life is a compromise anyway

i want to pick peaches off a cherry tree

2005-10-06T01:17:00.000-07:00

i had dreams all last night about masturbating. i guess this means i have a healthy self esteem. either that or i'm totally fucking boring, considering dreams are supposed to be about things you cannot do in real life, like fly through the air or make peace with dead relatives. or like having sex with orlando bloom (when he's wearing that blonde long wig). sadly, sexually violating myself is something i accomplish on a regular basis.
especially now that i'm back living with my parents. thank god i took that week-long break and flew back to berkeley. much as i would like to share the details, i cannot do so without the consent of a certain mister, whose identity along with the juicy details that run through my head every so often would be better staying in my head so as not to jeopardize his relationship with his lady/ladies.
anyway so i'm back home and now it's today and i'm trying to be good to make up for a week of not being good. coming to work is one. going to my second job is another (yes i need cash, and the oregon scientific iball). going to the grocery store and buying a bunch of fruits which i will throw out later will be another.
then maybe calling people i was supposed to call last week followed by reading the sunday times to get the rounded worldview that comes from spending 99.98% of the time doing the crosswords and 0.02% real news.
finally, i'm going to make that masturbation dream a reality. look out lance armstrong, you one-balled piece of shit. you're not the only one who can dream the impossible and achieve it.

my soon-to-be new baby

2005-09-09T08:58:00.000-07:00

sony ericsson s700i. not anything new. came out half a year ago. but pretty nonetheless. it shall me mine soon.

i'm getting old...

2005-09-08T08:24:00.000-07:00

well not really. but 22 is kind of bad. anyway, i'm 8 years away from my "ideal age". hopefully i'll get there sooner. so it was fun. i don't think i am sober enough to write too much now, but here are the pictures of me and my three lovers

yes, so i'm home. finally.

2005-09-04T23:35:00.000-07:00

i'm not sure what impact this will have on my social life, although i'm sure i will have one. for one thing, i'm going to have to hop on a plane in order to see my friends in college, though my long-distance phone bill would stop hemarraging my bank account. after 3 years of living with about a quarter of the people i like in this world, this will be an adjustment. and i'll have to find a new place to write. but i'm wondering if not living with my friends is going to produce the kind of loneliness that would spark another man-eating phase, along the lines of this past year.
let me catch you up: after a period of extremely chaste years in high school living with my parents at home, i came to berkeley. i went out, and sometimes went home distastefully drunk. and developed a roster of Call Boys. but i was on vacation. it was just tourism.
i don't regret slutting out. it was something i needed to do. i doubled my tally of sexual partners in six months, and i still have only barely caught up to the tallies of most of the girls i know. but it all came of loneliness and boredom and depression, and it filled up time and space that my brain didn't what else to do with, and i'm not sure that's the best justification for promiscuity. and i know i'm home and i'm talking about nothing but sex. but i'm not ready to talk about people yet. there's no spare keyboard in the house and i don't want to kill this one with my tears.

surrender

2005-08-23T03:47:00.000-07:00

holy shit. i can't stop looking. she makes me want to run for my life like tokyo from godzilla. but then, in the perfect summer breeze, i catch scent of her cocoa butter mahogany skin, and am frozen with calm and resignation. i smell coppertone 1977, and all is right with the world. it's fate.

smother me, momma. slide my limp body between your warheads. i'm that tiny white speck. carry me back to your endless beach. stroke me head to toe with those burgundy lee press-ons. grasp my ankles delicately and use my whole body as a dildo. put me in you, dark and oiled and salty. we're all pink on the inside. then drop me in the sand next to yout huge transistor radio and sweating mason jar of sun tea.

2005-08-19T22:41:00.000-07:00

final departure from laguardia airport. i see manhattan out of my little window, bathed in warm sunrise. it's massively tiny. just three minutes later we were over forests, then ocean. i am a giant, looking down on a coral reef exposed at low tide. the little buildings are just brittle stalagmites and calcium deposits, and i could sweep my hardened hand down across them, cracking and crumbling a rolling wave of bricks and asphalt and street signs and taxis.

dawn of the undead boyfriends

2005-08-18T23:27:00.000-07:00

ex-boyfriends are like zombies - they always, always come back to eat your flesh, just when you think they're gone for good.
my friend says i have to stop using the 10-point word. fine. but anyway, there's this guy slavoj zizek who wrote a whole book on, like, zombie theory, late capitalism and the eternal recurrence of desire - which he calls "the fundamental fantasy of mass culture". our unresolved desire leads us to wreck havoc, not because we're specifically or individually evil, but because we, too, are victims, we're constantly suffering, we can't rest amidst the torment of unrequited need - whether we're talking about the lure of soloflex infomercials to the insomniac, or the unresolved angst of the jilted lover.
even if i do the dumping, it'll take me about a season to get over someone - i'm still terrifically win-back-able for at least four months. my own sense of romantic nostalgia has a half-life of about six months; by one year they're usually, for better or for worse, out of my system. and infallibly, that's when the dead start to rise from the grave.

er...this is going a little too far. yes i'm the self-proclaimed commitmentphobe and leave the impression that i go through guys faster than i go through my diesel jeans, but i do get attached. once in a while. and those are usually the ones that really kills me.
alright. i think i said too much. i mean, i drank too much. and this confession may just be something that would haunt me. but who cares...i'm leaving soon...i'm just going to complete the confession.

so my phone rang. and it's the Taken Guy, who was the reason i went to parties every weekend to drink my life away for like 3 weeks - i wasn't ready to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship, so i got the hell out before his girlfriend found out. of course, she found out anyway, about a month later. let's not talk about the episode when i ran into her at walgreens on shattuck.
"i miss you," he says. "but not in the old, let's-make-out-in-an-alley kind of way. i just miss you." that's always nice to hear. but...i don't..i just...i haven't thought of him in a while. i've been too concerned making new mistakes to worry about the resolution of the old ones. the conversation was pleasant enough, though, He tells me he and his girlfriend have borken up. he's living in the city with three hipster girls, he says he feels like their 'faggot older brother' (the Taken Guy fits squarely in my pattern of dating men who spent more money on hair and skin products than me). he wants to thank me, he says, for the part i've played in the dissolution of his relationship. that's the first time i've heard that one. no problem, dude. any time. we hang up and i'm more bemused than anything else. no harm, no foul.
the zombie attack does not always end so well though. but it's too late and i'm too drunk to document that.
we're not alone. we all have our zombies, stalking the ether waiting to come back and avenge their misplaced desire on the living. and when it happens, it just sucks me dry, like i've been...well, sucked dry by a zombie. and, for a while, i just have nothing left.
so that's how i felt, before i left the apartment this morning. and i'm not saying it excuses what happens next...it probably would have happen anyway. i'm just saying - i wasn't exactly in the best shape...

i wear my sunglasses inside

2005-08-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

i wear my sunglasses inside, so i can, so i ca-an...yeah i don't know how corey hart would have ended that couplet, but whatever.

after a crazy day of walking around broadway and the flatiron district, i'm back in the fancy greenwich village apartment, drinking perrier and watching david letterman. and i'm leaving this country in less than 2 weeks. it's not spur-of-the-moment, and i think i'll sort of miss this place, but it has to be done. graduating and missing home a butt load and the prospect of not having to pay rent and food - the choice is choosing me.

friends

2005-07-21T02:07:00.000-07:00

they are with you at the big events, like a wedding. or a party to celebrate your promotion, where you. also announce the other good news about how. you are pregnant again. they were there as well. at the hospital where you lay after the accident. offering flowers and an eternal platitudes.

they are absent at the smaller deaths, such as. those you experience along the corridor. on the way to the restroom from your office, or. on the way to the cafe downstairs for lunch, when another light goes out inside your head

after you convince yourself this is what you have. always wanted: a generous income, a predictable. joba dn marriage. they agree when you tell them. how your hisband is really unreasonable for suggesting. you have lost your intensity, your sense of wonder. they also agree that you are passionate

about your work, and that work is meaningful. for its purposefulnesss, its sense of duty, its repetitions, which remind you of water-drops in that japanese. mode of torture devised to drive a prisoner insane. they are there at your time of need; of course,

only if that need involves joining you at the bar, a free drink now and then. they are there to loan you a copmliment or two, or a note of engouragement. during your rare moments of mild disappointment. and despair, which you are then obliged to return. in the nearest possible future, with or without. interest, depending on your mood for generosity.

they serve to remind you of what you first learnt. at the beginning of your marriage, whcih is. that any sprt of companion, no matter how distant. ot exceptionally intimate, is a compromise - a friend, who may only ever know you as little. as you believe you know yourself.

(no i don't think i mean what i wrote)

i'm so horny, that's okay. my will is good.

2005-07-09T08:15:00.000-07:00

taking off my clothes, i glimpse. myself in the mirror where, once again, nothing ever looks. the same way twice; my hair

the colour of dead leaves, my torso rising to a nakedness. which is also its shield.

sharp ribbons of sunlight ride. up a bare chest, this brightening bulb. of shoulder, gentlest flank of neck.

sliding into the tub, my body, gleaming under the surface of water, lies like a word in its own revelation.

2005-07-06T06:20:00.000-07:00

i want to forgive for the both of us

2005-07-04T02:35:00.000-07:00

there is a road behind. the eyes and the long-suffering. smile, long and winding, but leading nowhere,

it starts from the path. behind this house, one that runs into. the woods, disappearing into. an imagined horizon.

she sits in front. of the television everyday, afloat in a dress too large. for her body, fanning herself. with a magazine, feigning contentment.

and he moves sadly about. the living room, arranging, re-arranging books on the shelves, sometimes remembering to take one of them. down, even pretending to read it.

none of them remember the picture. on the wall, the one taken at their. wedding, where they stood before a church, smiling weakly, resigned to the. cheap gown and the undersized tuxedo, ensnaring both their bodies.

there is a road behind this house. i can see it from the bedroom window, disappearing into the trees, leading nowhere.

i want to bury in the yard the grey remains of a friendship scarred

2005-06-29T04:50:00.000-07:00

my china mask. fell and smashed into. seven pieces. i took each one. and held it to my face. seven new masks. and a cut on my finger.

2005-06-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

outside the window, over the familiar. runway and its parallel rows of green. rush by, the plane trundles to a stop. soon, passengers rise to retrieve. their belongings while i remain in my seat. indifferently still. afloat on a private river. of images, i recall the ancient beauty of. spanish towns in the countryside, the innocent. bonhomie of native folk. as if, by this. momentray respite, the seconds would crawl. for me. maybe, even stop. the rest. are lining up to alight. let me sit here. for a minute. a moment away. from the present. a moment away. from myself.

to reminisce is to open up old wounds

2005-06-13T04:38:00.000-07:00

if you love somebody. pull them in. lock them up and. kiss them feed them. this is what you taught me. with your honeyed words and. indecently veiled threats. revealing more shame. than any naked actor could.

if somebody bothers you. drive them away. chase them to the corners of the world. and mock them afterwards. this is what you taught me. in your pathetic attempts. at "graciousness". if in any way you were ever. mine. i would disown you now.

i'll twist the knife and bleed my aching heart

2005-06-09T23:26:00.000-07:00

just orange-juiced crazy. falling into red mellow light. the shick shick of shoes. singing out lullabies to me.

darkness in a dewdrop. descends whining screech to a. sudden blue cool in a. sudden blue cool in a. packet of frozen beet-root.

finger to thumb, i know. the light that brings me. is soon killed and redness. is gone to give me hysteria.

finality in my nails i. see you moving in my eye corner. my shirt sweats itself to my back. glued, stuck to a skin.

slice

2005-06-04T16:36:00.000-07:00

i am not me. i am us all. they tell me. i am a sample. they let me know. i am just like. us all. there is no pressure. to conform. only the uncaring. reality. that we all do. that we are all. what we all are.

2005-06-03T15:34:00.000-07:00

your parents must be so. proud of you so. smart so pretty so helpful so. wrapped up in righteous armour so. that the world with its reality so. grimy, filthy, miserable, helpless. so. many things you cannot see.

sigh. i cry and i don't know why, but i'm. shedding these tears for you. could it be i love you for your individuality? am i falling for nun in a cloister, so high and above us all, you're sprouting wings. in case you fall?

you answer to a higher authority. democracy is not your forte in any conceivable way. except your face would please a people. and your form would fill a stadium with fanatics. you are popular with me. do i hope to ascend this ivory tower. with common steps?

and i watched you walk down those steps

2005-06-01T03:55:00.000-07:00

like. a pebble in the shoe. smooth, pleasant but distracting. painful sometimes but reassuring. hampering movement, but tingling, exciting. a diversion from bland, functional walking.

to my future on a friday

2005-05-27T00:43:00.000-07:00

yesterday, a Thursday, it rained. and surely it will again. or so they say. not so with life. ah, short, blind rush. i would stop to smell the roses. but nobody planted any. and i have no time to waste growing them. because everyone says. "PUSH ON". and i see ants do it. moving too quickly to see where they go. one will find food. the rest follow. community is in their insect blood. so maybe i will too. contribute to mine by learning. to push paper, efficiently and in the right direction. and if you detect an air of resignation. you will have your one month's notice. and i will be wry forever. behind this grey outfit. will lie a human heart.

(i dreamt last night about this particular potential career. and yes, i woke up feeling stupid about spending all this time and energy and every single project i've done so far.)

father

2005-05-26T02:03:00.000-07:00

he asked me if. i really didn't know. as if i'd. construct an ignorance.

he trusted me. with a precious thing. but watched me. even as i held it.

he told me to. be what i want. as long as. he approved.

tied up loose ends. into a. tightly wound future. i'm only holding my breath. until i snap.

2005-05-25T01:17:00.000-07:00

are we here. on pretence of meaning? borrowing time. for a dance with. emptiness? do we play a game. with dice and cups. or a wheel. is this a loop. or is there forever in my hand?

switch with me. doubling up. sold liking. or bought displease. not much else to do with this rounded cube. red as tape. and longer than the faces of a die.

floods come. droughts go. famine skips about in. gleeful hunger, bloating empty bellies. a pregnant parody. which all traipses back. to the centre of the rose. are we on. a track to somewhere? or is the junction ahead. half as real as the one before?

turning it backwards. so the doomed cuckoo. knocks itself against the window. spins its own head off. but still chirps as if. the day has a beginning. do you have a glimpse. or a gliding glance. goggles are worn. your personal views. cannot change. ot be traded on the air. open as it was once a breath. and somebody else. tastes you. to bend visions. in fields of invisibility. a run of themes. that crosses twice or fives. jacks up. bounces. and lies still.

as to your question of why

2005-05-21T19:57:00.000-07:00

poetry as compared. to prose is so much. less restricting. you. do you really have to. confine yourself to the. conventions that change. with time anyway, such. as tense and grammar. it is, as someone once. said, like dancing and. prose is like walking. it's true. poetry has about it. a grace and elegance. that prose, with its. clumsy manipulations. cannot hope to match. for how can you. expres yourself when. you are interrupted in. the middle of a thought. by a comma or a. full-stop? and. prose can be. confining for the. reader as well. when the. artist channels his. thinking, the reader. cannot help but be. channelled as well. prose manipulates the. mind, while Poetry. illuminates it.

2005-05-15T05:06:00.000-07:00

stretching, tearing everything. wracked with an immense sense of worth. dislocating arm and language. to build this bridge of air.
cross, cross! i scream at you. to reach for me too.
and i will give you. all the hurt i can give. you will see. the beauty in a dying rose.

look what we've become

2005-05-14T05:25:00.000-07:00

i've got my trophy and you your love handles

your story: the blueprint

2005-05-09T19:55:00.000-07:00

amazing how it takes the smallest things, like a bus ride, to transport you to the important issues, such as death and all its different manifestations. approaching 7pm, shadows are already climbing out of the sky to put out the skyscrapers like candles, ink a river under the highway to black opacity. you wonder about the years you have

emptied into your present job, the sameness of expression with which your wife greets you in the evenings, sullen face of your son at the dinner table, the taste of food reduced to blandness on your tongue, while the television in the hall blares forth winners of another game show.

you gaze out the bus window at the moon's half-grin and remember that film your colleagues hated, which wounded you in some deep, unspeakable way, like the scene when the male lead hesitated for more than what was only a minute before pushing a knife's edge

against the taut curve of his wrist, with that sharply held breath before every attempt, its quivering release upon failure. this process you are so famiiar with, each hesitation recurring to a lullaby of the same, these repetitions the invisible blueprints of a life. stars

perforate the sky, like the eyes of dead people suspended outside of time perring in, the place where your soul must have come from, yanked down by ropes of pure longing. you wonder at the history of mankind

calculating the sum total of your consequence in relation to its yet interminable drama. quickly, you drift on to happier subjects, like your son, who pointed one day at clouds rising into houses, pillars, collapsible cities. you wonder what you were like at that age. in school,

a teacher commented that you had a talent for stories, a startling gift for description. you recollect the praises scribbled in blue across the bottom of a report card that dad signed, then handed back to you without a word of compliment. you tell yourself you are better towards your own son: more tender, more inclined to praise.

none of you can account for the exact moment when that cynicism flew into his face to lock itself in. you attribute rudeness to his friends, your wife blames you for spoiling him from the very beginning. you glare helplessly at desert maps of your palms, at the paperweights of whitened knuckles pinning you down

to the world. a poet said that all of us are searching ultimately for our graves. you think about graves, how your wife was a hole in the ground you crawled into and remained for so long you forgot what love was. you complain to yourself abo9ut how this bus is taking too long to bring you home. the road stretches out

like your father on his bed the morning he did not wake. he looked no different, and religion made you believe another sort of wakefulness was prepared for him. you stood there observing him, dwelling upon decomposition, how the air would dissolve his body, reclaim the space it once occupied. you glimpse at your watch, this gift

from your son for father's day you found out was really bought by your wife; this watch that never slows down for the ecstatic instant, but for boredom's uniformity. lst week, you went grocery shopping with your family

at the supermarket around your block, and discovered you had lost your wallet, or maybe dropped it somewhere between the vegetables and the dairy section. you heard, on the intercom, the voice of the one who had found it,

a girl mispronouncing your name again and again. and you left your wife, you son by the trolley, both turning to strangers with thier identical expression of puzzlement and mild irritation. you hurried down aisle after aisle, so eager to retrieve the little you could lose,

realizing instead you were unable to find the counter. you kept walking and walking alongside rows and rows of shampoo bottles pasted with women's faces cracked wide open by smiles and that barely audible laughter.

you became convinced there was no counter. that bitch repeated again what was once your name. you halted, much to the approval of tin cans of baby powder, images of babies so cute you could smash a fist into every tin.

fluorescent lights swelled inside your head to blossom into a panic: at once unbearable, yet oddly calming, as you never felt so close to alive, so potentially free.

and i forgot to say...

2005-05-05T03:26:00.000-07:00

lately this particular boy has been making me really happy.

this is from a while ago

2005-05-05T00:57:00.000-07:00

damn you all. lend me the kitchen knife. as i make mockery of all of you hold so dear. your dated misconceptions of. too many thing.

freshness is unappreciated if it flows fresh. only the distilled new fruit is brought to the table. and the narrow necked mindglass. is filled with rot.

2005-04-25T02:12:00.000-07:00

i sensed your loneliness. even when you were. a child, when. your family would nail. themselves to the same. furniture, repeating. the same indignant dialogue, sipping from perennial. glasses of lemon tea.

sometimes, they. remembered that. you existed. as they. would call you. into their cirlce, so that they could. spend an hour griping. about how long. your hair had become, or laugh over how little. you had grown this month.

and i remembered. how you would. always smile. or nod, obediently. compliant like. a little puppy, made to roll. over and play. dead, over and over again.

2005-04-13T04:55:00.000-07:00

lulled by the anonymity. you can see the critics. once in metaphorical armchairs. now behind the electronic podium. you wait for them to get on the plane. but in truth. the only thing they hate. is action.

these posts of many words. reactions. of an adolescent soul. to this intolerant grandmother body. condescending at best. inconcenvable at worst. but always acting internally secure.

with her senile penchant. for self-loathing. and her geriatric distaste. of change. and her pubescent changing. of ideology. she irritates her relatives sometimes. she irritates herself always. but is put up with. because she's a rich old dog. with money tucked away everywhere. a coin in her handkerchief. a bill in her shoe.

she couldn't care less. about this cybernetic fly. crawling up her arm. lazily hiding. a spray can behind her back.

2005-04-06T03:25:00.000-07:00

i was sitting in the middle of Is. having just stepped out of Was. and just about to open a Present, when this man stepped forward. and introduced me to Could Have Been. i shrugged. and seeing my disinterest, he sighed. and moaned, and whined. and turned past that page. showing me Can Be. but i shook my head. and waved him away from Is. so i could continue opening the Present. from my friend Prudence. And the little grey man. packed up his suitcase of brochures. and went to peddle his discontent. somewhere else.

room

2005-04-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

glaring at me hotly. indignant. violated flourescence. agitated at least. an electric rape. assaulted by alternating current. and bound in plastic. knife-edged light. spewed. thrown grudgingly. with a protesting moan. to soil. every corner. with its intrusive finger.

touched black. drawing light. as a math board. draws diagrams. elliptical. a prism of a ring. filled cylinder of darkness. in a grey flimsy wrapper. washed out ebony. now a rat-skin grey compromise. ugly snapped. smeared blue, red, dirty green. from the groping stubs. of a child's fist. chewed on and worn out. a tired veteran. lying abandoned on its side. in the vomit of the sobbing lamp.

a plate. pock-marked with hardened onion. browned by air. and reeking of negligence. half-washed. and daubed with. a rank tatter of rag. with mysterious patches. of dried-red dung-shades. holds. a half-eaten slice. of cheese of bread of ham. now breeding. a five o'clock shadow. of powdery soot. fungal plague.

collapsed. on the scratched floorboards. a paper heap. crumpled. frail as arthritis. held by a rotting spine. of rheumy orange. touched by the same soot. that blessed the bread. that touches everything here. threatening to infiltrate the lungs. stains of. barbecue tomato red. prints of infantile digits dipped in. the innards of a hamburger. pages of polluted inspiration. once a gateway. now just a decaying stack of. murdered tree flesh.

this local universe. is degenerating into. entropy. dystopian development. a gradual. slide down. an ever-steeper slope. and apathetic antipathy. a mirror. camcorder of an. exhausted soul. with bile-tinted lenses. from the. sneakers, limp. and coated with a. greek yogurt fuzz. to the. puddle, dried. and hard as a. coral. rough and unidentifiable. slowly. portraits of depression. sink. hoping to reach bottom. and never crawl out.

2005-04-02T14:27:00.000-08:00

out of context, i gaze at you. through glass walls that you turnedinto shields. flawless in my shortsight. once it was different, i could pass you by. another beautiful face, another human body. but they made me know you. and gave medesire, gave me hope. made me see through my lies. to deeper beauty, intangible, enticing. flashing smiles amd nothing else. immersing me deeper in pink mist. i fear to see clearly. the first transition successful. the second in doubt. a mental risk. as yet uncalculated. do i risk it all, so i rise above the mist. to see you as clearly as you will see me?

the ceiling gets closer to you all the time

2005-03-30T23:34:00.000-08:00

she was unkempt. but so beautiful. so pure. she lay prone. serenely, deeply innocent. untainted and wild. until the day. he came to her fertile shore.

he paid her ancestors. good british gold. as a dowry, and. then took her. wide-eyed. into his arms.

after the act. he showered her with wealth. with salt, with spice. as a consolation. for giving up her youth.

she sat quietly. and saw herself flourish.

she watched as he left. having completed the job. having claimed her as his prize. there was an air of resignation about her.

she is prematurely aged now. knows things she should not know. she has seen what she should not see. the child bride.

you can see. if you look past her adornments. if you erase her wealth, her glamour. if you see through the steel and the concrete. her heart. almost a virgin.

it's way too late to be this locked inside ourselves

2005-03-23T17:30:00.000-08:00

your voice lives here

like pigeons rising. toward the vertiginous ceiling; wings wringing melodies from. the air, astonishing music, swallowing. the ancient silence.

will you stay, even as. emptiness runs. ubiquitous. along these corridors?

i once swore that i'd do anything to keep you happy

2005-03-22T17:38:00.000-08:00

i was in the bathroom with my sister. as she prepared to take a bath, talking. about her life in school, reflecting. that she was already on the brink. of adulthood. i watched. as she released her young, black hair. over the small oval of her face, a few strands. lingering at the pink lining of her lips. the nascent breasts behind her shirt were. fresh buds thrusting against the earth. and. as she pulled the rest of her clothes away. from her body, they fell unwillingly. to the floor, forming a shriveled mass at. her feet like the sloughed casing of a. snake, revealing the gentle arch of her. shoulders, the delicate rachis. of her back. smiling at something i said, she stepped towards the tub and. slipped into the surface of time, pure white and vulnerable.

2005-03-22T17:21:00.000-08:00

Which Incredibles Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

2005-03-21T01:34:00.000-08:00

enter the cranial wall. through.

empty, gaping holes of. eye sockets, stepping into a. putrid prison, where. fettered memories slump. putrescent on the floor.

step into the creaking lift and. plunge dismal. down. a grimy shaft of throat. arriving in no time at.

a sepulchre, where passions. become cadavers, squatting quietly within. fetid corners. of myriads, cimmerian vaults.

furtively masturbating.

on that cold winter day in 1998

2005-03-16T02:39:00.000-08:00

exchanging old smiles, i didn't notice the tension. in your neck, the tautness of the jaw, the. quick movement of your eyelids, tiny flickering flames. perhaps. i was too distracted, as usual, by your. coaly black hair, the perennial tilt. of your head, the way your finger. always strayed to the chin, as if. all thought stemmed from. the incipient stubble sprouting there. i didn't know, of course, that you were. garnering courage, from distracted glances. at other students in the room. bracing. yourself to divide me into a million. pieces, as i sat there before you in complete. innocence - a thousand ready maggots scuttling. on my face. i was sure when this was over, you would convince yourself that you had been. kind, that is, in your private understanding. of the word. for an hour, maybe more, you. watched me with your mouth like a locked. door, while i chewed on your silence. as if it were something edible.

pain on pain

2005-03-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

we shape the armour,

fling our. grievances, sharpened. spears. across the bed.

then gauge. who has administered. the deeper wound,

so that. we can crawl into each other. to lick the gash.

apologetic. self-serving.

and take what you will tonight. i'll give it as fast and high as the flame will rise

2005-03-11T22:31:00.000-08:00

you voice lives here.

like pigeons rising. toward the vertiginous ceiling; wings wringing melodies from. the air, astonishing music, swallowing. the ancient silence.

will you stay, even as. emptiness runs. ubiquitous. along these corridors?

use my body like the pages of a book. of your book.

2005-03-09T02:13:00.000-08:00

you were surprised to see me. alone in a quiet corner of this. bustling cafe, when this. had always been my de facto. disposition. staying at my table, you began. to amuse me about missing a. lecture this morning, while. my eyes swam in the snowy skin. of your face, the lust reducing me. to the bimbotic cant of warm, meaningless bromides. i remembered how i had often stared. like this, during class last year, at you, beguilded by your innocence, my. brain always temporarily occluded by. your pallid beauty, each time we spoke. now, as you laughed, the waves of. desire so overwhelmed that i had to. look away, feigning distraction, but only for a moment, looking back only when you launched. into another trajectory when all. i really wanted to do was slide a hand. under your shirt and touch you.

dr. jekyll is wrestling hyde for my pride

2005-03-07T16:04:00.000-08:00

she stood on the shore. like a statue; baked-clay. shaped to resemble. a woman. a standing figure. poised against the red evening sky.

her man breaks. the surface, a hundred arms. tearing out of black water, fingers opening.

but her body will not open. the earth will not take him.

so with. a simple movement, she is. broken. there is a. crack, pieces crumbling. against his palms.

then he carries her fragments. into the sea.

i'll take advantage while. you hang me out to dry. but i can't see you every night (for) free

2005-03-07T02:49:00.000-08:00

and the unique, orgiastic nature. of their copulation. we watched as their myriad bodies. twisted around one another. like parts of a rope coming. together - a glistening, sibilant. whole. heaving and sliding over. each other in a single writhing body, a living river, moving over. the grass and the rocks. you knew i was scared of snakes.

then something unusual, something strange, comes from nothing at all

2005-03-03T00:39:00.000-08:00

quite often, i thought you were like. a child, my first baby, as you nestled. within the weak encirclement of my arms. as i fed you reason in whispers, even tenderness, like colostrum, you sucked this from my body. your face, closed lips curved like a miniature bow, cheeks, pressed tightly against my chest. and. i would hold you like an anxious parent, even in sleep, our breathing like. an airy chant, distracting you and i. from self-annihilation.

and that was fine, as i believed you felt the same way. as i too would swell into your chest. like roots exploding into the ground. as my own lips, teeth, adamant tongue would. scour the landscape of your arched, compliant body, moving like a breeze over the surface of water - where did this love come from, this need to belong, to return to the same body - your hard, extended nipples really pebbles which. God had placed in isolation, on either side. of your chest. but soon, inexorably, i would arrive. at that most hallowed part of. you, where, once again, He had. drawn forth from betwen your legs, hard and proud like a weapon.

epithalamium

2005-03-01T17:05:00.000-08:00

from a dispassionate view. you are merely. flesh. i touch for. vulnerable spots. but my fingers probe. razor blades. under. your skin.

in your eyes, i should have. seen the headlights. the imminent accident. kissing your fingers, i glimpse your palm, a map of roads, revealing. then. how you were going. to escape.

it's too late now

2005-02-26T23:22:00.000-08:00

i remember when we watched. one of our first films together, how our arms would be poignantly. inseperable and you would stare. silently through the dark into my. face as if you could cull my secrets by. peering long enough. i loved the way you. would whisper my name like a last. breath, a final plea for something. i would have surely given if i had only. known what it had been, for things are. so different now. now, you seem to find. greater meaning in the flickering images. on the screen than in the wet glint of my eyes. and when we left the cinema together, silence. had coagulated into a third person, a breathing. corpse, holding both our hands. as we walked back to the bus stop.

we gotta stop pretending who we are

2005-02-26T03:31:00.000-08:00

even before you. plummeted into deafness, they. had your pride. for breakfast, lunch, and dinner - or did you reallt stop. listening when someone told. you your own children. hated you - your bones would. gather into dust. piles around their. vulturous feet, coming to life only. when your grandchildren. claimed, in all. ignorance, those. stubs. of your fingers, making you. believe there was more. to live for. other than death

what kind of child was i. when i plucked a fifty dollar bill. from your feather purse. tucked away like a forgotten secret. under a heap of fragrant clothes. inside your musky chest, and. what kind of child did i become. when one morning, you woke me up. to place a crispier fifty into the cup of. my half-opened hand, then whispering. happy birthday down my ear. with a sound like a sudden breeze. sliding into the ribs of a tree, followed by that crack i almost heard. which opened like a baby's eye from. one end of my swelled heart to another

it was a ritual to ask if i. wanted tea whenever you saw. me reading - for you, that. unknowable pleasure. in this family, it was ritual also. for men to tell their wives to. shut up; ah-ma, i read. nothing that day, only how. when you poured boiling. water down the throat of a cup, steam lighted up your face. like, as i wrote, 'a rgged cloud. with the sun behind it'; the same. evening after grandpa desired. from you your usual. muteness, i wrote to memory. how you made tea by the parted. window, watching the stars. pour passageways down your cheeks, how steam from a fresh cup. of teats in your hands drifted up. those silvery passages into night

when they rolled you into the fire - not unlike bread into an oven, your soul like yeast thrusting upwards - guilt became curtains of smoke hanging. by invisible threads between our heads. and we felt a wave of tenderness. pass through stillness, like the point. between a glimpse of your eyes and your. averting of vision; wink of the coffin. before an iron door swings shut like. another woman's mouth

ah-ma, don't. ask us why. they were like this: i cannot account for heart-lessness, the origins. of any cruelty. only ask why we. watched you. longer than you. could peer pass. the wide-open. doors of your faces; you who saw nothing. beyond our pity

i'm in love. and always will be.

2005-02-23T22:32:00.000-08:00

where did you go after family and friends. left the crematorium, after your ashes. were poured into an urn. a few sizes smaller than your head? you who once argued that we would all arrive. in heaven after the end, in the belief. that everyone is innocent, ultimately, and hence forgivable.

was there a possible moment of fear in the final. hour of your life, a tiny voice informing you. you might be wrong, before sleep finally. piloted you away on that one-way flight. the same fear in the seat next to yours, caressing your phantom arm?

or did you simply stop where you had. begun, in dust, your body. that may have never been designed. as a metaphor for the soul?

are you perhaps trailing your girl. like her second shadow. as she returns to the old-folks' home, grateful. for not having to smell anymore the stink. of medicine and antiseptic crawling off the walls? would you cling to her like another blanket. when she falls asleep every night, waiting patiently. for the moment when the nurse checks her pulse. one morning, then announces the inevitable?

what then when i finally join you in the realm. of the invisible? would the both of us visit. the school where we first met, the soundless shuffle. of our invisible feet down a corridor packed. with roomfuls of memories, waking the janitor's dog, which would likely be accustomed by now to. spirits drifting nostalgically in and out of classrooms?

or would you turn into a guardian angel - what you had wished for as a child - given wings, a trumpet, and a list full of duties in a shining scroll? you could never be a devil, considering how. easily you would lose at arguments, as if lacking. a mind of your own. (or did you always give. in because it was one of the ways you. knew to love me?)

today, i saw a car barely miss a child who had. sprung free from a parent's hand to cross a busy street, and wondered if it was not you. beside the driver as his tires screamed to a halt, holding on to his fist in a death-grip around the wheel, beaming at another job well done?

we keep repeating mistakes for souvenirs

2005-02-21T01:34:00.000-08:00

this morning, i woke to a nothingness. which receded as cruelly. as when it first approached. i brush my teeth, look out. the window at a young woman. passing along the road downstairs, smiling impossibly to herself. the last time i was alone i could. not stop wondering when love. would come back shining. around the distant corner. of my one-track vision. twenty years into my life, i am beginning to realize nobody. ultimately understands. a word i am saying.
sooner or later, i may become one of them.

i have tried to appreciate. the meaningfulness. and the meaninglessness. behind every moment along. the persistent, forward motion of this life. now, i relate mostly to what. is negative, absent, or lost, instead of. what i cannot see.

but is already there.

i'm on the second floor with a lock on my door

2005-02-19T16:44:00.000-08:00

the stars dying flowers/ upon a lake of dark,/ these gifts to a god/ who is already dead.

but that poem stopped. to hurry on its way

like a wind into the trees.

words arranged. in faith. are perfect offerings. like bouquets. placed on the doorstep. to the house. of one who may. or may not. love you. back.

a part. of me continued. to ache with. a necessary hunger, this part. like one of many blank pages. in that heaviest of books. then, kindly, a word, followed by others. and i was filled with words. in an order. perfect. in its measure of chaos. but there were other pages. yet to be filled. and the book, being finite, would close.

my parents finally stop. fighting; a sullenness creeps. into the walls. the road. behind this house my vision. traces relentlessly into. the coagulated dark. yet, unexpectedly it comes, like. love: vigorously, short-lived. leaden shadows are. melting into a body. that embraces me against. a deeper cold. trees beyond. are dancing like lovers. to an inaudible music; invisible locks fall away. from walls swinging open. upon hinges of a poem.

on the brink of reflection, you shiver sensuously. against the distorted glass. of my window into form, then retreating. to that first shiver. there are many hints. of such moments, as when my shadow. extends into a long. poem in the evening, only to wane. like any narrative taken. beyond the limits. of its contingency, or when the mirror. yields a fresh page. every morning. and my face turns into. another shadow.

what flies. out of the forest. is the same. wind in all directions. in that familiar. indeterminacy. of what passes for. revelation, this. is given: words of a poem. falls into place the same way. trees shake the stars. for their heads, casting. them into their fixed. positions in the sky.

i speak. to hear. my voice. IF YOU MUST/HAPPY HOUR/THE EXTREME

2005-02-16T04:37:00.000-08:00

1. if you stepped into my childhood. one morning to ask: are you. happy? i would say yes, if. it was a morning i awoke to. wind and rain streaming. in from the unbolted window, when these elements of weather. had not yet taken on their. metaphors of sorrows. i would be preparing to go. to school, a boag of books. heavy upon my shoulders. my parents would be patient. in the car, ready to take me. along on their way to work. once again, i would remind. myself that this is the start. of something new, the road. of another morning sprinkled. with old leaves and sunlight. not much has changed. in this respect: the belief. that each morning signifies. a beginning - false starts. with even falser endings, how i have always lived my life. at least, then, i could attest. to the full significance of. that word - the hint of a laugh. wholehearted at its onset - as i climbed into the back. of my parents' car, the ovals. of their heads shut like clams - only now i know they fought. even then, except in private, hiding the interminable sound. of their marriage ripping. and i would be dreaming. of the marks on the classroom. table i occupied and the smell. of mt sweet-sweetened uniform. happy? sure i was, the trees. smiling and waving all the way. to school, a child humming. over the lullaby of the engine. and the drumbeats of rain. upon the windshield; awake. to the present, oblivious. to its variations of slumber.

2. if i could speak to that girl. i like to believe i am now no longer. that when she commits her first. kiss, it is a consequence merely. of the body's desire to recollect. any semblance of a touch. once tuned like a frayed guitar. string to love's unreachable. pitch. fast learner to the full. extent of a heartbreaker, that girl. at the window with the moon. broken across her face, i would lie to her if only she. could hear me now: a whisper. rising on a shadow's breath, i would tell her happiness. comes for everyone eventually. and to be patient, to wear. each poem like a talisman. for warding off the dark. put on a favourite cd, sing. to that half-remembered. melody in a voice like a soprano. as solitude refuses again to. untwist its long, cold fingers. from around her throat.

3. and where will i be, say, thirty. years from now, with my umpteenth. project about to be built. perhaps, choked once more with. spaces about hopelessness. and a continuous desperation? will somebody discover the true. meaning of love and explain it. to me with a hand upon my face? will my parents still be alive. with the same arguments driven. like stakes into the age old. fault lines between them? will i be here in this country. i keep trying to love for. its illusions of comfort and. the few friends i have made? how much wil remain the same. is the scariest question when. i recognise in the mirror. my father from the shrinking of. eyes in that identical grimace. as if in reaction to some. unremitting sting. i long now. to speak to that tall, slender man - in bed probably with a book. of bridge in his hands, or will. one have already given up. on the other? - will memory. bottoming out ceaselessly from. under his vision, to find out. if there is anything left to be. learnt beyond the art of. a compromise, a sigh.

on the sweet words and the insufferable headache

2005-02-15T20:15:00.000-08:00

you can sometimes find. beauty in a blade. too readily in a rose. or movements of clouds. instead search death. ignominious, in crowds. there is poetry in pain. the rhythms of anguish. and overtones of fear. and though the sweetest nectar. gives rise to sweetest dreams. the longest form of torture. results in loudest screams.

2005-02-13T02:55:00.000-08:00

it feels like midnight. i hear nothing but him. he chills my left cheek. while my right. grows uncomfortably hot. pressed against the pillow.

now i hear the curtains. flapping gently. in his breeze. i hear the creak. of a door relaxing. and the soft whine. that comes in excessive quiet.

still my eyes remain. tightly shut. defying my consciousness. a half-hearted attempt. at continued sleep. until. an epiphanic realization of futility.

with my eyes open. i can now see. him and the curtains. and the tired door. the desk and its familiar clutter. my arm. a fish-belly white in the glow of the street. limp against the pillow.

an idea slowly grows in my head. that perhaps. possibly. probably. i shall see the dawn too. and all the hours betwee. secure in my hopelessness. i abandon all hope of rest. surrender to my awakeness. wave the white flag. in the form of a bedside lamp. switched on in resignation.

it flickers. flickers. flick-ers. then remains brightly lit.

now i see him. in all his glory. spinning faithfully by my bed. i see him. previously unnoticed. standing silently, nobly. he thinks he is half-full. but he's nearly empty.

i see the curtains. their faded colours. still flapping in his loyal breath. the clock on the desk. reads five to two. its blue sleek casing. contrasts with the misshapen heap. of papers and books behind it. my once limp arm. in reaching for the lamp. has redeemed itself. and as a reward. is pinkish beige again. my sight wanders to sigmund freud. staring balefully up at me. from the floor where i left him. and departed into my dreams. and him. i did not bring him along. in fear he may dissect them. and lay bare my subconscious workings. which might shake so my single state of man. that nothing is but what is. not again...the accursed bard fills my heat-oppressed brain. no wonder. for his text too did i read. before i shrugged of my mortal coils. to see what dreams would come.

he cools my heated thoughts. calms me. i feel drained. my eyes grow weary of seeing. i close them. i funble for the lamp. carelessly killing his light. i lay my head back. onto the now-cool pillow. curling up like a baby. in its mothers protection. he caresses my cheek. gently runs his fingers through my hair. hums a single note lullaby. again the world is at peace. and i can drift back. into

2005-02-12T19:51:00.000-08:00

moonlight. as floating light. oil on water. to heat a winter's day. a heartbeat away.

miracles. commonplace lifting. silk from a leaf. give me hope. not a false pope.

moment. pass the salt. try it on the floor. mouth a blessing. not redressing.

freedom. a chain of lies. trapped air beneath. a hushed breath. internal death.

weird how this makes us feel

2005-02-09T21:39:00.000-08:00

decided he knew nothing about. what love meant, even as he aptly displayed. all its manifestations, pronouncing. his love. to his wife before going to bed. every night for the last five years. took her. on long, annual trips to various parts. of europe she had hoped to visit, and made love. to her once every few weeks. stopped wondering if he was only. lying. to himself, in particular, or whether. love was indeed a euphemism for. something less. simplified, glorious, and whole, or simply need dressed up in. somthing more. selfless, honourable, unworldly? but who could say if he didn't. already know. love, as who is to say its equation. didn't involve the absence of. completeness. in one's desired understanding of it. even if he had relented to call it an. illogical justification - necessarily part of the instinct. to survive, keep tirelessly at bay. that permanent night - would it matter, whenever she would. brush her lips against his ear to. whisper, 'what. would i be without you?' and he. never felt more alive, freed from that longing for. exactness, and anything more?

oh, you ain't never had nothing i wanted, but...i want it all

2005-02-06T14:58:00.000-08:00

holding each other's gazes like lonely hands across a field of dark, we may call this love (or lust, more appropriately) for the crippling inability to define this, as our solitudes rise and fall like wings on a single butterfly, each destination in time a gratifying flower.

(lost and found in my arch 130 notebook from spring 2004)

2005-02-04T17:38:00.000-08:00

we meet always. on your terms. in establishment. strictly structured social interaction. never in. the full chaotic rush. that is my. hidden passion.

we meet always. in the territory of my enemy. the well-lit or the crowded. surrounded by friends. never in. solitude. secret shadows. of my heart.

we meet always. on foreign land. the straight narrow roads. crossed only at right angles. never in. the winding trails. twisted paths. of consciousness.

we meet always. where you are. i tread there. hesitantly. trepidation-filled steps towards you. losing balance, poise, grace. on this moral tightrope. one end on the pillar of righteousness. the other in your hand.

devil's got my pantyhose on his head

2005-02-02T21:30:00.000-08:00

this is not a contract. we may sign as if it were. voluntary. we sit. in the car with the engine running, stunned animals in the glare. of headlights we will later. base our poems upon, the happier ones. note how the houses around us. withdraw their shadows on the road.

something is closing inside us, not a door but a window, followed. by the finality a sky long bruised. by night and steely wet. with stars.

what each of us has been made. ready for: the world the living. room we will enter without. any knowledge of choice, like children coming to a table. for breakfast, it like a father turning to greet us.

the drowning (as i stood and watched)

2005-02-01T18:50:00.000-08:00

this the same sea. a drunk man entered. during a party. and did not surface. many months ago.

a surface so contorted as to refuse. any reflection of sky, its. careful configuration. of clouds, falling

dance of birds along a column of sunlight. white fingers re-arrange whole chapters. of sand, disassembling.

castles, erasing footprints. briefly, i imagine. the drowning man's. body turning, re-turning into the water's

expansive womb, re-moving of life from. its vessel, a man. who will cling. to what he is

rapidly beginning. to lose, even as he. already forgets what. it is exactly he. refuses to relinquish.

i stood there. and i watched. because you shoved me. aside. and i. respected, and still do. your choice. of death.

what part of history's reinvented and under rug swept?

2005-01-31T23:55:00.000-08:00

the poem, i pray, would arrive. at my life's chipped, wind-scoured doorstep. like a glowing, glodly gift. would begin, perhaps, loike this:

when i met you. loneliness lifted. like drought. upon the onset of a drizzle. generous downpour.

this is not that poem.

this poem. contains within it a solitude. that has become its own reward.

and would it hurt you, darling, to know it is possible. to forget. you, in a moment. like this: sunbeams

holding up the dark ceiling. of my room, a gold-haloed. vision of a room in the morning. when nirvana's. eye winks from under a curtain. rising like hair under its breath, peeking innocently into this life.

and when enters me feels. like a minor death, such calm. like a blessing, or. an aftermath of forgiveness, such freedom. which hums that potential. to sustain itself.

maybe it is the assurance. of your love. that assures that close-surfacing. moment of such moments.

unlocked from deep under. the troubled face of a lake, filling it to a stillness. not unlike its winter-sleep. of ice.

when i step out into the living. room, an earlier transcendence. drips like water down to parched, soiled-caged roots of the everyday,

but which thickens. the stem's narrow waist, projects. colour to its leaves almost withering. to that terminal pall of deep-russet.

this may be the greatest lesson. you never meant to teach: how.

hunger may be its own conclusion, that brink before desire's end. the desired place of arrival.

i stop at the kitchen. and the window frames. its portion of the sky -

all it will embrace of oblivion.

kill me again. with love. it's gonna be a glorious day.

2005-01-30T18:07:00.000-08:00

almost vulgar now. so hip that nobody. with a modicum of individuality. and the bitterness of intellect. can bear to taste it.

we are in the age of Reason. and hence. witnesses and perpetrators of. the crime. the cruel and unusual. stifling of that deep emotion. civilization in the first degree. tell the judge to give. a heavier sentence. we have no jury. but an executioner. has already been called in.

she looks like the real thing. she tastes like the real thing, my fake plastic love.

2005-01-29T13:19:00.000-08:00

we paint. your landscape of misery. with. inadequate pigments of language. every outpouring of hate. splashes. and is captured forever. trapped, frozen, on this. canvas. touched by the brush. of a pen. or of graphite. from lands far away.

our fingers. are sore from the rendition. these are aching conduits.

from dust. springs life. springs dust. cycles that turn, twist. and amount to nothing.

you take macabre delight. in admiring your own. malformed image. in this picture of absolute ugliness. in the artful frame of vocabulary. on blackboard of conversation.

my mouth is this pencil. my breath is the hollow barrel of a pen. you can see me speaking. and leaving. in delible imprints on. paper, over-eager audience.

you see in our. microcosms. a warped angle of interpretation. and reassess your. once unshakeable vision. this is a sketch of a rocking boat.

what we lose is accuracy. a small price. with the invaluable purchase. of emotion. that dye of humanity. staining everything it nears.

we seek. to distill all six senses. into one pure oil. to anoint you. lift you. above yourself.

you step a little closer to me. so close that i can't see what's going on

2005-01-28T17:45:00.000-08:00

during the early moments of waking, i llie with my eyes closed, envisioning your body with its hallowed history: memories of whispered intimations, of tongues and fingers, within your sacred folds and protrusion. but upon opening to the morning's promise, your side of the bed was empty. already you were preparing for work, soothing your hair before the mirror, massaging stubborn, black curls with gel and a muscular hair brush. i murmured something indiscernible. something unimportant. and you watched me. not at all listening. smiling.

unenviable consequences of infatuation

2005-01-27T18:58:00.000-08:00

unparalleled intensity of emotion. spontaneous gratuitous gaiety. playing with innuendoes innocuously. sparking off tremendous internal turmoil.

possibly innocent. possibly meaningless. possibly, probably unrequited and illogical. trembling upon contract, but never initiating. terrified of interpretation of indiscretion.

deranged, infatuation-inspired awkwardness of elocution. inwardly dying for you to feel the same. but pre-emptive and not unfounded dread. that you feel oh so different...

the belief

2005-01-25T19:00:00.000-08:00

you go on. about how you do. not feel loved

unless someone. places his head. or hand. upon your body. for more than. a night and day.

i soon learn. about how any. argument. about the possible. meaninglessness. of such intimacies

is the same. as convincing. a child terrified. of the dark. of the true nature. of shadows.

boy, it's more than i dare to think about

2005-01-24T01:55:00.000-08:00

this little pastime. they call it. a form of entertainment. but i. chose to play it the hard way. solitaire. alone. with a pack of face down cards. pretending someone cares. other than me. this hand. is all mine. and played for selfish benefits.

call it. all the cards are on the table. waiting to be revealed.

fundamental

2005-01-23T20:08:00.000-08:00

it returns in the midst of a grateful embrace, and then i understand, presently at least, its simplicity, so pure to mention the misted glass, the leaden curtains still as truth on either side of the sky would reveal but too little, too much. even the blanket pressed upon our bodies, fact on its heaviness, fails to bear on its plainness. while i compose this, it flickers like night vision, brief instants of sudden clarity. i note just how tenderly it hides, as blood under these veils of flesh, as the movement of clouds overhead, as the long sighs of the man or woman fast asleep beside and inside us.

mnemonic

2005-01-22T15:55:00.000-08:00

i return often to that memory: silence sneaking us out of our bodies, leaving nothing. to dwell upon, feeling. everything at once.

long after words had shaped an intimacy. in the afternoon, smiles on our faces. heroic as scars, each of us retelling. the same lie about love. on the couch in the living room, before. relenting, by evening, to the floor's advances.

and truth was a natural disaster. that took place simply but somewhere else,

your parents on the brink of return; that threat of discovery. at which desire is intensified, rendered. more fragile or. exactly so.

now, the same truth. embraces us. separately - what we keep insisting. to be truth: the meaningless. of any life - as it did once, in our different corners of the planet.

our cages, at least, are still similar.

like birds, we may turn to stone if. a door is opened, casually. and without malice.

a bluer sky

2005-01-21T03:42:00.000-08:00

if this turns to friendship, it only means that one of us will suffer. that when we meet after the worse of endings, there will only be this skein of words beetween us - most of them for boredom, fewer for loneliness - rising out of our mutual space of breath, leaving behind a bluer sky each moment of departure. and one of us will cling on to its blue, hung on partings like a muted cloud, while the other rides on a wing of word away from here.

pure disappearance

2005-01-19T01:46:00.000-08:00

night

outside, the city recedes. to an echo of itself. emptiness. is divided again. between us. and i love the beginnings. f toes. from where i am. i see. your knees, blunted. peaks of faraway. mountains. returning. as babies, our bed turns into. a cradle. we shall never. stop rocking. as many levels. of nakedness. as there are. love - first, your toes, the centre of you. where you stay me. with your snapped hands. upon my head, as if to beg. not ready, not yet, before relenting - how an extreme proximity. to a pure disappearance. erases all doubt - our months. merging into a. blind continuous. tunnel from. inside your body. into mine.

morning

we watch the. clock. with its nervous. flight of. seconds, night peeling. away like a bandage. from the wide open. wound of a city, a light wind. leaning. close to the window, whispering. love, love; lying there. along each other. like parallel banks, slow breathing. a deep, slender river. through. the space. between our bodies, which once. we left behind to dance. beyond the periphery. of even time; rain. singing in the roof. our first memory. of the world.

new year's resolutions

2005-01-09T05:48:00.000-08:00

motto of 2004: fuck the pain away
motto of 2005: i don't give a fuck

my new year's resolutions:
1. breakfast, lunch and dinner: baked yams with marshmellows.
2. remove glass from tv, crawl through into any movie starring orlando bloom, or daniel wu
3. read my horoscope from at least 20 sources everyday and pick the one that i like most
4. mail the love letter i wrote last year to the cute boy working at raleigh's
5. go into the bathroom i sealed off 5 year ago, see if the spider is gone
6. worry about things i have no control over
7. embrace lack of impulse control: buy an entire new wardrobe
8. learn how to curse in japanese and french
9. avoid social gatherings and large crowds, and hopefully become a hermit
10. remind myself that i do not need to suffer in silence when i can still moan, whimper and complain
11. stop sitting at my desk butt naked: take my laptop to bed with me every night
12. not take myself nor any of the above seriously

you will suck the life out of me

2004-12-14T03:31:00.000-08:00

the rose:

do you hear me coughing. inside by silent jar? hiding in my lonely closure. my sad leaves resolute. not to fall.

as you decide to leave. as you remove this jar. exposing me to the cold. that i had already felt. inside these petals.

but don't feel sad. i will carry your burden. with my own. the cold is not so bad. i am a flower. i have my. claws.

something about you

2004-12-13T04:01:00.000-08:00

this is for him. in melbourne and san francisco. and the beautiful blueness. of the water of my voices. the music will save you. from madness. if you listen.

and this is fo her who is dead.

and she who with the moon in her hair.

this is for the coartoon lady. of the planet venus with green eyes. and the darkness of her. that everyone weeps. as she dances for those. who are dead.

and this is for the wizard. who swallows his tears. like diamonds. lost in the caves. of his gentle throat. the music will consume your sadness. if you keep singing.

this is for the one whose aura was silver.

and this is for the man. who chases butterflies and alcoholics. in nightclub dreams. and kisses me with zoom lenses. on the beaches. all the hibiscis bloom. as you devour morrissey.

and this is for the men who loved me.

and the one i love.

and the child who is a mirror.

this is for the one who bears light. who is the colour of egypt. the drummers are joyous. when she moves across the floor. of crying laughter.

something about you. all of us. with songs inside. knifing the air of sorrow. with our dance. a carnival of spirits. shredded blossoms. in the water.

i hope i won't forget a thing

2004-12-12T04:33:00.000-08:00

dancing. spirit shaking everyone. your faces are flowers of darkness. eyes closed. in dancing ecstasy. the spirit shaking everyone. shake. shake. children of the jungle. calling me to sing. forget my nightmares. beer staining my lips.

what is the spirit. that moves us. when we sing. in a thousand backrooms. funky with dopesmells. pretty men and women. the spirit shaking everyone.

we feel so beautiful. a whirlpool of silver eyes. and silver sweat. the spirit moving us. like holiness. in the sway of our bodies. the joy in our voices. humming the dance. the trance. of one night's voodoo. celebration.

the moon is almost full. and there's danger. in the air. your faces are flowers of fire. burning. the toucans are flying. macaws are shrieking. and it's forever. in the moment we stop. and start again.

what is the spirit. that moves us. unspoken magic. weaving dangerous colours.

it's our birthday. and we sing a baptism. for our souls. our godliness.

(higher and higher. we dance. out into the street.

we ask me. if i. want to die.

and i say. no. not yet. not tonight.

it's too beautiful.

and i want. to love you.)

my song for you that comes a little too late

2004-12-09T01:46:00.000-08:00

i arrive. in the unbearbale heat. the sun's stillness. stretching across. the land's silence. people staring out. from airport cages. thousands of miles. later. and i have not yet understood. my obsession to return.

and seven years. is fast. inside my brain. exploding like tears.

i could show you. but you already know.

you greet me. and i see. it is you. you all the time. pulling me back. towards this space.

letters are the memory. i carry with me. the unspoken name. of you.

and here we are, cathedrals in our thighs. banana tree for breasts. and history all mixed up. saxophones in our voices. when we scream. the love of rhythms. inherent. when we dance.

they can latin here. and shoot you. for the wrong glance. eyes that kill. eyes that kill.

in hotel lobbies. we drink martini. testing each other's wit. snakes sometimes crawl. in our beds. but what can you do. in the heat. the laziness makes you love. so easily.

you smile like buddha. from madrid. urging me to swim with you. the water is clear. with corpses. of dragonflies and. mosquitoes. i'm writing different poems now. my dreams have become reptilian. and green.

everything green, green. and hot.

eyes that kill. eyes that kill.

women slither. in and out of barroom doorways. their tongues massage. the terror from your nightmares. the lizard hissing nervously. as he watches. you breathe.

i am trapped. by overripe mangoes. i am trapped. by the beautiful sadness of women. i am trapped. by priests and nuns. whispering my name. in confession boxes. i am trapped. by antiques and the music. of the future.

and leaving you. again and again. for america, the loneliest of countries.

my words change...sometimes. i even forget english.

born to blossom, bloom to perish. your moment will run out.

2004-12-08T02:45:00.000-08:00

everyday, as the days moved on in perfect clarity without me, i would leave the house in the evenings, riding the bus to the middle of town, where i would disappear into a hundred cafes, only to run into myself again, in the dark shapes of strangers lining the walls under unflattering neon, on toilet with their explosions of passionate graffiti, in the cold glint of indifferent traffic. giving up, i would return home once more to an empty house, to the familiar hum of my computer, to a thousand different chatrooms - the oddly cheering waves of well-meaning words on a screen - to parents propped up before the television set, not dead uet too infirm to step out of the house. but online, everyone had my voice, so i would give this up too, turning off the machines after an hour, maybe more, had slipped by. then i would sit briefly before the icmputer screen, gazing vaguely into the numbing blackness of the glass, into the distorted shape of my face, before i finally went to bed.

minor epiphany

2004-12-07T23:41:00.000-08:00

looking out of the window at infinite drops of rain. each one exquisite and whole. perfectly shaped. but they hit the ground. every single one.

fictional sorrows

2004-12-07T03:28:00.000-08:00

i was on my way to school, jostling with other disgruntled passengers on the bus for adequate standing space. amidst the soggy crowd, i saw an old woman come aboard, squeezing pass the bored line of bodies, lugging the huge bags of groceries, so heavy they pulled her arms to the floor. someone stood up to leave and she sat down with a sigh, dropping her burden thankfully before her feet. inevitably, i began to reinvent her life and create its ficitonal sorrows to fill the void between destinations. i imagined her chilren were ungrateful. that she toiled and suffered and they only subtracted from her shriveled hands, giving nothing back. finally, i arrive at my stop. and as the doors snapped open, i stole a final glimpse of her dazed crumpled face. outside, i soon forgot her as it had already begun to rain.

did i say that i loathe you? did i say that i want to leave this all behind?

2004-12-05T23:32:00.000-08:00

the pistol, yes. sheets of paper horizontally folded. men carry clocks. into the room. the pistol. a letter to my fther. forgotten. voices from open windows. do not break rules. two lips kiss. the sun rises. on the other side of the continent. every morning...a plate and spoon beside the pistol. raised to the temple, its body is not quite round. sleek gray stone in my hand...a cup. of mlk spills. the pistol is pressed to the skull -- open mouth. like butterfly wings. murmuring supplications. instead. another kiss.

voices repeat the rules. from open windows. each clock. strikes a different time. in spain. a gypsy servant named. candles of the sun. dances. on your birthday. and you will never forget. her smell. and her dwarf-lover. who followed you. into the mountains...asking you. to wear his shoes.

that gabriel. he's so polite. his dead brother who is buried. (his mother's. hemorrage is a lump in the grave). that gabriel. his brother; his uncle; his father; the dwarf: who carries a pistol. and wears rubber shoes.

your ankles. are too frail. for these mountains. but you persist. in climbing them anyway. so you can say:

"i've seen the ruins. of guernica; in my hometown. there's even a nightclub named. guernica." candles of the sun. my sandalwood gypsy...

the pistol, the pistol, yes!

i live on the street. of police ghosts and pimps...the rebels who avenge them. ask for money. and threaten to blow. my brains out.

the pistol, the black revolver. the swollen eye, the gun! i will gun you down, i will shoot you. i will kill you. i will molest you. i will assault you. i will kiss your cunt. i will blow you up. i will shoot! i will. gun you down! but not...but not...forever...not yet.

in hong kong. a girl. her coarse hair flies. in the afternoon wind. she is genuine colony concubine. who drinks tea. at exactly four-fifteen at the. peninsula hotel (oh yes, baby, in. a silk shantung-slit yellow-legged. fantasy). and all chinese. orchestra. plays mantovani. and monteverdi and george gershwin.

there is a border. one cannot cross. although the guards are not visible. george gershwin. mantovani and monteverdi. have not ceased. being british. in kowloon. but across territory lines. the guards remain. invisible.

two magazines. a cigarette-filled abalone shell. the invisible weapon. down the street. sleeps his wife. of a revolutionary. avenge them all. on behalf of chrysler-pontiacs! there are twenty-four tactics. according to the pamphlet. the inevitable result. is the inevitable electronic solution. oh, lies! lies! lies! i am neither or either. perpetrator, traitor, user of soap! lies! so thin. so metallic, so invisible! police shadows. on ghost motorcycles. patrol the streets. it is too late -- i am up before dusk. watching the sunset...it is too soon--

in asia. one dies slowly. fannign off the heat. with a stiff palm leaf. i love you, garcia villa. you are not the only one. who is going to die in the city. weating velvet slippers. and a patched red shirt.

you are a man. in betweem airplanes. semi-retired, a not so notorious. professor of the word.

a torpid university dream.

in asia. one dies too slowly. without weapons...

in america. the smell of death pervades. among its women. in department stores...they linger, tubercular sparrows. with bony throats and sooty lashes. peering elegantly. from behind diamond-clear counters.

my country of old women!

my sweet nicotine-tooth. prostitute...

give me a receipt. for your time.

and so it is

2004-12-04T23:35:00.000-08:00

the other

sylvia plath

you come in late, wiping your lips.

what did i leave untouched on teh doorstep --

white nike,

streaming between my walls?

simlingly, blue lightning

assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.

the police love you, you confess everything.

bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,

is my life so intriguing?

is it for this you widen your eye-rings?

is it for this the air motes depart?

they are not air motes, they are corpuscles.

open your handbag. what is that bad smell?

it is your knitting, busily

hooking itself to itself,

it is your sticky candies.

i have your head on my wall

navel cords, blue-red and lucent,

shriek from my belly like arrows, and these i ride.

o moon-glow, o sick one,

the stolen horses, the fornications

circle a womb of marble.

where are you going

that you suck breath like mileage?

sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream

cold glass, how you insert yourself

between myself and myself

i scratch like a cat

the blood that runs is dark fruit --

an effect, a cosmetic.

you smile.

no, it is not fatal.

so you left me with a shirt that smells of you

2004-12-02T03:14:00.000-08:00

beware of nightclubs. beware of the street. beware of doorbells and abortions. beware of pregnancy. beware of public transportation. beware of frozen meat. and strange men. and rabid animals. beware of strange colours. strange smells. strange sounds. strange feelings. beware of loneliness. and the rhythm. of your heartbeat.

arts & leisure

2004-11-30T23:38:00.000-08:00

i read your poem. over and over. in this landscape. of women.

women purring. on balconies. overlooking. the indigo sea.

my mother's. blue taffeta dress. is as black as the sea.

she glides. out my door. to the beach. where sleek white boats. are anchored. under a full, luscious moon.

still. i am still. the wind. outside my window. my mother's ghost. evaporates. in the long. pacific night.

i listen to the radio. every chance i get. for news. of your city's. latest disaster.

everything here. the colour of honey and sand. everything there. verges on catastrophe. a constant preoccupation. with real estate.

everything here. a clam horizon. taut bodies. carefully nutured. oiled & gleaming. hair & skin.

i read your poem. over and over. turning my head. from prying eyes. the low hum. of women singing. in another room.

i switch stations. on the radio. turn up the volume. i almost touch. the air. buzzing electricity.

it is a joke here. in this baby-blue resort. where art. is a full-time hobby. art. is what everyone. claims to do.

women sprawl. like cats. on each other's laps. licking the salt. off each other's skin.

and i walk. in search. of the fishermen. who hide. in the scorched trees. the bleak, blond dunes. that line the highway.

i imagine. you asleep. in another city.

i take your poem. apart. line by line.

it is a love letter. we wrote each other. some time ago. trying in vain to pinpoint. that first, easy. thrill.

team america: world police

2004-11-20T04:23:00.000-08:00

so i finally saw it. honestly, it's relentlessly offensive, obnoxious and vulgar. but it also happens to be the funniest movie i've seen for a long while. i guess trey parker and matt stone are just experts at making smart, tasteless entertainment that makes you laugh in spite of yourself. so there was puppet sex (it's rated r, so it's not real sex. but i wonder if it would show up in the dvd extras), a musical number featuring north korean leader kim jong il singing (in his best english) "i'm so ronery" and the sight of a ham-filled marionette of michael moore exploding into a million pieces (well, if he thought that trey parker and matt stone's appearance in "blowling for columbine" would grant him immunity, he's dead wrong). however, these don't take away from the brilliance of this spot-on satire of idiotic action movies, ugly americanism and empty-headed liberalism. the most inspired song begins "i miss you the way michael bay missed the mark/ when he made pearl habour"

and here's my favourite: we're dicks! we're reckless, arrogant, stupid dicks. and the film actors guild (fag) are pussies. and kim jong il is an asshole. pussies don't like dicks becuase pussies get fucked by dicks. but dicks also fuck assholes. assholes that just want to shit on everything. pussies may think they can deal with assholes thier way. but the only thing that can fuck an asshole is a dick, with some balls. the problem with dicks is they fuck too much or fuck when isn't appropriate. and it takes a pussy to show them that. but sometimes pussies can be so full of shit that they become assholes themselves. because pussies are an inch and a half away from assholes. i don't know much about this crazy crazy world, but i do know this: if you don't let us fuck this asshole we're going to have our dicks and pussies all covered in shit.

simply brilliant.

and of course, my favourite song: i'm so ronery

i'm so ronery/ so ronery/ so ronery and sadry arone/ there's noone/ just me onry/ sitting on my rittle throne/ i work rery hard and make up great plans/ but nobody ristens noone understands/ seems rike noone takes me serirousry/ and so i'm ronery/ a rittle ronery/ poor rittre me/ there's nobody/ i can rerate to/ feel rike a bird in a cage/ it's kinda sihry/ but not rearry/ because it's fihring my body with rage/ i'm the smartest most crever and most physically fit/ but nobody here seems to rearize that/ when i rure the world maybe they'rr notice me/ but untir then i'rr just be ronery/ rittre ronery, poor rittre me/ i'm so ronery/ i'm so ronery

what if i said chill. out.

2004-11-20T02:14:00.000-08:00

put up the wall. the same one that came down. block by block. piece by piece. howling. bad, sexy berlin. in the name of the fatherland. the lost sonland. the long night. of white knives.

and in havana. god was revealed as fidel castro. but still. nobody gives a shit. the painters return from exile. resigned to eternal melancholy.

i'm swimming with sharks. their bellies bloated with emeralds.

what if i said: there's no need to say more. in beijing. the students postpone dreaming. and ride their bicycles to and fro. to and fro. except someone's forgotten to ask

where to? where fro?

dude, in all rhymes in the city. you spit it out. but the words make you hunger. for more.

it's a state. of perpetual desire. now governed by an impersonator. they voted him in. with no regrets.

the fat boys croon. about the dawn. reliving their outlaw glories.

but we are all too angry. to sleep.

what if i said: i never saw him dance. i want it all back.

my appetite. my lust. my most delicious dread?

what if i spit in your face and said: bring back the cold war. divide teh loot. define mesopotamia. what is cambodia? berlin? texas? kabul? kandahar? vietnam? zimbabwe? calafia? turtle island? what's in a name? a rose is a rose.

what if i said: enough. patrol borders. recall cartographers for the final time. enforce quotas. criminalize chaos. contain. enclose. bury the ruins. shut your eyes. give me a kiss and a ballpark figure. enough of all this heat.

picture this

2004-11-19T02:32:00.000-08:00

a woman hurled. hurled out. a woman. hurls herself out the window. exits out. the window. expects to crashland. on the sidewalk. crashland. bones and skin. into sidewalk. below.

surprise (surprise)

there she is bouyant. in mid-air. in limbo. screeching the screech of a bitch eagle: my grrrl! my lost child.

hurls herself she. hurts herself. tries to catch up.

with her lovely lost. placid child. hey dollface. hey babydoll. sugar sweet. sweet thang.

i reach out palms up. stigmata oozing divine blood of pig and rooster.

down, down come down. down with me now.

enough of this burning house. this ruin. this dream. cobalt blue. pure love. electricity.

my child defy me. pastel virgin bride. saran wrap serene. perpetually puckering. swollen lips. bloody divine.

(kiss. kiss. don't buy into it. bite into it) hey mama hey dollface hay baby (hey) face. wrap me up. wrap me tight. in your embrace.

like a mummy. Mommy.

tight.

i hurl myself. hurt myself. screech. the screech of bitch eagle:

into the rubble it is time now. unfurl from my broken spine. calla lily cobra lily mud. shrouded in callophane (upkeep: minimal; shelf life: eternal)

feral and glossy bouquets

profane

immaculate

conception

lullaby

2004-11-18T23:36:00.000-08:00

i cry big fat tears. stir up the phantoms. of dread. baby, baby. there are so many dead.

you crawl inside my head. make it all better. sing. "hush, mama, hush...food to break the sadness..."

bring me a lime green dog. a pumpkin with moustache. mold a face out of clay. stick a flag. in one eye. paint a flying girl. dance up a storm. inside me. banish the demons.

sing. "eat, mama, eat...food to break the sadness..."

F

2004-11-17T22:47:00.000-08:00

what you see is what you get.

oh yeah, baby.

you got to have rhythm in your soul. the word SOUL. something funky and torrid by james brown, juxtaposed against a lush green landscape, manicured and mowed to perfection.

a jungle, jagged and forbidding, female and tropic.

green perfume: the scent of mildew and rot. you can see your breath, like in a steam room or a turkish bath. it is unbearably humid. prehistoric birds are...squawking.

the word "bath" is subtly erotic. the marriage of "turkish+bath" unbearably so.

a dead body lies in the midst of this lush green splendor.

think of antonioni's blow up. think of a golf course. think of me.

always a dead body. always a corpse. always a surprise. but arranged beautifully; arranged to stun and shock and titillate. all things beautiful and mysterious, to the bitter end.

death is my fetish.
and saint sebastian.
and god.
and get thee to a nunnery.
the word "nun" for example.

death is ultimately at the bottom of this coy little rant (the word "coy", the word coy italicized). not just any death, mind you. but a sense of foreboding, something ominous and looming in the background. dissonant chords, the distant wail of a siren.
sudden betrayal. i've been made to feel like a fool. baby, baby. i have danced towards the edge of an abyss. on the edge of a razor blade. ooh, baby. the word abyss itself. onomatopoeia is my fetish, the word onomatopoeia itself. (i've always been able to spell it correctly, even before i started studying for the damn sat's. drawn to it like a magnet.)

decaying beauty in architecture is another delight. those faded green colonial mansions in the tropics, for example. ravaged slowly from the inside and out by heat, rain, animals, and time itself. faded, crumbling, peeling paint on the walls. vegetation choking architecture: i could brood about that for days.
rust.
ruin has been cheapened nowadays, become a trend called "distressed".
distressed jeans, distressed interior design. pathetic.
decay, like anything else of value, has to be earned.

i celebrated havana slowly sinking into the sea. manila slowly sinking into the fetid pasig river. the netherlands slowly sinking. the boxer's broken nose, broken teeth, swollen eyes, and puffy lips. the convict's lovingly detailed tattoos.
the word skeleton, italicized, has possibilities.

my deisres are inherently catholic. the face of a fallen angel makes me hot. and mind you, angels exist in new york city. in barcelona on the ramblas, in berlin in those squatter encampments, and in hong kong almost everywhere. probably in beijing too, though i've never been there. i'm not refering to sentimental, fat cherubs or beatific, asexual ethereal creatures. i'm naturally referring to lucifer, fallen archangel, a major cliche, darkness as the other side of light.

here's what i crave: salt, shoes made of buttery leather, the power of certain words said aloud. blood, for example. fallen angle. hunger.

a fallen angel with a bleeding, sinewy torso sticks his head into the garbage, foraging for food. a shirtless, barefoot young man lurching down the sidewalk in a stoned stupor. he stinks: he is hungry and dirty, evil incarnate. he will die soon. his mind is gone. i fall in love with his face, the face of vice. the face of F: feral, feline, fucking, fallen.
if i had the balls i'd offer him a cup of java. or a juicy burger, a milkshake and some fries. then...nothing too graphic here. nothing too obvious. i'm a good girl who went to a catholic girls' school.
i understand taboo completely. the need for it.
sex=death=divine=damned=heaven.
the word "taboo" is absolutely pornographic.

i like them young. but not too young. i like them when they're poised on the brink of the abyss, of manhood-past adolescence but not quite seasoned yet. not ready for death but ready for the forbidden. tattooed biceps, form, but...not too pumped up. in fact, i hate muscle boys. much too obvious. i prefer a juicy burger every once in a while. i usually stick to vegetables and fish, but i can appreciate an expensive slab of meat. well done. for someone who likes blood (the idea of blood, anyway) i don't always care for rare meat.
i am the least visceral person i know.
i'm a bundle of infuritaing contradictions.
an element fo danger is always delicious.
gardens gone to seed, black and white movies. it's no accident that i'm to a degree a film noir buff. black film. dark film. ominous, ambivalent film. a dead body, usually a woman's, somewhere in the lush green landscape ot in the gloomy lobby of an elegant, empty building.
when you least expect it.
the word "desire" is music to the ears. desire: a fallen angel who knows how to kiss. a lithe demon who carries the memory of hell in his little black heart: that's heaven. a taste for expensive meat and the dank, green smell of rotting gardens.

despair. the word "despair" excites me. the eerie cadences of high mass, sung in latin. dead languages. pretty to the ears. the word agony. close to death, but not quite yet. you keep me hanging on.

F for fetish. F for father. bless me F, for i have sinned.
F for futile. F for fact, F for fiction.

sublime. there' no end to it.

how we say goodbye

2004-11-16T01:19:00.000-08:00

the phone rings. and rings. damn. the phone. hello, i shout. sorry we do not accept telemarketing calls. damn damn damn.
the man's voice surprises me. damn. helpless and sweet. she called me a sissy. what? i bark. what number? what number you trying to reach? please, i just need to talk to someone. hello, i say. what? i say. you got to be kidding. the man's voice crackles. she called me a sissy. please.
i'm waiting for the punchline. please. so what? i answer. the silence an abyss. of bitter jokes. you, a bundle of bones. on a bed, sheets soaked with sweat. you black shit. and blood. you, a bundle of bones. rattling. mother, you sing, jaws clenched. faists clenched. teeth white and huge. skull teeth. pain. white and huge.
waves of birds, waves of birds pecking at my brain.
the phone rings. damn, damn you. hello, i shriek. please, the man whispers. helpless, sweet. i just need to talk. you got the wrong number, buster. we do not accept telemarketing calls. you need a hot-line. a twelve-step program. cold-turkey, snake-oil. something chinese. and mysterious.
please, the man begs. i slam down the receiver, giddy with shame.
a dog mauls another dog. outside the window. i can hear them plain as day. animals fighting. the yelps and growls. the tearing of flesh. vicious surprise. a shower of broken glass. a woman's lusty laugh. the tearing of flesh. raw and beautiful. plain as day, plain as your almost death-mask. the relief in your cloudy eyes. as you slowly slip away.
the sun beats down. the island. where you chose to return. beats down. the corrugated tin roof. of the burning house. where you chose to return. twisting and turning. in the air-conditioned hell. of your tiny room.
in the kitchen. your mother brews coffee. and refuses to weep. in the garden, your father whimpers. a baby. sucking on his bottle of rum, helpless.
we wait, but sleep is a hard-won thing. death, too.
in the kitchen, you mother heats milk. adds sugar. stirs the coffee. briskly. with a spoon. in the garden, you father collapses. on his bed. of scorched grass. a dog howls, or is it you. calling me?
harsh chords of a guitar, electric. silver. familiar. you on the bed, a bundle of bones. rattling inside my head.
damn, damn you, gone.

i won't

2004-11-13T01:23:00.000-08:00

i won't listen i won't look i won't think of you. i won't eat i won't sleep i won't wait for you. i won't love i won't care i won't get mad. so that your shadow can slowly leave my life. i won't be tired i won't hate i won't regret. i won't be able to i won't bother neither would i have feelings. i won't cry i won't laugh i won't understand. you were everything to me. i won't feel hurt i won't turn bitter i won't be lonely. i won't leave i won't move i won't get out of here. i won't talk i won't write i won't remember, how you once thought of me. i won't be silly i won't be stupid i won't breathe. i won't ask i won't shout i won't have an attitude. i won't dream i won't think i won't have memories. i won't be reminded of all the beautiful things that you've done for me.

the woman who thought she was more than a samba

2004-11-08T19:36:00.000-08:00

the woman who thought she was more than a samba rode underground trains dressed up for dancing, as usual

never mind that she looked good succulent like peaches, tattoos on her skin enough to make most men sign

rats strung out on methadone rode underground trains with her, rats in a trance scratching balancing oblivious children on thier laps

rats in a trance scratching asleep ears glued to radios blaring city music, metallic abrasive hard city music

the woman who thought she was more than a samba rode underground trains, terrified

she'd forget how to dance

her dreams were filled with ghosts, young men she knew who danced with each other consumed by ambiguous dilemmas

grinding their narrow hips to snakelike city music, metallic abrasive hard city music. grinding their narrow hips against her sloping, naked back like buffaloes shedding their fur against a tree, whispering - "it's a shame you aren't a man...you have so much man in you."

in brazil the women samba only with their legs. their faces are somber and their upper torsos never move

in haiti people draw themselves without arms and don't seem to dance at all

exuding matinee idol ambience the young men she knew wore white and sported moustaches "we are a tropical people" they remind her, "the most innovative in the universe" they gyrated desperately and stayed drunk in bars "we're in, this year"

it's a shame i weren't a man and who's the woman here? she oftern asked herself. sometimes she screamed: i'm older than you think. i'm getting so sick of you. i can't even remember your names. you all look the same...

she fell in love once and the wounds never healed. it was romance old as the hills. predictable in its maze. what medieval tapestry he wove to keep her still

gazelles loped past their window and veils kept out the sun. she had her own take on things, her perfume-scented version of the story. never mind that he always won, leaving unfinished poems under her bed. orchestra strung upside down from the ceiling. traces of blood as souvenirs of their exclusive combat zone

the woman who thought she was more than a samba carried her solitude around in pouches made of chinese silk. changing her jewelry with each new lover. insisting they move with sullen grace. stressing the importance of style on a dance floor. how arrogantly they might hold up their heads

her dreams were filled with ghosts perched on her bony wrists, grinning gargoyles who menaced her every step and wouldn't let her go

she longed to be her mother in a silver dress. some softly fading memory lifting her legs in a sinuous tango

listen

2004-11-08T06:01:00.000-08:00

i an a thief. your guardian angel. who watches you.

watch out.

this is the music of thieves. dancing in the night.

chasing away murderers. who haunt bedrooms. and threaten my love.

watch out.

i am a thief who smiles. and invents words. to sing with animals.

i wear the hat of a thief. and my wings are invisible.

i am your guardian angel. your most secret lie.

i conjure up whistles and tears. for your children.

trust me.

i twist lyrics into melodies. as gifts for my friends.

remember my smell. in the streets. of your cities.

and listen.

always listen.

to the silent air.

life is indeed a compromise

2004-11-03T23:43:00.000-08:00

i ate pineapple today. i mean, i made myself eat pineapple today. i even drank the juice/syrup left in the can. i guess i was wondering how much i can really take. i fought the urge to throw up. and after a while, i couldn't really taste or feel the pineapple anymore. i guess if my tastebuds can turn numb, callus can grow on my heart too.

i amaze myself sometimes by the things that i can do. or rather, the things that i can make myself do. it's all so gracious. all so beautiful. like my body can move regardless of my mind. my body is the rational part of me. it does what's supposed to be done. while my heart cries out loud inside of me, none of that can be heard outside of my body. all you will ever see is the girl with the smiling face.

i think i'll win an oscar some day.

and the moon turns a shade of deep red

2004-10-27T20:20:00.000-07:00

i'm either going to fall in love or become an alcoholic. maybe both. the past few weeks have been drink date drink date drink date drink date drink. i don't know what i'm accomplishing with this, other than hemorrhaging money and avioding intimacy.

the plan was to give myself some emotional time off after all this. not that it was this epic love affair. but still, it was sad and fucked up and i wanted to take it slow. which i am not.

in addition to fuckpiles of money, dr. dre has this song that pretty much summarizes what i've done wrong with my past couple "relationships".

he says, "you can't make a ho a housewife."

and "vice versa", i have to add.

now unlike dre, my ho isn't someone in pants with words on the ass who gives blowjobs to snoop's stylist's cousin.

well, i guess i don't exactly want to talk about him here. so probably i should stop. and the truth is, my best friend made me realize something that i've been trying not to notice this whole time. she basically force-fed me this. and now i'm just feeling a lot better. seriously, booze, best friends and internet porn. all these things help heal a broken heart. or a partially broken heart. or a slightly broken heart. or just a litttle crack. whatever. and the last two entries did not even reflect the slightest bit of how i really feel. i was a man-hater for a day, at most. then i guess i got over it. or there are enough cute guys in my life that i can't stay hating them. but still, there are so much to write about men that i just had to write about it. but anyway, that's not the point. the point is i have a paper due tomorrow so i should porbably start writing and stop leaving the house every 5 minutes to watch the lunar eclipse.

i'm a man-hater, part 3

2004-10-18T03:07:00.000-07:00

it's tempting to think all the problems will go away once dating starts again. but the truth is, old problems never go away, and new ones come up. what a cliche, but "knowledge is power" when it comes to tackling a communication gap. read between the lines. that's the only way to stay in the driver's seat. (but of course, as i already learnt, things are always easier said than done.)

the man translator

what he says

what he means

i really get into talking about my feelings

i'll talk about feelings if it gets me into your pants

i'm not very close to my family

will you be my mommy?

ikea rocks!

i've got huge student loans

i go out with my buddies at least once a week

i'm dating other women

i love lingerie!

can i try on yours?

i talk to my parents every day

are you codependent too?

i'm not looking for a serious relationship right now

wanna do it?

i don't believe in sex before marriage

i think i'm gay, but humour me for a few months, okay?

i'd love for you to meet my mother on our second date

i'm definitely gay, but cover me for a few months, okay?

i still really value you as a friend

i still want you for booty calls

my career ha salways been my top priority

i have a two-inch penis

the sexiest thing about you is your mind

you're not that attractive but i'll still sleep with you

i work out a lot

i really love my body! can i show you?

this is so special. let's keep it between us.

i'd be totally humiliated if anyone knew we were dating

she has nothing to do with us

i do'nt even think about you when i sleep with her

my pager is the best way to reach me

i'm married

i think we should slow things down for a while

oh, shit, i'm falling in love

i'm a man-hater, part 2

2004-10-13T13:25:00.000-07:00

the truth about jobs and men

what the job really says about the man

investment banker

i look better in my double-breasted suit than i do in my birthday suit, but i'm rich so i hope you won't notice

producer

i'm charming with little substance-and a little substance-abuse problem

postal worker

i'm really lazy or kind of crazy-but probably both

e-commerce executive

i have no idea what i'm doing, but i could be a millionare before anyone finds out

editor

i have a half-finished novel in my computer-and always will

special ed. teacher

i'm above materialism-and by the way, i drive a dodge dart

entrepreneur

i'm always looking for my next hot girl...er, deal

artist

i come from money. i run from money

lawyer

we will argue, i will win, and you will pay for it

actor

i didn't get enough attention as a child, but i did get lots of orthodontia

stand-up comedian

i didn't get enough attention as a child, and i didn't get any orthodontia

high school teacher

i didn't make it as a stnad-up comedian

graphic designer

can we pretend i'm an artisit?

writer

i'm memorizing ever clever, insightful thing you say. of course, i'll change your name and take all the credit when i use it

freelancer

i have commitment issues

career counselor

i couldn't find mine

comupter programmer

my best social skill is typing

highway patrol officer

i'm a top

i'm a man-hater part 1

2004-10-12T17:26:00.000-07:00

well, i guess every girl goes through a phase of "guys just suck, period" when shit happens. the thing is, i think i'm kind of having it right now, though it's no way near the extent of that i had in the few instances earlier in my life. so this time, i think i'll do this differently...

the truth about hair and men

here's what i think the hair really says about the man:

style

what he thinks it says

what it really says

shaved head

i'm a really bad dude

i'm a really bald dude

toupee

hey, baby, i'm still a stud

at least i can afford fake hair

comb-over

look, i've still got hair

look! it's the emperor's new hair!

full beard

i'm a rugged, fearless guy

i miss grizzly adams

big mustache

i play pro baseball

burt reynolds is my hero

crew cut

i'm a real macho man

i'm so confused

soul patch

i'm way cool

i was a total dork in high school

goatee

i'm a creative intellectual

i'm stuck in the '90s

dreadlocks

i'm getting back to my roots

i've got stinky roots

mullet

my hair is cutting-edge hip

my hair is heinous

slicked back

i'm a serious power broker

no one ever tales me seirously

dating myself

2004-10-12T02:20:00.000-07:00

last call for the two of us. yesterday marks the end of it. it's ironic how i was giving myself the excuse that i don't want to end things on my birthday, and so what did i do? it ended on my sister's birthday. how wonderful. and even though i've seen it coming, i'm not ready to be reflective or funny about it. things are not as bad as they were. back then i was just trying to function. that means sleeping, eating, talking my best friend's ear off (she went through this just a month ago, so she owes me.), and trying not to cry in public. well, i got the eating and talking part down pretty quick, but apparently 940 am on the 9 bus to college and 4pm in the middle of sproul plaza were the new and entirely appropriate places to have a crying jag. no, i'm not going through that again this time, but a half pound of french fries is the way to a svelte new single (single as in really, really, for real kind of single) me.

so, while i'm so totally utterly single at this moment, i think i may be a good idea to start practising getting back into the game. guess i just haven't been trying hard enough in the past few months. so...exercise #1...i'm going to date myself.

dating myself is quite possible the most satisfying way to date. i know from the start that i'm building a relationship that will last. i don't have to worry about infidelity. i always get to choose the restaurant and i never have to pretend i'm in the mood to see baywatch or anything else. i win every argument, and i'll never "lie awake in the wet spot feeling unsatisfied."

so this is how i'm going to date myself with "style and sensitivity"

1. eat over the sink by candlelight

2. surprise myself with unexpected gifts - a bottle of great champagne, a red rose beside the bed, an x-rated video

3. treat myself to a sexy new outfit

4. when i catch my reflection in a store window, i'll flirt shamelessly

5. buy myself flowers every week

6. plan fun weekend gateaways to romantic spots

7. turn the music up and the lights down and slow-dance barefoot in the kitchen

8. gently caress my hand or my thigh at the movies

9. sleep in my slinkiest nightie or nothing at all

10. whisper sweet nothings into the air, then spin around really fast to catch them in my ear

11. take long walks in the moonlight, hand in hand, making plans for the future

note to self: dreaming about babies doesn't mean i want one. maybe i'm dating one?

note to self #2: when having a sexual fantasy in public, try to remember i'm in public

2004-10-11T04:52:00.000-07:00

our wrongs remain unrectified. and our souls won't be exhumed.

the leopard

2004-10-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

once undressed your markings are displayed with elegance. the languid dance before you execute your prey.
as if i didn't know i was the kill. your tongue camouflaging growls with a kiss.
in costume you casually join the crowd gaping at museum walls oohing and aahing with the best of them.
you slip a hand into my dress, tenderly fondling each breast. as if i didn't know about those claws pulled back inside the fur.