rudy-francisco

When they ask me about my future wife, I always tell them that her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I tell them that she has a walk that can make an atheist believe in God just long enough to say, ‘God damn’. I tell them that if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them that if she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. I tell them that if she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her, cover to cover, hoping to find typos, just so we could both have something to work on, because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be read by someone, praying they will tell us that we make sense? She doesn’t always make sense but I swear to God, her imperfections are the things that I love about her the most. I don’t know when I will be married, I don’t know where I will be married, but I do know this: whenever I’m asked to describe my future wife, I do so as best as I can and every single time, she sounds a lot like you. Every single time, she sounds a lot like you.
—  Rudy Francisco, “A Lot Like You”
When they ask me about my future wife, I always tell them that her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I tell them that she has a walk that can make an atheist believe in God just long enough to say, ‘God damn’. I tell them that if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them that if she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. I tell them that if she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her, cover to cover, hoping to find typos, just so we could both have something to work on, because aren’t we all unfinished?
—  Rudy Francisco, A Lot Like You

Muscle is created by repeatedly lifting things that have been designed to weigh us down. So when your shoulders feel heavy, stand up straight and lift your chin – call it exercise. When the world crumbles around you, you have to look at the wreckage and then build a new one out of all the pieces that are still here. Remember, you are still here.

The human heart beats approximately four thousand times per hour. Each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy engraved with the words ‘You are still alive.’

You are still alive.

Act like it.

—  Rudy Francisco, Complainers
I won’t tell you that you’re beautiful. I’m sure you’ve heard that a million times, but I will say this, your smile is a house that I would like to visit more often, and your hugs feel like the home that I’ve been searching for my entire life.
—  Rudy Francisco
When they ask me about my future wife, I always tell them that her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I tell them that she has a walk that can make an atheist believe in God just long enough to say, ‘God damn’. I tell them that if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them that if she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. I tell them that if she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her, cover to cover, hoping to find typos, just so we could both have something to work on, because aren’t we all unfinished?
—  Rudy Francisco, A Lot Like You

To the man standing on the corner holding the sign that said
“God hates faggots.”

I’ve never seen,
exactly
who it is that you paperclip your knees,
meld your hands together and pray to
But I think I know what he looks like:

I bet your God is about 5’10”.
I bet he weighs 185.
Probably stands the way a high school diploma does when it’s next to a GED.
I bet your god has a mullet.
I bet he wears flannel shirts with no sleeves,
a fanny pack
and says words like “getrdun.”
I bet your god—I bet your god—I bet your god watches FOX news,
Dog the Bounty Hunter, voted for John McCain, and loves Bill O’Reilly.
I bet your god lives in Arizona.

I bet his high school served racism in the cafeteria
and offered “hate speech” as a second language.
I bet he has a swastika inside of his throat,
and racial slurs tattooed to his tongue
just to make intolerance more comfortable in his mouth.
I bet he has a burning cross as a middle finger and Jim Crow underneath his nails.

Your god is a confederate flags wet dream
conceived on a day when the sky decided to slice her own wrists,
I bet your god has a drinking problem.
I bet he sees the bottom of the shot glass more often than his own children.
I bet he pours whiskey on his dreams until they taste like good ideas,

Probably cusses like an electric guitar with Tourette’s plugged into an ocean.
I bet he yells like a schizophrenic nail gun,
damaging all things that care about him enough to get close.

I bet there are angels in Heaven with black eyes and broken halos
who claimed they fell down the stairs.

I bet your god would’ve made Eve without a mouth
and taught her how to spread her legs like a magazine
that she will never ever ever be pretty enough to be in.

Sooner or later you will realize that you are praying to your own shadow,
that you are standing in front of mirrors and are worshipping your own reflection.
Your God stole my god’s identity and I bet he’s buying pieces of heaven on eBay.

So next time you bend your knees,
next time you bow your head
I want you to
tell your god—
that my god
is looking for him.

—  Rudy Francisco, Your God