Great Writers - J

Jacqueline is a Corpus Christi native and developed a love of writing at a very young age. More about Jacqueline at the end of this section.

If my eyes could take pictures,
Oh, the things that you would see. 

Because I’m so very observant,
And you’d see the world through me. 

You would notice the beauty of the ocean, 

And its refreshing shade of blue.
You’d also see the tall green trees,
And wonder what without them you would do. 

The picture of love that my photos would capture,
To you would be an anomaly.
But if you’d just focus, you’d see how beautiful, 

My version of love could truly be. 

You’d see my children smiling,
About the most trivial things.
But you’d also see their humility,
And how they treasure all that life brings. 

You’d look at pictures of the night sky above, 

And maybe wish upon a star.
You’ll value your life differently, 

And realize you’re perfect just the way you are. 

So now that you have seen life through my eyes, 

Maybe you’ll have a different view.
And if you’re ever having a bad day,
Just think of all the beauty surrounding you. 

Everywhere I looked, there was red. Then again, red is the universal color of romance and love, and well, I was at a wedding. Ugh. The things I do for my sister. She looked so beautiful and happy in her wedding gown, as the groom spun her in circles, then dipped her back and kissed her on her cherry red lips. Gross. Why do couples have to be so mushy? I shifted my focus to the table where the gold vases held bouquets of flowers in vibrant shades of crimson and burgundy, and the way the color popped off of the black and white table linens was a bold reminder of the absence of love in my life. Thank God for alcohol. The blood-red liquid dancing in the tall crystal goblet that I had been nursing for the past few hours was the only companion I had. It was all I could focus on as I realized that this was probably the 5th wedding I’d been to this year, and I was still alone. I’d already made peace with it…I suppose. 

As I looked around the room, people were leaving and the dance floor was dying down, with the exception of the bride and groom and a few other couples, so I took this as my cue to head out. I didn’t realize the degree of my inebriated state until I stood up to walk in my 4” Jimmy Choo’s; it was like watching a drunken horse trotting. I was trying my hardest to walk out without appearing like the train wreck that I was at the moment. I finally found the door and breathed a sigh of relief because I was free from the love in the air that was suffocating me.

read a longer excerpt in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Sitting in the corner 

while my world is going dim,

I’m thinking that I hear a voice-

My sanity is wearing thin.

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

Jacqueline is a Corpus Christi native and developed a love of writing at a very young age. She holds a BA in English from TAMUCC and a MA in English and Creative Writing from SNHU. Jacqueline works as a Staff Writer at Visit Corpus Christi and is also a Contributing Writer for The Bend Magazine. Read more of her work at www.jacquelinejisele.com

Jen Deselms says she has been surfing badly since moving to the area in 1994 from landlocked states. 

Aug. 20  Old lady surf report: Lots of shortboarders crushing it today and one old lady occasionally getting crushed. Paddled out to the end of the pier four times before catching the elusive wave of the day all the way to shore. Did I look good?  Only to the newbie gal who asked me for some paddling out tips, but the ride felt good other than my typically slow pop up. Have water in most body orifices from being shot out of a cannon of water. Now putting beer in one of my body orifices.  

July 11  Old lady surf report: surf session cut short by nearly irresistible urge to puke. Shouldn’t have gone to the fish fry before paddling out. Also was thwarted by messy waves and a nagging thumb injury that wasn’t up to the conditions today. Still grabbed several ugly rides with slow pop-ups. No style points awarded today. Stopped before I could make my thumb worse. Best thing: Found a new used shirt to add to my wardrobe. If only I could get someone to drop some scrubs on the beach.

May 31  Old lady surf report Jersey edition: Jersey shore is for the young, the spry, the shortboarders, those with great pop ups. I do not fit those categories. Tate had some success. Andersen caught some with assistance and had a nice one on his belly and a collection of righteous wipeouts. I also had some epic wipeouts. I caught a couple but horrible pop ups led to rides on knees or doggy style. And it was cold. Really cold. My blubber didn’t do much. Nearly broke the water heater upon my return.

May 13  Old lady surf report: Water was a clear dark green with little mounds just big enough for some fun rides. Was joined by several on my fellow gray hairs about midway through my session. Glad they joined me because I spotted a fin in the water twice this afternoon and couldn’t be sure what it was (always tell myself dolphin). Had I been alone I might have paddled in, but in a group I stayed still my fingers turned to prunes. Izzy now happy with a ball and I now happy with a brew. All is right with the world.  March 16  Old lady surf report: Today’s surf induced reflux is sponsored by several cups of chocolate raspberry coffee, Honey Nut Cheerios and a black-eyed pea concoction with some sort of tasty meat. Surf was slow and mushy but rideable. For the first time in several years I hit myself in the face with my board. Missed by eye by a fraction of an inch but I see no lasting damage to my right cheekbone. It is a bit tender. Got tangled up with a fisherman who seemed at least pleasant about nearly reeling in the giant jenfish.  

Dec 23, 2020  Old lady surf report. Great morning surf session. Totally needed some attitude adjustment and the company of my usual surf buddy. On my first ride I nabbed a fisherman’s line at my waist but managed to grab it and fling it over my head and keep on cruising. Felt like a rock star. On a paddle out toward the end of the session some tourists cheered us on. Felt like a rock star again. But as usual I also took a bunch of water up the nose. And as for the water temps: it is getting a bit chilly. But as the worker from the local surf shop told me in the lineup — they’ve got a new shipment of suits in. Got to love a guy who is on the job even in the water.  Dec. 13, 2020  Old lady surf report. My timing today was impeccable thanks to a message from a Nebraska businesswoman who planned to call me at 1600. That was the cattle prod I needed to get moving. The surf was rolling with a huge crowd hooting and howling as they surfed on the south side of the pier. But the north side was nearly as fine with only three surfers during most of the hour I was there. First wave was a nice drop in and it formed and reformed all the way in. I had one more glorious ride later during which I felt like my board was dancing up and down the face forever. Did it look as good as it felt? Probably not. The other rides were nothing special. Got shot out of a water cannon a couple of times, ripped off my board and somersaulted. Left shortly after the sky turned a deep blue gray, the water an eerie green and the wind howled more than the surfers.

Nov. 22, 2020  This old lady surf report is brought to you by magnificent white beard whose presence made me get in the water this morning. I wasn’t really feeling it when I was up before dawn to stroll with the dog. Waves didn’t look great and air was cool, but then I saw him stretching on the sand. Took the dog home. By the time I returned, he was packing up and I paddled out alone. As I sat on my board, a dolphin’s fin appeared. Seconds later another jumped as it surfed a wave. I had some cool rides, got a nice sinus wash and watched pelicans dive bomb for breakfast before a wave of surfers joined the lineup. Thanks for the gift, white beard. May your chin mane continue to wave in the morning breeze.

Nov 19, 2020  Old lady surf report: The Texas Coast means 80 degree air temps in mid-November and the truck next to you may have a cowboy hat on the dash and a surfboard hanging out of the bed. Nice waves this evening but sunset session was less than pleasant because of three large tacos and a side of rice and beans consumed at lunch. Decision resulted in more belching than a third-grade boy in the cafeteria and burning epigastric/chest pain. I know better. But the waves looked tasty and so did the tacos.

Nov 7 Old Lady Surf Report   Yesterday I surfed with noodle arms and barely caught a thing. Today I was better. Caught more bigger and better. Pop up still sucks but had a couple rides all the way to shore and enough gas in my tank  to paddle out four times. And I learned once again how small my town is. A man I don’t know said he had seen me in the water several times and then told me exactly where I live. He lives about a block away.

Oct 28, 2020  Old lady surf report. When I woke to 47 degree temps, wind, fog and mist I couldn’t imagine that I would get the motivation to surf today. But a hurricane swell in the gulf does strange things. Temp got up to 66 with sun near end of the day and that helped. Broke out the wetsuit and luckily still can get in it. But I likely could have gone without it. Waves were awesome and I beat the working crowd which showed up about 530. I also rescued my new used beach shoes from the yard and the jaws of Izzy so they could make the beach trip. Izzy thinks I am a butthead.

Aug 26, 2020  Old lady surf report extra: Unexpected day off. Managed to paddle out to end of pier or beyond four times which was a feat in itself for an old lady. Got pummeled, crushed, shot from a cannon and thrashed. Every wave was either a face plant disaster or a take or be taken ride. Good news is that no old ladies were harmed in the making of this report. The bad news is that farther up the Texas/Louisiana coast disaster looms. My heart hurts for them. It is ugly, devastating and the work continues long after the news cycle ends.

Aug 26, 2020  Old lady surf report addendum. Omg. A dolphin. Huge. Just after I paddled out. The first time it leapt I almost missed it, but then it leaped two more times,  body completely out of the water and closer each time before disappearing. Session was otherwise not impressive, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s what you see not what you do. Only regret is that I was surfing south side alone so there was no one to marvel in the moment with me. 

We loaded our duffle bags this morning. They are bound for the airfield. 

Now we wait. 

It is Christmas Eve 1990. It is cold. The narrow, wooden barracks refuse to hold warmth. I have been a full-time soldier for 38 days, 34 of them at Fort Riley. I am surrounded by hundreds, but I am alone. Sure, I have known some of my barracks mates for years, but only in the one-weekend a month sort of way. 

Some know that until 38 days ago, I worked for a small newspaper. Some know I read a lot. Some know I like to write. Others know that I am lousy poker player. Do they know I am cursing the choices I made that brought me here? Do they know I am worried? Ok, maybe, more than worried? Do they know it has been 16 days since I smoked a cigarette? Do they know it’s because I fear I might have to run when it’s really important and my short legs require every advantage? 

Do they know that I fear failing to be brave in a moment of crisis? Do they know that I worry I may never get back home? Probably. But I don’t tell them. I don’t tell anyone. I can only assume we are all worried.

In two days, we fly out bound for a desert on the other side of the world. They will be all that I have. 

Last night, I called my family and had to tell my sister, fresh home from a semester abroad, I was going to a war not some cushy stateside locale or even to a spot in Germany. Why hadn’t they told her? Why did I have to do it, standing at a payphone, in the cold on a bad connection. And Grandma keeps telling me that she is praying I won’t go. I have told her that is a pointless prayer and to pray for something else. I am as harsh as the Kansas wind. I am not angry at her. I am angry at everyone. Angry at everything. I don’t make it home for Christmas much anymore, but I am still angry to be stuck here making my mom miserable on her birthday while my family plays cards and feasts on smoked oysters, artichoke hearts, cheese and crackers. I am even angry I will not have to eat pickled herring. 

Thank God for beer and its numbing powers. Although, that soon will be a memory as well. But as my dad mentioned that my liver probably could use the break. 

I am on the second-floor balcony of the barracks, beer in hand, belting out Christmas carols off-key during a poor attempt at a holiday party, when my Christmas present walks up.

“I’m looking for Jen Deselms. Anyone know her?”

“I’m Jen.”

I don’t recognize him immediately. It has been more than a decade. We were just kids. 

But then I am running down the stairs. Can’t help myself. I jump on this now-grown man and hug him. 

I have no doubt it surprised him. Hell, it surprised me. 

I moved in across the street from Mike as a sixth-grader. We didn’t stay long. We never do. But our moms were close and stayed in touch. Mike and I were never that kind of close. Age, circumstance and interests didn’t lend themselves to it. He was a grade behind me and attended Catholic school, unlike the other neighborhood kids. He was on the cutting edge of video gaming. I was on the dying edge of outdoor games – war ball, kick the can and capture the flag. He was a boy and I was a girl, or at least trying to act like one part of the time.

We had a sparring relationship. He teased. I mocked. Sometimes I watched his younger sisters even when he was home to prevent squabbles and household destruction. Even so, there was damage to a trundle bed from excessive jumping. I don’t think I was directly involved, but memory is a funny thing. Either way, I wasn’t great supervision.

His family’s gerbil died on my watch during their family vacation. I was so freaked out by its still body that I locked the keys in the house. They were good about it. The dog survived. 

Mike taunted me the summer I was laid up with a nasty foot infection. I vowed revenge and marched to his yard as soon as I was well, wrestling him to the ground. I tell myself I was the victor, but I’m not sure.

I am sure that was the only time we embraced in any way ­-- until he appeared under the balcony and I tried to break him in half with a hug. 

I had known that he was somewhere among the thousands at Fort Riley because Mom had told me on one of my phone calls. His mom obviously had done the same. 

I didn’t seek him out. I didn’t figure he would want to see someone he hadn’t talked to in more than a decade. He was smarter. He was braver. 

And I had been wrong. Oh, so wrong.

We drank beer. We laughed. We shared memories of the old neighborhood. We talked about our families. We didn’t talk about the coming war. We didn’t talk about fears or feelings. I got drunk. I assume he did as well. Everyone in the barracks was working on a hangover that night. Mike headed out as the drinking slowed. I haven’t seen him since. 

After more than 30 years, the details of the conversation that night are even fuzzier than they were the next morning. The feeling from that familiar face in an unfamiliar place remains clear.

He will always be my best gift on my loneliest Christmas.

November 11. Old Lady Surf Report: Fall is officially here. Lifeguard stands and crowds have been removed from the beach. Morning crowds are all of us AARP types and their dogs. Surfed alone in lame conditions but the temperature, both air and water, was glorious. Izzy and I took a stroll in late afternoon where she encountered a creature crabbier than me. We said hello to several Winter visitors along our route, including a man with Nebraska plates who said he was from Louisville, one of the million places I lived as a kid. Izzy and I have returned to the deck so she can resume her neighborhood watch duties.

November 7.  Today’s Old Lady Surf Report is brought to you by sunny skies, 70 degree temps, time change late sleepers, Cowboy fans staying home for the game and a charge nurse who gave me a heads up to slow my roll and delay the start of my work day. Surf was far better than the photo indicates. The breeze was so light that it didn’t affect wave form and there was enough water power for a few OK rides and a sinus wash. 

November 5.  Old lady surf report: Air temp 64 degrees. Water temp maybe 10 degrees warmer. Worst part was walking back to car. Nice little waves with a touch of power. Spotted a dolphin and lots of pelicans this afternoon. Izzy gamely investigated several dead things on the beach and I spent part of the evening at my first Port Aransas high school basketball game. Seeing them take down the big city team was an added bonus. Really impressed by community support, especially this morning’s send off for the state-bound cross country team. Sounded like a four-alarm fire from inside my house as the team bus was escorted out of town. 

October 31.  Sunny, still day and the surf forecast blew so Izzy and I strolled to the other side of the island to see the impressive array of wooden boats. Watched some of the family boat builders try to finish their three-day build-a-boat projects and saw the successful launch of the one project completed in time for the 2 p.m. scheduled Champagne launch. Stopped off at the VFW where the beer is so cheap I can tip 100 percent and the deck is always empty. Good day so far. 

Jody Heymann is a fiction writer and has been living in Corpus Christi, Texas for most of her life. She is a retired Emeritus Professor from Del Mar College. Jody taught English Literature for over 42 years. Jody and her husband, Dr. Hans Heymann have contributed greatly to the community in which they lived. Dr. Heymann even brought the first blood bank to Corpus Christi. Jody’s books,  Greystone’s Dilemma and The Lady Killers: A Thriller are entertaining reads.  

When a popular Texas State Senator running for reelection hires an assassin to solve his problem with a demanding young lover, he gets more than he bargained for--a murderer who enjoys his work, a media eager to exploit the scandal, and two detectives hired by the coed's parents to find their daughter...  

Read more in Corpus Christi Writers 2019.

One way or another, we all have to find what best fosters the flowering of our humanity in this contemporary life, and dedicate ourselves to that. ~Joseph Campbell 

Today was a high gravity day -- very high gravity.

If I had to hazard a guess, I would say today's gravity was at least 19.394 m/s2 in most of my house, and a solid 21.0 m/s2 in the immediate vicinity of my couch.

There is only one thing to do with gravity on a high-gravity day: defy it.

So I trudged to the grocery store.

Really, I just wanted to go to the craft store that is in the same plaza as the grocery store. Walking to the craft store to buy a pair of pinking shears for a project that is impossible to start due to the Earth's current anomalously high gravitational pull seemed kind of silly, so after I bought the pinking shears I walked the additional 50 or hundred yards or whatever to the grocery store. I bought organic romaine lettuce, organic blueberries, a single conventionally grown radish (already scrubbed the crap outta that sucker), and an orange flavored Lacroix fizzie water.

Normally I just drink filtered tap water, but trudging over crusty snowbanks next to a highway chock full of speeding drivers too self-absorbed and self-important to slow down in order not to spray me with road grime made me a tiny bit thirsty and I'd forgotten to bring my water bottle and the snowflakes were tiny and falling much too fast for me to catch enough of them on my tongue to quench my multihazard-induced thirst.

I hate high gravity days, but there is no better day than a high gravity day to defy gravity.

Poll: on a 0-10 scale, with 0 being absolute silence and 10 being the deafening sort of cacophony that drowns out machine gun-fire while you're trying to wind down with an episode of Peaky Blinders, how quiet is your dishwasher, what brand is it, where did you buy it, and who installed it?

My 17 year-old Bosch is still cleaning the dishes as well as ever, but I'll never know what Meredith said to Derek in season one episode one of whatever that show was, and, honestly, it's kind of starting to chap my ass. WHAT did she SAY?

Serious recommendations only please.

What a great week.

I managed to complete a set of TGUs bottoms-up without concussing myself, and I had to ground my elderly cat for coming home ridiculously dirty.

Who looks more stoned to you: Chris Cuomo or John King?

Who looks more hung-over to you: Chris Cuomo or John King?

I can't offer a FOX poll because the word "tart" is not politically correct. 

I need my husband to come home and sputter spontaneously the opinionews to me from Naked Capitalism that's what I need.

I'm becoming unhealthily obsessed with Sanjay Gupta's [handsome but too-whitened] underbite.

What a trying week.

But!

Going out, to the indoors public, I have wanted to (but didn't, because distancing) high-five and belly-bump the dishearteningly, underwhelming minority of us who STILL have the [underscore] BALLS (and good sense, and KINDNESS) to mask in public.

Go us! ESPECIALLY in that unholiest of places, Walmart!

Reporting now, I receive more compliments on my Scream mask than I receive on my Guernica mask, and my McNab ask was high jacked by my husband for his trip to Ireland and Scotland, so I I'm not getting compliments on that one at all.

Okay, I lied; I have not been in a Walmart for months. But you get my drift.

Absence of logic serves none of us, ever.

If my government mandated breathing, I would not plant my feet in the ground and refuse to breathe in order to prove that I have freedom.

Rest in peace, those who would.

And excuse me, please, if I think those people are uptight, selfish, self-righteousness, utterly misguided assholes.

What a beautiful week!

Ain't no bottoms-up like Turkish Get Ups, bottoms-up!

Peace out.

It is never too soon to prepare oneself mentally for less than desirable circumstances, therefore I offer this bit of pedantry:

The word spring refers to a geocentric view of the astronomical seasons, specifically that instant when an imaginary plane dividing night and day is perpendicular to our Earth’s equator. That is all spring is; spring is not a deadline for the absence of snow.

The latin roots for equinox are aequi- and noct meaning equal and night. The latin roots for eviction are e- and vincere meaning out and conquer. In 15.3 days the celestial event vernal equinox will occur. There simply is no heavenly event called vernal eviction.

The lush greenery we northerners miss so very deeply will not necessarily, suddenly, recover its property from the snow — by legal action or by any other means.

I am not running late, I am simply following a calendar more astronomically-based than most people are aware they could be following.

According to JennyAstronomy (not a real thing), which of course features heavy doses of JennyMath (a potentially scary thing, although even less real than JennyAstronomy),  New Year New You 2019 starts with the New Moon on January 5 at 8:28 pm.

If you feel like you've already ucked fup your resolution(s) fewer than 24 hours into 2019, fear NOT! The BEST time to begin any new endeavor is the time at which the Moon gets herself New.

I am not procrastinating my resolutions; I am simply patiently waiting for the most advantageous moment to begin.

There are only just a handful.

They are specific.

They are realistic.

Like last year's resolutions, this year's were chosen for their potential to help me to achieve My Ultimate Goal.

Joel Jay Ortiz has been reading, writing, and performing poetry since 1991. He started at various open mikes, reading poetry with musicians, and then continued when open mike with spoken word began appearing. He has been published in various indie zines and been the guest poet at readings in Austin and Corpus Christi. He also hosted open mikes throughout the years. His poetry tends to be literary with literary allusions and pentameters that agree with music, due to his love of music and ability to play guitar and piano. He wishes the world read more poetry and loves to hear poets express themselves, especially in a venue where poets can be themselves.  

Working is for stiffs. These pictures I take every day, these computer chips, getting to me, typing with my fingers takes so much energy. My skin is cold, with millions of goose pimples covering my body. Someone once told me when you get chills like this, it’s because there’s someone walking over your grave. This person has never been sick, not like this, not like me. Look at that guy, my manager; I need to talk to him. I need to get out of here. It’s been eight hours, and I don’t feel so well.

Michelle, the pretty little milf, looks at me and asks if I’m okay. Her perfume, some expensive brand made to turn on men with their base pheromones, just makes me wretch.

I run to the restroom with my head wet with sweat and fall to my knees. That last smell from Michelle’s breast or breath or perfume smells like the worst trash to me, makes me lean down and place my hand on the edge of the toilet rim, not caring who used it last or who cleaned up and flushed.

Nothing comes out because there is nothing in my stomach. I talk to the monsters, spit dribbling out of my mouth, my nose running, long trails of snot-dripping into the dirty toilet, goose pimples up and down. I’m so cold, but I’m sweating as if I’m stuck in a sauna., I just need a little taste.

After about fifteen minutes of losing it, I go back to my job of taking pictures. Richard, my stupid manager who always likes to give me lectures on tardiness and absences, asks if I’m doing okay.

“No,” I manage weakly to say.

“Can you work the rest of your shift? You have been leaving quite early a lot recently. Is there something you would like to talk about? You know we are here for you.”

I listen to his speech, and I know where he is going with this lecture. Little skeletons dance in his pupils. Beyond his eyes, behind him, I see a couple of my co-workers, and they are looking at me funny. I know they are talking about me, just like Rich here is talking about me, in a way that he wants to tell me something, but he can’t quite get it out. So, he beats around the bush, to use the thousand-year-old cliché. How many thousands of years have people been trying to say one thing when they really wanted to say something else entirely, a completely different thought than what was conveyed. The subconscious, the sublime, and my manager want to talk about my problem, but all that oozes out is ‘problem.’

Rich’s coffee-tinged bad breath makes me think of all the dirty sewers and dirtiest toilet bowls, and I make this retching noise with my mouth as if I was going to throw up right there in front of him. It is loud and surprising. He looks at me with fear. Michelle has a look of disgust painted all over her pretty china doll face. I retch again and run to the restroom.

As I’m kneeling at the toilet bowl, Richard comes in and asks if I am feeling okay. Again, with the stupid questions. After hearing me for a couple of more talks with the monsters, Richard says simply, “Ivan, if you need to go home, go right on ahead. Go ahead and take the next day off as well, but I expect you to be here Friday, okay, don’t let me down. C’mon Ivan, go home and get some rest. You don’t sound so good.”

It’s like I get well for a second as I wipe away the tears from my eyes. That Rich, he’s such a good man, I keep taking advantage of him, and he always gives me the benefit of the doubt.

I clock out at the machine and retrieve my empty bag from my locker. I slap the bag over my shoulder and leave that cold building. It is early morning, about 7:00 am. I have been working ten hours straight, and I am really sick. The traffic smells really get to me. I immediately set my hands on my knees and vomit. This time something comes up. It is this world, with its natural smells of oil and gasoline filling the streets. The odors of the sewer mixing with the trees mixing with dumpster mixing with perfume are too much for my guts. The morning dew, the dumpster, car exhaust, doggie-doo-doo, her hair, my bad B.O., it all comes up with the sniff of the real world, and when it comes up, it burns all the way up my throat as I spit out the bile that I had deep in my system. It is white when it hits the sidewalk, and I hear it sizzle so early this morning.

I manage to finally get over this predicament and find my way back home. I get in the door and immediately drop my pants and take off my shirt. Cold, in my boxers, I go to my room and get underneath my heavy covers. It is wintertime, and I am under one of my favorite covers, a blanket that I had for over ten years given to me by this old girlfriend of mine. I don’t know why I hold on to it when I no longer have any contact with her, but I can’t throw this old and tattered blanket away. We had both been discarded and lived through so much life together; I just could never get rid of it. I get under the velvet cover and pass out to nerve-shaking nightmares.

On a boat, in the middle of the ocean with rain falling over me, waves trying to capsize my boat, and I’m shivering in this Arctic Circle, looking for heat in all these freezing temperatures. I’m lost for years in the northern seas, freezing my heart all alone, with not even a deckhand to alleviate my loneliness nor to help me remember what warmth was.

I wake up with sweat-soaked sheets stuck to my cold skin. I peel them off and throw them on the floor. The clock tells me I was asleep for only twenty minutes, and I can’t sleep anymore.

The phone rings. Veronica asks how I was doing, and I tell her not so well.

She asks if she can come over. She had just visited Chuy and says she bought some oatmeal crème pies ‘would you like some.’ That dirty water, that Texas T, that dragon she is bringing wakes me out of my stupor. Just knowing she’s coming over makes my sickness heel a little bit.

It’s true I love the dragon, but Veronica is my true love. Veronica I met when I was still in high school, in my Italian class. I was trying to learn Italian to read Calvino, but all it ever did was get me more confused within my English tongue. But Veronica was in my class, sitting next to me. A very beautiful woman, she had me breathing every time she spoke to me. We started to hang out after school, and eventually, we became an item. Unfortunately, when I left for school, she stayed behind, and we drifted apart, but upon my graduation from the university, I began to experiment with some drugs until I found one that was to my liking. When I came back home, the dragon was always on my mind until I found Veronica again. It was a quaint existence together. We did everything together. She lived with me off and on; sometimes, when we get too crazy on the dragon, she would go back to her stepmother’s, but lots of times, we struggled together.

She’s been out of town to visit her real mother in Houston. She had some methadone with her for her trip, but now since she’s back home, she wanted the real stuff. Unbeknownst to me, she had gone to our dealer’s and picked up some dope for the both of us. My nose stops running, and my bones stop aching. I go to the restroom and get out my works.

In an old cellular phone case, black leather, I unzip it. It consists of a bottle cap, already dirty with remnants and traces up and down the cooker. There is a little makeshift handle to hold it. There are a few Q tips, a lighter, of course, and last but not least, a needle.

I expect her in fifteen minutes, but after thirty minutes, I call. She says she’s on the way. I sit there on my couch, cold as hell and feeling very sick. I try closing my eyes, try to fall asleep, but sleep never comes. Every time my eyes close, strange faces appear. Great big, horrid figures with teeth sharp and eyes dark as dense forests, where monkeys live and yell, screaming at the moon, these faces, these harbingers of doom and terror live in that darkness when my lids are closed. I open my eyes, sweating on the leather couch, with my skin stuck on the leather, feeling like melted saran wrap on my skin. So uncomfortable, I try to sit on a blanket, but my sweat keeps making noises on this skin of the couch.

The television holds no relief either. It’s nothing but talk shows of who is whose daddy and how my daddy beat me when I was a child or mock court shows where people are suing other people over parking in the wrong space. I flip the channels for about ten minutes until I finally turn the sad television off. Nothing.

I call one hour after Veronica first called, and this time no answer. The harlot. Where could she be? Who is she with? I know she’s with someone, doing my dope. She’s out there sucking someone off. She’s in somebody’s trailer dancing or in the back of some car with her panties on the floor. I bet she’s on some bed getting drilled, and well, here I am sick as a dog, waiting for this, this, damn that, Veronica. Why won’t she hurry up? I love Veronica, and I love what she has for me. Both of these warmths that make me feel good about myself. Those two warmths that give me confidence, I need them right now, right here.

Ring ring goes the phone. Is it my dope, is the only racing thought through my sick mind. It’s Veronica. She got tied up, so she says. By whom, I wonder? But she eases my heart by saying she will be here in a few minutes. She’s just down the street. Get everything ready, she tells me, and I tell her I already have, and now the time I’ve been waiting for is so long, but so short.

I hear her car outside my window. I already have the door unlocked. She comes in like nothing. Places her bags on the couch. She comes to me and kisses me, but her kisses leave me so weak. Where’s it at? are the only words I have for her. She digs in her pocket, like a drill in the earth, looking for oil, and in her tight pocket, she pulls out a balloon. A pretty good red balloon, larger than usual. She throws it to me, and I unwrap it on our coffee table. I have a shot glass of water, a cooker, my lighter, and two needles set on the coffee table, sans the coffee, sans the big books.

Busting the red balloon, I let obsidian tar fall onto my cooker. It is a big piece of tar. It bubbles up after about thirty seconds of flame underneath it, and my guts begin to boil along with it.  That smell of the drug rises up from the spoon and hits my nostrils. Immediately I want to throw up again. I start to retch, but I stop myself because I don’t want to spill any of the drug on the floor.

I draw up about seventy-five units of complete darkness. She sits next to me. It is dark in that syringe, and it looks like the depths of the deepest oceans.

“Hit me first,” she says, holding on to my arm, squeezing it tight.

“You know I always do, baby.”

I look in her face, and she is looking at the point where the needle is about to enter her. “Come on,” she whispers.

Her eyes flutter as I push the plunger. Her arm falls limply between her legs. Her mouth opens wide as she falls back on the black leather couch.

Maybe it’s too much, but let me find out on my own. Veronica, mummy-like, on the leather couch, lies there unresponsive. I pick up my needle, wishing to be on her level of highness. With my queen, my princess. I just follow the rest of my scar tissue. A joke enters my mind, of the two greatest inventions in the world. Heroin and the hypodermic syringe. Cracking a smile, I push the drug into my vein.

My eyes get heavy. I close them, thinking of the rush; it feels so great. Better than sex, better than orgasms. It’s warm, enveloping. Better than food, better than water on a hot day, hot and overwhelming. I can’t remember if I remember anything at all, but my eyes close quickly. That’s the only truth because when truth is found, it comes the quickest.

There’s no holding Veronica, no taking out the flowers, but numbness. Beyond clouds. In dark shapes coloring my vision. Blackness comes on so quick. This nothing, where hearts are not next to loved ones. Alone in this void, this is what I’ve become. Nothing but dust, nothing but dirt, but…

Remember, bout 20 years ago, we drank all night, our noses were sore, our alcohol was go gone, and I wanted to keep going, you wanted to keep going too, so we went to Uncle on everhart looking for some warmth that I like, but there was none to be found. So we went to your friends, but they were out, we went to Molina, nothing. Went to the cuare, nothing.we went to all the haunts, and nothing. We started at 4 in the morning, came back to our place on 14th, driving in that little mirage, hoping for the worst in our lives . It was on weber, in front of heb, he saw a rabbit running across the street, I said that ain't no rabbit and slowed down. He opened the door and a lil dog jumped in my car, a lhaso apso, so beautiful just jumped in and said where you've been, you're late you know. We found a bum in Morgan and he said yeah I can get it, ho down staples, turn in holly and wouldn't you know back at uncle's place, lol, which we already knew there was nothing there. This was now noon, so we spent from 4 am to 12 pm on the hunt for more dirty rugs, cause that's what we liked at that time. We never got our fix that we wanted, it wasn't till later when everyone woke up that we were straightened out, but we did have a dog that I named pennies from heaven, because that was all the joy we were gonna get that day. Peace and love to the new year. Thank God I'm not on the hunt anymore, but those that are, one day you will realize that nothing will ever fill that void, just enjoy the time we have now, on the greatest day of your life, until tomorrow begins...  

Every once in a while I can look near the edge of my pupil, and in that brownness, i can see a pin prick of light emanating from the inside of my eye, so I look in the mirror, and sometimes, sometimes I can see a whole other world, a different world, much like this one, but with a few differences, similar in the sense of having the same names, same people, difference being, I'm left-handed, no I'm right, sometimes I get lost in the crack, trapped in this eye, I'm here, I'm there, i am, i think?

And I'm running, running out of time, running to lose weight, running from my problems, running towards happiness, blessing those around me, wanting to change,  late in life, sometimes undecided, out of money, wanting more out of life, whoa, slow down, this is too much, this is not what I wanted, was this what I really envisioned, who are you, who am I, where do these questions come from, i want more, no one wants to give, i have so much to give, but no one wants anything but harm, i don't have harm I don't have fear, i have love, love of undesirable... 

THE CHUPACABRA OF SAN DIEGO, TEXAS

It was a night like this, with a steady flow,

The fog was deep, ever thick in San Diego,

Busy hunting, driving my truck around,

The moon it glowed,

Driving through back roads with my windows down.

Going through thick brush, walking to my deer blind,

All my clips, left in my truck behind,

Hearing the critters, in the brush scurrying around,

In the moonshine,

Not paying attention, to all the glorious night sounds...

read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019 

sometimes you're just damned

books, that spine I love, curving at the right

pages. Her dog ears I flip in my mind, kissing

each sentence I injest into my system.

I've given it all up so I can enjoy a few

paragraphs of intelligent chatter

I've ignored many possibilites many lives so I could

stick to those dirty words

i've taken ferries to countless libraries

and devoured each lover from its brain and secluded

many covers i just blew away

in my own i have stolen unmade masterpieces

and gave my full attention to such minds games the best

of the race have created

to be seated in rooms of your brain, you move so subtly from

reading to writing. what you read becomes the very word you

write. These fictions, these tigres de los suenos, as that

educated prick so rightfully wrote

life is very much like a book

you can either take your time and inject the wisdom

or enjoy it fast & move on to other works of pulp

in the end it comes from someone's library, it was somebody's book

it was my book but now i see that the mending department doesn't

even want to put together my torn book

i'll just let it fly off in all directions, my pages fly away like icarus, with no

destination

destination can be substituted for destruction

a reconsctruction of tales with no heads

for we dread what poetry can give birth to

oh poetry, i'd die for you

anytime, anyplace

POETRY!-----OPEN YOUR EARS FOR WE'VE GOT TO RECITE THE TIMES

POETRY!-----KEEPS US TIGHT AS SHRUNKEN SWEATERS

POETRY!-----HOW I WANT NOTHING ELSE BUT POETRY.

Copyright Joel Ortiz

read more great poetry like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2018

Spying UFOs in the desert

While this Mescalero Indian

Chews buttons in the dry valley

Sewing patches over bullet-riddled skin Taking arrows out of skyscrapers

Blood raining on painted faces

Cannibals in the Gulf reliving

Forgotten lives in friendly times

As much as you try, you will never leave The dry mesquite trees burning Bluebonnets littering the paved roads Don’t Mess With Texas

Played on a slide guitar,

Psychobilly noise on a turntable And us Tejanos drinking late in the morning.

(i wrote this one, behind the annex some 13 years back, and i remember the good man Robb Jackson, an English teacher at Texas A & M University Corpus Christi, he was the only person in this part of the world who would go visit the lowly inmates of Nueces County and help them express themselves through the written word. he was looking for a diamond in the rough when he was out there, i was already a diamond, i just like to live rough, all for sake of art, and somehow i got lost in all roughness,  i was there initially for different reasons, but along the years, the substances just got more and more under my skin and i could not do a damn thing without any substance inside of me. nowadays, doctors would say, oh you just self medicating, and i said, yeah, whatever, gimme a new scrip.)