll Wake Up Barbie

Barbie, wake up.

Open your eyes.

Startle until consciousness.

Recognize your imprint and the satire

in your wild goose chase with oblivion.

Barbie, speak.

Scream. Confess.

Only a decade and 3/4ths with a lifetime

of senility awaiting you.

Don’t let history deprave you.

Let go of the haunting and daunting

and look up.

Dig up the senile that has suppressed

the nascent roots in your uncultivated sod.

Think of the resilience of those torn up, black, leather couches

that you have admired and snoozed on your entire life.

The shredding splits that engulfed

your brother and sister in innocent arms.

Pristine ebony skin waning throughout a decade

full of moonlights as you watched

Freddy Krueger, Chucky, Rebelde, Ruby

and Dragon Tales with mom, the kids

and him.

Those torn-up, black, leather couches

have been discarded as effortlessly

as the loyalty in those lustful looks

and unseemly longings

that have pierced your soul

and mutilated your heart for the last 6 million years.

The relationship between your

existential element.

You have survived between the pink matter of life that is

Womb, woman and love.

This family tree,

the purest matter that could have ever sprouted

from the suspicious and superior eyes of

institutionalized telenovelas perpetuating

hyper-manliness, femininity, and oedipus complexes.

Barb, let it go.

Pretend. Power off.

Barbie, stop lying.

You can’t be true.

You could never be the truth.

Overlook the roaming eyes,

exterminate them from your memory

just like everyone else did.

Let abué and ma handle him, it and you.

The blushing flesh, cheek and peak

of your bloom began when

betrothment to lurid somber implanted

breeding weeds in your inner slum.

Twilight whose’ sole sunrise murmurs illumination through

grandma’s bar, Mom’s rebelión and uncle's’ motherfucking pandilla.

Dawn’s lividity intenser than any of the flashing blue lights

that light up your red, green and white.

Their traditions are the only kind you will follow as you continue

to morph, riot and fuck shit up in their names.

Barbie, unwind. Unveil. Struggle.

Barbie stop. Barbie go. Barbie please.

The multicolored houses and neighborhoods that have adopted

your childhood have consumed and exhumed you

as fast as the Cuban cigars that suffocated you

every car ride with los abués and ma.

Suffocation that brought into light the dangerous relations

that lie in between family, marriage and money,

so business-like,

you could never tell the difference between the three.

You never knew what one was

without the other’s priceless presence.

Barbie la malcriada.

Barbie la mentirosa.

Barbie la herida.

Barbie la hermosa.

Barbie vete y no vuelvas.

Barbie te veo.

Barbie ven.

Those long nights, secret mice and revolving sights

always seemed to rest on the bare unknowingness

that emerged from your long and lean.

The same characteristics that define lines in the corrupt that exists

in your inherited homes, sights, and stolen bikes.

Robbed innocence that rode away farther and faster

than any stolen bike you ever tried to ride.

The withered you unhinged and rusted easily,

easier than any painful bike ride or raging block

whose symphonies harmonized with those 16 shots.

Endless outbursts of sounds.

Hide and seek meets hearse and squeaks.

Barbie,

wake up.

Let me donate an inch while you take a mile.

That is what your mother taught you with every

minimum wage and irrational page

in the diaries of her hijacked adolescence.

The diaries of a teenage ma who unraveled a decade and 3/4ths of drugs

while boys who insisted on “papa” let her forget

about the permanency you were conceived to be.

Underage year old with a baby instead of a dream.

Barbie, go to sleep.

When you wake up, you’ll be lost in reverie.

It wasn’t real. Crawl back to bed.

Barbie, please

Go back to sleep.