first, i really just have to laugh at myself for a bit, having last LOOKED at this blog almost one full sun-revolution ago. ok, i'm over it.
i've been thinking of my intention of having this sort-of secret space in the blogosphere--in some ways, as an avenue to process my own ish through word-play and rememories, in others, as a public-private pact [public in the sense that this is truf y'all cuz it's on the internets and private because who is really reading this anyways] that yes, despite going back to school to do something more meaningful with my life than cross out commas, many moons ago i claimed the pen as my burnt offering to the all-that-has-been to bring me to this point. i have not been writing as much "poetry" lately, which sometimes feels like i have given up on santa claus or something. i have been working exponentially more, and writing less, which means my self has been strained. lately i would also rather knit than wit [har har so clever], in some ways to be able to witness the very thing i am creating in my hands--something i can control, something that will actually be useful to someone [let's be real. poems can only keep you so warm in basement apartments]. and the times i reserve to write have been more for personal process than poetry, which i don't think is interesting to anyone but myself. at least i ain't the type to put that ish out there.
but here i am, five days into not having five jobs, or school, or the family weight that has been a blessed burden lately, and i've been feeling the need to tap fingertip against the keys. although i am a couple of months into a new line of work, now that all my energy and commitment is being poured into it, i know i need to create a space to reflect and think critically of what i'm really trying to build. it's funny, only know i am connecting the dots that i am truly doing what i set out to do: i went back to school so i could help build one. i know i am getting swept up by all this talk of budgets and logic models and needs assessments and performance outcomes and deliverables; how do i connect my day-do-day nonsense with my greater vision of transforming young peoples' lives? how do i do that with the inherent tension of working with school systems? how do i not back down from my politics while recognizing that if i spit my mouf off i may alienate the very people at the table with me? is that in itself compromising my beliefs? maybe the day i stop questioning these things is the day i sell my soul. for now, i accept my hypocrises and choose to work through them. this work will only go so far as i push myself, albeit into uncomfortable and unfamiliar places. i will make mistakes, and i will let people down, myself included. but i will never stop there.
much thanks to the spirits [and sushi!!] 'round the table last night for reminding me of all of this. and to the folks of the experimental station for living out their ideals of creating independent cultural infrastructure and reminding me i can do the same, albeit with the behemoth that is our public education system [as well as the unnamed spiritual force that is currently putting a roof over my new org's heads and is responsible for the dozens of boxes in my office large enough to put me, my desk and pc sitting upright in any one of them]. in some ways, because of these oddities, and because of the [yeah-i'll-say-it] educational privileges that i come from i can do what i want. but i have to be sure to truly connect this work to greater struggles. to not just stick young people on this "pipeline" or "conveyor belt" of supports, the way some people call it. this isn't about deficits, but opportunities to build relationships, to change the 'normal' of poverty and violence and low-performing schools. this is not just changing habits and expectations, this is liberation and love. as ridiculous as that sounds, that's what i'll stand and fall for.
16 December 2009
19 January 2009
motto.
In the dark times, will there also be singing?
Yes, there will be singing.
About the dark times.
Yes, there will be singing.
About the dark times.
07 January 2009
impulse control.
admittedly, he has begun to express feelings
of forgetting to write down
the id on the chalkboard.
think of it as a to-do list:
milk, vegetables, eggs,
pick up dry cleaning,
find better ways to cope. at our
core, we are all animals. like darwin
we shall overcome this
by putting newly encountered species
on our dinner plates.
why? it is the unconscious driving approach.
the secrets of the scientific method
are a by-product of digestions. the to-do:
pleasure, aggression. you do it once, you do it
three times. sometimes it helps you escape,
sometimes you can get lonely at sea.
all we can do is adjust, try to quietly shift
with the wind.
even if it means
a split infinitive.
of forgetting to write down
the id on the chalkboard.
think of it as a to-do list:
milk, vegetables, eggs,
pick up dry cleaning,
find better ways to cope. at our
core, we are all animals. like darwin
we shall overcome this
by putting newly encountered species
on our dinner plates.
why? it is the unconscious driving approach.
the secrets of the scientific method
are a by-product of digestions. the to-do:
pleasure, aggression. you do it once, you do it
three times. sometimes it helps you escape,
sometimes you can get lonely at sea.
all we can do is adjust, try to quietly shift
with the wind.
even if it means
a split infinitive.
04 January 2009
resetting your wrist(watch).
sunday morning, one minute past mass, or 9:31 (which sounds just a little more reasonable). here we go again, the lucky ones to have brumbled past the black-hole hold of the earth spinning round the sun on its axis, we the ones as the closest fists to the sun. we the ones with closed fists, we who won over by thems run over the unlucky dogs again, who's gonna clean up the mess, who's always got caught by the sludge in the bucket, a lucky moment to remember you love the rain. if it's even only a shower. you who never knows the temperature of this water, but will adjust accordingly, even if it always means fiddling with the knobs. could be jet lag, could be old age.
four days in, and each morning i'm brunching.
four days in, and each morning i'm brunching.
07 November 2008
ago.
the day begins as we end / our dreams
sprawled out on sweaty sheets,
letting go of fistfuls of memories
like scraps of coloured paper
flung off a rooftop,
a thin line
between those things
we celebrate
and those
we grieve.
it takes a phone call
answered or not
our palms face up
or buried in our laps
wrapping ribbons
of our past lives
around our present together,
our palms are trying
to tell us something.
this day is running around
itself / a premonition
glowing like a crimson-lit room
from across an alley, maybe
I was just there or years before
could have flicked on the lights
slipped two-by-two
through a train turnstile
or tossed a cigarette off
a roof,
shoulders shifting
towards or away from someone.
the day ends as we begin
in parallel REMs
asks itself
a shared apartment
or am I him, bubbling up
on a patio in the back
or getting caught in conversations
never spoken out loud,
he texts she texts
LOL whatevers
nobody laughs anymore,
only chats that they are laughing.
sister let yourself cry.
sister sometimes
it takes three days
to roll away a boulder
pressing down
on your lungs, sometimes it’s okay
to walk away from a tomb. trace
thumbprints on your palms
as if tokens from an apartment
you should have left long ago. place
them gently over veiled eyes. sometimes
we walk in circles but don’t get stepped on,
instead bend the days that begin and end
with the same attempts at poking
a needle through thread
don’t wait
for routine, for things to happen
in threes, or love songs on the radio
that wail like elegies wind sometimes shifts
in more than in four directions—
make it easy. start with Level I processing.
how do you feel about that. 4:53 a.m. leaves
rustle but are not yet morning.
mourning.
the second act is ripe with symbolism but unimportant.
for now
get through the night fumbling for quarters.
there are intruders on the premises, there is
nowhere to hide. you are getting stopped for no reason.
ain't no walk thru Buttercup
Park. collect flashlights,
jars, buttons, broken paperweights. who knows what
we really need from the outside world.
stand on chairs. look at the Big Picture. amazing awaits.
ends, beginnings, they all look the same.
dusk, dawn,
we are all still running. us, apartments, maybe
it means nothing at all. believe in things
because they exist, but don’t forget
to grieve. that's deep. us through them—
see us frantically buried.
sprawled out on sweaty sheets,
letting go of fistfuls of memories
like scraps of coloured paper
flung off a rooftop,
a thin line
between those things
we celebrate
and those
we grieve.
it takes a phone call
answered or not
our palms face up
or buried in our laps
wrapping ribbons
of our past lives
around our present together,
our palms are trying
to tell us something.
this day is running around
itself / a premonition
glowing like a crimson-lit room
from across an alley, maybe
I was just there or years before
could have flicked on the lights
slipped two-by-two
through a train turnstile
or tossed a cigarette off
a roof,
shoulders shifting
towards or away from someone.
the day ends as we begin
in parallel REMs
asks itself
a shared apartment
or am I him, bubbling up
on a patio in the back
or getting caught in conversations
never spoken out loud,
he texts she texts
LOL whatevers
nobody laughs anymore,
only chats that they are laughing.
sister let yourself cry.
sister sometimes
it takes three days
to roll away a boulder
pressing down
on your lungs, sometimes it’s okay
to walk away from a tomb. trace
thumbprints on your palms
as if tokens from an apartment
you should have left long ago. place
them gently over veiled eyes. sometimes
we walk in circles but don’t get stepped on,
instead bend the days that begin and end
with the same attempts at poking
a needle through thread
don’t wait
for routine, for things to happen
in threes, or love songs on the radio
that wail like elegies wind sometimes shifts
in more than in four directions—
make it easy. start with Level I processing.
how do you feel about that. 4:53 a.m. leaves
rustle but are not yet morning.
mourning.
the second act is ripe with symbolism but unimportant.
for now
get through the night fumbling for quarters.
there are intruders on the premises, there is
nowhere to hide. you are getting stopped for no reason.
ain't no walk thru Buttercup
Park. collect flashlights,
jars, buttons, broken paperweights. who knows what
we really need from the outside world.
stand on chairs. look at the Big Picture. amazing awaits.
ends, beginnings, they all look the same.
dusk, dawn,
we are all still running. us, apartments, maybe
it means nothing at all. believe in things
because they exist, but don’t forget
to grieve. that's deep. us through them—
see us frantically buried.
31 July 2008
uptown love song, pt. 2.
let me sit drip sweat with you fam
I am/only as I stand here with you
never abandoned but brought together
under the most unsuspecting
of circumstances
having circumnavigated these streets
draped in superhero capes from six flags
as the only reason
we need
to love
& sweat
& show our tears
made manifest through laughter
on uncomfortable couches
or the unstable steps of the back porch
we swat playfully at instigations,
wipe away the stains
left by real ones
maybe we have never before said out loud
what we are most afraid of,
whether that’s having someone else know
the real reason you haven’t changed ur clothes
wear long sleeves in summer
maybe sunglasses even indoors.
I have been
brought to my knees
by these poems smeared
on the silhouettes of these walls
breathing life into both
familial and unfamiliar
spaces
these poems exist
not as murals or memories
they ooze from the tips of our fingers
trailing every brick & black gate
every peace sign every wave
we muster to make some
kind of connection
our fingers
our poems
our people together weaving
our every truth
into an uptown story to be sung
whether muttered under
our breath like what the fuck
can’t take this anymore
or forced out like a rooftop yawp
that fills every restless lung
every rest of us afraid to speak
the cadence of our in-between tongues
let me tell you brother
I know what it’s like to have ur tongue tied
by years of silence across a dinner table
sing sister
the long low wail
of survival
we poets be
the crack between
a sidewalk and a dock
to leap off even if our only landing
be a lake not even named for this state
of mind
the illest noise be sacred
be our hands clapping together
taking back the rhythm of our hearts
disrupted from one too many times
being told you’re not good enough
this be believing
be the off-key reminder
of the truth we sing of our selves
as uptown we
begin as poems
we breathe
believe
we love
song.
I am/only as I stand here with you
never abandoned but brought together
under the most unsuspecting
of circumstances
having circumnavigated these streets
draped in superhero capes from six flags
as the only reason
we need
to love
& sweat
& show our tears
made manifest through laughter
on uncomfortable couches
or the unstable steps of the back porch
we swat playfully at instigations,
wipe away the stains
left by real ones
maybe we have never before said out loud
what we are most afraid of,
whether that’s having someone else know
the real reason you haven’t changed ur clothes
wear long sleeves in summer
maybe sunglasses even indoors.
I have been
brought to my knees
by these poems smeared
on the silhouettes of these walls
breathing life into both
familial and unfamiliar
spaces
these poems exist
not as murals or memories
they ooze from the tips of our fingers
trailing every brick & black gate
every peace sign every wave
we muster to make some
kind of connection
our fingers
our poems
our people together weaving
our every truth
into an uptown story to be sung
whether muttered under
our breath like what the fuck
can’t take this anymore
or forced out like a rooftop yawp
that fills every restless lung
every rest of us afraid to speak
the cadence of our in-between tongues
let me tell you brother
I know what it’s like to have ur tongue tied
by years of silence across a dinner table
sing sister
the long low wail
of survival
we poets be
the crack between
a sidewalk and a dock
to leap off even if our only landing
be a lake not even named for this state
of mind
the illest noise be sacred
be our hands clapping together
taking back the rhythm of our hearts
disrupted from one too many times
being told you’re not good enough
this be believing
be the off-key reminder
of the truth we sing of our selves
as uptown we
begin as poems
we breathe
believe
we love
song.
28 July 2008
ballin'
too early mornings begin
with texts about ballin’
at Foster beach, it is just
cracking dawn.
someone’s heart cracked
long ago, somewhere between
the heat of an upside down
frying pan and the sting
of a slapped cheek
it is just another morning
after a night of tracing shadows
from streetlight ghosts streaming in
from the window, a night of wincing
back whisky or recalling the lover
who did that enough for the both of you,
and you think it’s not supposed to be
like this. or it’s just whatever it is.
one choice always seems like a good idea
at the time. all it takes
is one loose rock to fall—
I am wary of the very forces that crumble mountains
under our feet. or blame our peasant ways
on eruptions. fuck defeat. fuck whatevers
and fuck who gives a fuck.
nobody's talkin’
‘bout tossin’
in the towel. this just be
another dawn.
with texts about ballin’
at Foster beach, it is just
cracking dawn.
someone’s heart cracked
long ago, somewhere between
the heat of an upside down
frying pan and the sting
of a slapped cheek
it is just another morning
after a night of tracing shadows
from streetlight ghosts streaming in
from the window, a night of wincing
back whisky or recalling the lover
who did that enough for the both of you,
and you think it’s not supposed to be
like this. or it’s just whatever it is.
one choice always seems like a good idea
at the time. all it takes
is one loose rock to fall—
I am wary of the very forces that crumble mountains
under our feet. or blame our peasant ways
on eruptions. fuck defeat. fuck whatevers
and fuck who gives a fuck.
nobody's talkin’
‘bout tossin’
in the towel. this just be
another dawn.
17 July 2008
an uptown love song.
love is emotional/mental/physical/personal/communal/spiritual/political...
this is the first of [hopefully] many rooftop poetry jams by shm & t.
we start with i ams
i slam door shuts to keep in cold gusts
from AC's
please play me that track again
this reprise of a previous rewrite
of a previous re-life
i find
i am
only as i stand
here with u fam
i am
only as i stand
here with u
fam, do you feel me? us
is cold gusts & slammed door shuts
in our faces for decades & seconds
speak our hearts' tales like drum breaks
i handshake & hug & hand hold & bug & break down
cuz somehow i've found
i am
only as i stand
here with u fam
i know i am repeating myself
but love, love, is worth repeating
like hitting that rewind button
on a slow jam in order to be sleeping
like putting your head down
while mafia be creeping
like making room on magic tiles
for acid river leaping
we're all trying not to get swept up
in the current state of affairs
i swear we get down & push up more
than just our body weight when we stand up
shit, i'll cuss if that means
love, love, can be
no, love, love can breathe
see, we r the lungs, love, so breathe
we r chill couches turned cradles
birth movements of young able
broken tables & bread crumbs
breakin bread upon tables
our stomachs grumble like families
no longer able to stay in their homes
this is an uptown love song
to the heat in the meat of our bones
an uptown love song
to the reach in the slingshotted stone
shattering towering goliath powers
man these condos have grown way out of control
but this is control brother
this is power sister
we r heat rash & blisters
cuz we r the closest fist to the sun
our tongues r the closest spit of the gun
cuz our language can stop even bullets & bulldozers
bullshit & pull overs by flashing lights on squad cars
we r the keys to these handcuffs
the free to this city
the bite of the cold gusts
the slam of the door shuts
the we without pity
unity claps & freestyle raps drift
off lips
& we listen to our poems with
our hips
because this is
& this is
& this is for
my brothers & sisters
each poets resisting the problems
of this system with throats run dry
with every ice breaker, each
seemingly lame excuse we come up with
for y’all to vibe with your small groups
we break bread & build this home together
with faces that change on the daily,
over fried rice becoming
more than just friends but family
once just cliques n immigrants
mama’s boyz n modern day bearers of peace
extra extra read all about it
the new news gonna roll through spitting stories
of street corners they be avoidin cuz the O.G.’s
got the block on lock down
ladies can’t keep their heads up
without fearing a fist wrapped ‘round
a lock of hair bob bobbing up n down
bob bobbing
heads barely above water
we r just treading through these mean streets
arms grow weary with the weight of a pen
that rewrites our histories
& sings the praises of our names
arms grow weary with resistance
the weight of a pen that keeps us
closed in from home room
to home work to the work day
to minimum wage
to count down the minutes left on break
to count the number of prisons
that take too many of us
before voting age
sometimes we cry without telling each other
& sometimes you see our hearts on our sleeves
unafraid to show
that no matter the heat
we r each still breathing
no matter how hot the hood gets
we r each still dreaming
of these very streets
that run rampant in our very veins
we r the very same as those that come before us
whether from Foster’s shores or
from across the globe or
the same sorrows of a third eviction notice
as uptown fam, we break bread together
cuz all we got
r broken windows & empty storefronts
we don’t even notice next door
barely breaking even at the end of the day
circuit breakers keep our pizza cold
tryin to breakdance reminds my knees
that I am too old for this
but I too know
that we
as fam
move forward in a mass
of muscles
& music
& struggles
from break beats
to heart beats
as uptown we
say hell fucking no
don’t condo my ‘partment for a Target
lock us out of neighborhood parks
assume unlawful assembly
or make black folk live only on one block
when the city claims desegregation
these r my rights, these r my reasons
for staying true to a zip code
that has been my stomping ground
for more nights than I can remember
& many more that I’d like to forget
this is our space, our home we r making
the most unsuspecting of fam that gathers
‘round trays of harold’s chicken & plates piled high
with someone’s maybe first meal of the day
it’s crazy to think
that all we have been blessed with
starts with a black gate
& a blank slate
to spray paint our stories as
a way of saying we’re here to stay
these r our rights
these r our reasons
to live for so many things
when they all start with one.
this is
freedom.
this is
love.
clearing up the clutter from the night’s feast
& I get a call from my ma that my uncle’s passed
because of cancer; it’s the same day that my cousin
has just had a baby. breaking bread
with you, extended fam,
somehow completes this cycle of a life
we struggle through together
sitting in a room of silhouettes painted on the wall in pencil,
still life portraits that no amount of rubbing can erase
because each of our every presence brings us one gift closer
to sharing something no alderman, no zoning code can take away
as uptown we
begin as poems
to our selves
i am
a way of standing
speaking
living
breathing
love into our selves
as cold gusts into parched lungs
love can breathe, see
love is we be
we be the lungs, love, so sing.
this is the first of [hopefully] many rooftop poetry jams by shm & t.
we start with i ams
i slam door shuts to keep in cold gusts
from AC's
please play me that track again
this reprise of a previous rewrite
of a previous re-life
i find
i am
only as i stand
here with u fam
i am
only as i stand
here with u
fam, do you feel me? us
is cold gusts & slammed door shuts
in our faces for decades & seconds
speak our hearts' tales like drum breaks
i handshake & hug & hand hold & bug & break down
cuz somehow i've found
i am
only as i stand
here with u fam
i know i am repeating myself
but love, love, is worth repeating
like hitting that rewind button
on a slow jam in order to be sleeping
like putting your head down
while mafia be creeping
like making room on magic tiles
for acid river leaping
we're all trying not to get swept up
in the current state of affairs
i swear we get down & push up more
than just our body weight when we stand up
shit, i'll cuss if that means
love, love, can be
no, love, love can breathe
see, we r the lungs, love, so breathe
we r chill couches turned cradles
birth movements of young able
broken tables & bread crumbs
breakin bread upon tables
our stomachs grumble like families
no longer able to stay in their homes
this is an uptown love song
to the heat in the meat of our bones
an uptown love song
to the reach in the slingshotted stone
shattering towering goliath powers
man these condos have grown way out of control
but this is control brother
this is power sister
we r heat rash & blisters
cuz we r the closest fist to the sun
our tongues r the closest spit of the gun
cuz our language can stop even bullets & bulldozers
bullshit & pull overs by flashing lights on squad cars
we r the keys to these handcuffs
the free to this city
the bite of the cold gusts
the slam of the door shuts
the we without pity
unity claps & freestyle raps drift
off lips
& we listen to our poems with
our hips
because this is
& this is
& this is for
my brothers & sisters
each poets resisting the problems
of this system with throats run dry
with every ice breaker, each
seemingly lame excuse we come up with
for y’all to vibe with your small groups
we break bread & build this home together
with faces that change on the daily,
over fried rice becoming
more than just friends but family
once just cliques n immigrants
mama’s boyz n modern day bearers of peace
extra extra read all about it
the new news gonna roll through spitting stories
of street corners they be avoidin cuz the O.G.’s
got the block on lock down
ladies can’t keep their heads up
without fearing a fist wrapped ‘round
a lock of hair bob bobbing up n down
bob bobbing
heads barely above water
we r just treading through these mean streets
arms grow weary with the weight of a pen
that rewrites our histories
& sings the praises of our names
arms grow weary with resistance
the weight of a pen that keeps us
closed in from home room
to home work to the work day
to minimum wage
to count down the minutes left on break
to count the number of prisons
that take too many of us
before voting age
sometimes we cry without telling each other
& sometimes you see our hearts on our sleeves
unafraid to show
that no matter the heat
we r each still breathing
no matter how hot the hood gets
we r each still dreaming
of these very streets
that run rampant in our very veins
we r the very same as those that come before us
whether from Foster’s shores or
from across the globe or
the same sorrows of a third eviction notice
as uptown fam, we break bread together
cuz all we got
r broken windows & empty storefronts
we don’t even notice next door
barely breaking even at the end of the day
circuit breakers keep our pizza cold
tryin to breakdance reminds my knees
that I am too old for this
but I too know
that we
as fam
move forward in a mass
of muscles
& music
& struggles
from break beats
to heart beats
as uptown we
say hell fucking no
don’t condo my ‘partment for a Target
lock us out of neighborhood parks
assume unlawful assembly
or make black folk live only on one block
when the city claims desegregation
these r my rights, these r my reasons
for staying true to a zip code
that has been my stomping ground
for more nights than I can remember
& many more that I’d like to forget
this is our space, our home we r making
the most unsuspecting of fam that gathers
‘round trays of harold’s chicken & plates piled high
with someone’s maybe first meal of the day
it’s crazy to think
that all we have been blessed with
starts with a black gate
& a blank slate
to spray paint our stories as
a way of saying we’re here to stay
these r our rights
these r our reasons
to live for so many things
when they all start with one.
this is
freedom.
this is
love.
clearing up the clutter from the night’s feast
& I get a call from my ma that my uncle’s passed
because of cancer; it’s the same day that my cousin
has just had a baby. breaking bread
with you, extended fam,
somehow completes this cycle of a life
we struggle through together
sitting in a room of silhouettes painted on the wall in pencil,
still life portraits that no amount of rubbing can erase
because each of our every presence brings us one gift closer
to sharing something no alderman, no zoning code can take away
as uptown we
begin as poems
to our selves
i am
a way of standing
speaking
living
breathing
love into our selves
as cold gusts into parched lungs
love can breathe, see
love is we be
we be the lungs, love, so sing.
31 May 2008
ripple.
day starts out thus:
my pops and i are standing in the kitchen. he shakes my hand, says there's nothing really ever to worry about. there are two possibilities, either you are sick or you are not sick. if you are not sick, you have nothing to worry about. if you are sick, two things can happen. you live, or you die. he is counting off, index finger to index. if you live, you have nothing to worry about. if you die, two things can happen. you can go to heaven [he points upstairs] or you can go to hell. if you go to heaven [you get the picture], but if you go to hell, you will be so busy shaking the hands of all of your friends you won't really have anything to worry about. thanks, dad.
and ends:
the fam gathered around little mics connected by fiber optic. lots of crying.
tito bembot, sumalangit nawa ang kaluluwa niya.
my pops and i are standing in the kitchen. he shakes my hand, says there's nothing really ever to worry about. there are two possibilities, either you are sick or you are not sick. if you are not sick, you have nothing to worry about. if you are sick, two things can happen. you live, or you die. he is counting off, index finger to index. if you live, you have nothing to worry about. if you die, two things can happen. you can go to heaven [he points upstairs] or you can go to hell. if you go to heaven [you get the picture], but if you go to hell, you will be so busy shaking the hands of all of your friends you won't really have anything to worry about. thanks, dad.
and ends:
the fam gathered around little mics connected by fiber optic. lots of crying.
tito bembot, sumalangit nawa ang kaluluwa niya.
09 April 2008
let it
go. everything will get better
atop the coffee table.
write by the light of mid-evening jade
where the fireplace has become
an altar,
which sits beneath the painting
that my dad professed
he wanted to give whoever painted it
a medal. it was because he thought
it was the ugliest painting
in the world.
it is of a tree leaning forward
a little like a headless, bosomless
woman, with two green armless figures
resting beneath it. they look like
jello jigglers. not everyone
believes. it's okay
to let it go.
atop the coffee table.
write by the light of mid-evening jade
where the fireplace has become
an altar,
which sits beneath the painting
that my dad professed
he wanted to give whoever painted it
a medal. it was because he thought
it was the ugliest painting
in the world.
it is of a tree leaning forward
a little like a headless, bosomless
woman, with two green armless figures
resting beneath it. they look like
jello jigglers. not everyone
believes. it's okay
to let it go.
30 March 2008
twelve minutes to post, T-minus 1726 days.
we are in the belly of the shark,
and the question of whether or not
to gut the shark is academic.
it is clearly a question of method.
hermino rios.
and the question of whether or not
to gut the shark is academic.
it is clearly a question of method.
hermino rios.
24 February 2008
something about to eclipse
one.
almost sixteen minutes before the eighth hour past meridien
which would mean nothing to the man standing on the moon
warming his tapsilog on one of three volcanoes
nothing meaning any less
than bodies spinning constantly so as to appear perfectly
still, or small stringed-together pots chiming in an otherwise
silent wind.
two.
looking up at the sky three times and each unable to deny
the three planes in the same mid-morning route to O’Hare,
could be a daily commute, could be finally coming home
to Grandma’s.
three.
things are looking up
now that we’ve “officially” broken up
with february
(ready to change
Facebook status). finally
the universe is working according to plan
and the prince is still perfectly minding himself
over breakfast.
it is thematic, to look forward.
I guess only unless you have 12 days
taken away in October
there is no reason
to question
the calendarial.
four.
lethal would be Jupiter during a full moon.
but so would any part of space without some kind of mask on.
five.
I don’t know which I am more afraid of, space or the sea.
likely sea—
eventually we can’t help but reach bottom.
which is actually center.
which is the only of us
not spinning.
six.
the body existing on three planes.
seven.
sixteen minutes.
eight.
what if we were still
in the Eastern time zone.
nine.
what if this were all for Entertainment’s sake,
eclipses happening to us like a reality tv show as boring as Pinoy
Big Brother (which you can’t help but watch), only to be gossiped about
in the weekly rag mags, like Star or The Daily Astrologer.
Linda, don’t let me down now.
ten.
water softens air, making eyelashes bat back wet snow with the defrost on full blast.
Nujabes jamming on the radio, don’t say a word
cuz you’re the perfect instrumental to my life to my life to my life
eleven.
let’s make sure we don’t miss it this time. I don’t
know if I can wait till 2012. Unless the days
whipped by in four hours like on Jupiter, maybe then I could
grin and bear it.
twelve.
last and first thoughts of you—I can’t help
it. even just knowing that
somehow the universe bent for us
to share this. I bow respectfully, tap out
the rhythm of two hearts with a pair of dimes
that I can’t think could buy anything but a couple of wings
chased by a pint. think
of a conversation that entirely changed
the orbit of our lives. which by
some standard mathematical deviation
seems plausible in universe-speak. I mean,
even planets may be subject to some kind of
Type II β error. take
a sample. you have four minutes to answer
the next two questions.
almost sixteen minutes before the eighth hour past meridien
which would mean nothing to the man standing on the moon
warming his tapsilog on one of three volcanoes
nothing meaning any less
than bodies spinning constantly so as to appear perfectly
still, or small stringed-together pots chiming in an otherwise
silent wind.
two.
looking up at the sky three times and each unable to deny
the three planes in the same mid-morning route to O’Hare,
could be a daily commute, could be finally coming home
to Grandma’s.
three.
things are looking up
now that we’ve “officially” broken up
with february
(ready to change
Facebook status). finally
the universe is working according to plan
and the prince is still perfectly minding himself
over breakfast.
it is thematic, to look forward.
I guess only unless you have 12 days
taken away in October
there is no reason
to question
the calendarial.
four.
lethal would be Jupiter during a full moon.
but so would any part of space without some kind of mask on.
five.
I don’t know which I am more afraid of, space or the sea.
likely sea—
eventually we can’t help but reach bottom.
which is actually center.
which is the only of us
not spinning.
six.
the body existing on three planes.
seven.
sixteen minutes.
eight.
what if we were still
in the Eastern time zone.
nine.
what if this were all for Entertainment’s sake,
eclipses happening to us like a reality tv show as boring as Pinoy
Big Brother (which you can’t help but watch), only to be gossiped about
in the weekly rag mags, like Star or The Daily Astrologer.
Linda, don’t let me down now.
ten.
water softens air, making eyelashes bat back wet snow with the defrost on full blast.
Nujabes jamming on the radio, don’t say a word
cuz you’re the perfect instrumental to my life to my life to my life
eleven.
let’s make sure we don’t miss it this time. I don’t
know if I can wait till 2012. Unless the days
whipped by in four hours like on Jupiter, maybe then I could
grin and bear it.
twelve.
last and first thoughts of you—I can’t help
it. even just knowing that
somehow the universe bent for us
to share this. I bow respectfully, tap out
the rhythm of two hearts with a pair of dimes
that I can’t think could buy anything but a couple of wings
chased by a pint. think
of a conversation that entirely changed
the orbit of our lives. which by
some standard mathematical deviation
seems plausible in universe-speak. I mean,
even planets may be subject to some kind of
Type II β error. take
a sample. you have four minutes to answer
the next two questions.
30 January 2008
excerpt from the kitchen [poems.]
the earth fell in opposite directions:
a state of constants, a spider plant
on a mantle meant to humble
those too busy to sit and sip tea
or linger over the paper
you remember to breathe
only when listening
to a space heater spinning
on its axis.
if the earth forgot its orbit
the continents would crash
into themselves. would
a flailing mess
of arms and legs. Asia
and the Cape of Good Hope
playing footsie in the sea.
dolphins paying no mind, too busy
being dolphins. who knows
what they are thinking.
***
the earth turning a page:
“I’m so over spinning around you, sun.”
earth storms out, slamming the door.
here is a letter and a pair of keys.
at night, the back door’s screen
whistles a low, lonely tune. at dawn,
I wish a killdeer would pick up
the chorus. killdeer
who cons an enemy away from her nest
by faking a broken wing. you catch
the swagger in her stride?
you miss her
meaning. these
are less the secrets of the natural world
and more discoveries to be slipped
out of a back pocket. like a note
you forgot you wrote to yourself,
or a gum wrapper of a piece of gum
your throat no longer remembers.
what was his name again, earth asks
herself. oh
sun.
a state of constants, a spider plant
on a mantle meant to humble
those too busy to sit and sip tea
or linger over the paper
you remember to breathe
only when listening
to a space heater spinning
on its axis.
if the earth forgot its orbit
the continents would crash
into themselves. would
a flailing mess
of arms and legs. Asia
and the Cape of Good Hope
playing footsie in the sea.
dolphins paying no mind, too busy
being dolphins. who knows
what they are thinking.
***
the earth turning a page:
“I’m so over spinning around you, sun.”
earth storms out, slamming the door.
here is a letter and a pair of keys.
at night, the back door’s screen
whistles a low, lonely tune. at dawn,
I wish a killdeer would pick up
the chorus. killdeer
who cons an enemy away from her nest
by faking a broken wing. you catch
the swagger in her stride?
you miss her
meaning. these
are less the secrets of the natural world
and more discoveries to be slipped
out of a back pocket. like a note
you forgot you wrote to yourself,
or a gum wrapper of a piece of gum
your throat no longer remembers.
what was his name again, earth asks
herself. oh
sun.
11 January 2008
traveling into the future, as in the philippines [part 1].
Signs on Jeepneys that I must remember:
Love God
Fear God
SEX, DRUGS, ALKOHOL
don't get closed to me, get closed to God.
and in case you ever need to ask "Are we going down now?" in Tagalog:
"bababa ba?"
(oh my god I love it, I want to repeat it all day long.)
Love God
Fear God
SEX, DRUGS, ALKOHOL
don't get closed to me, get closed to God.
and in case you ever need to ask "Are we going down now?" in Tagalog:
"bababa ba?"
(oh my god I love it, I want to repeat it all day long.)
traveling into the future, as in the philippines [part 2].
CEBU CITY, CEBU, PHILIPPINES, 12 DECEMBER 2007, 9:15 a.m.
It is the last hour before we depart for Bohol and I am torn between soaking in the bougie paradise of the Shangri-La Mactan resort, knitting, and taking some time to write. Bummed I can’t take photos because it’s so humid—the lens fogs up instantly. My family last came to Cebu 10 years ago and visited this same place—a muddy mess of a backyard where now there is impeccable landscaping, half a dozen swimming pools steps from a private beach, and a handful of hotel employees watching your every move, ready to wait on your hand and foot every 15 meters. Weird.
There are hardly any Filipino guests save my ma’s class reunion. Funny that on an island in the Philippines I see more Koreans and Japanese than Pinoys. Apparently this area is a popular destination wedding and honeymoon combo. Perhaps it’s an anniversary spot too—there are a few toddlers around, blasting water guns at the kiddie pools while their parents look on, bored. I love love love that the Korean honeymooners have matching outfits. Some have obscure phrases emblazed on the backs of t-shirts, things like “LON DON” (last names, maybe?). Others have longer poetic waxings in true his-and-hers fashion: Where is s/he?” reads one couple’s chests. “S/he who laughs and loves and is my heart.” And on the backs, with respective arrows: “Here is my Romeo/Juliet.” Lots of pink hearts and Hawaiian floral bathing trunks. I heart it.
PANGLAO ISLAND, BOHOL, PHILIPPINES, 13 DECEMBER 2007, 7:40 a.m.
The American Christmas tunes throw me off as I sip coffee in a thatched roof gazebo literally over the edge of a small cliff just off a private white-sand beach. Three small pools snake around the ledge just below me. The morning tide has littered little treasures all over the beach, from shells the size of my fist to translucent crabs no bigger than my thumb. Fishing boats have been abandoned on what the night before was still sea and is now sand. Go ahead and hate me.
This is day four of my ma’s 40th Class Reunion Jubilee. She keeps calling herself and her classmates Jubilarians. She calls me her ya-ya (nursemaid). Yesterday we ferried from Cebu, famed for the fateful encounter between then-unknown Chief Silapu-Lapu and a Portuguese fella named Maghelan, who got a little too big for his britches. I guess the encounter was more between Silapu-Lapu’s stick and Ferny’s shin, but details, shmetails. The ferry between Cebu and Tagbilaran in Bohol was the typical mess of stray children and suitcases and prayers announced over the PA system prior to disclosing the location of our lifejackets (should our prayers have not been answered, I guess). I was kind of bummed that there was no deck—instead I was sandwiched between my ma and a greasy window. Luckily, the film Evan Almighty was playing (which we watched on the flight four days before from Minneapolis to Tokyo, maybe you missed the sarcasm in my typing), which kept the snoring passengers entertained, I’m assuming. I kept my eyes trained on the horizon and my headphones set at some old Blue Scholars tunes, conscious of the fact I couldn’t figure out what direction we were going.
After a bit I squatted on my seat, slipped past my (snoring) mother, and bought a bottle of water at the concession counter near the back. The deckhand said something to me in Tagalog, and I was really startled not to hear something in English. He tried again. Where are you from? [The perpetual question. If that’s not the first, it’s usually: Why aren’t you married yet?]. The States, I answer. Twenty-five pesos, he says. I hand him two tens and a five and the poor guy looks so confused. Conferring with his buddies, he decides that my five, which went out of circulation who knows how long ago, is acceptable. Last trip back home, I say. Errrybody laughs. That’s the third time in two days.
Joke-jokelang:
Why is this island called Bohol?
Because Cebu was taken.
It is the last hour before we depart for Bohol and I am torn between soaking in the bougie paradise of the Shangri-La Mactan resort, knitting, and taking some time to write. Bummed I can’t take photos because it’s so humid—the lens fogs up instantly. My family last came to Cebu 10 years ago and visited this same place—a muddy mess of a backyard where now there is impeccable landscaping, half a dozen swimming pools steps from a private beach, and a handful of hotel employees watching your every move, ready to wait on your hand and foot every 15 meters. Weird.
There are hardly any Filipino guests save my ma’s class reunion. Funny that on an island in the Philippines I see more Koreans and Japanese than Pinoys. Apparently this area is a popular destination wedding and honeymoon combo. Perhaps it’s an anniversary spot too—there are a few toddlers around, blasting water guns at the kiddie pools while their parents look on, bored. I love love love that the Korean honeymooners have matching outfits. Some have obscure phrases emblazed on the backs of t-shirts, things like “LON DON” (last names, maybe?). Others have longer poetic waxings in true his-and-hers fashion: Where is s/he?” reads one couple’s chests. “S/he who laughs and loves and is my heart.” And on the backs, with respective arrows: “Here is my Romeo/Juliet.” Lots of pink hearts and Hawaiian floral bathing trunks. I heart it.
PANGLAO ISLAND, BOHOL, PHILIPPINES, 13 DECEMBER 2007, 7:40 a.m.
The American Christmas tunes throw me off as I sip coffee in a thatched roof gazebo literally over the edge of a small cliff just off a private white-sand beach. Three small pools snake around the ledge just below me. The morning tide has littered little treasures all over the beach, from shells the size of my fist to translucent crabs no bigger than my thumb. Fishing boats have been abandoned on what the night before was still sea and is now sand. Go ahead and hate me.
This is day four of my ma’s 40th Class Reunion Jubilee. She keeps calling herself and her classmates Jubilarians. She calls me her ya-ya (nursemaid). Yesterday we ferried from Cebu, famed for the fateful encounter between then-unknown Chief Silapu-Lapu and a Portuguese fella named Maghelan, who got a little too big for his britches. I guess the encounter was more between Silapu-Lapu’s stick and Ferny’s shin, but details, shmetails. The ferry between Cebu and Tagbilaran in Bohol was the typical mess of stray children and suitcases and prayers announced over the PA system prior to disclosing the location of our lifejackets (should our prayers have not been answered, I guess). I was kind of bummed that there was no deck—instead I was sandwiched between my ma and a greasy window. Luckily, the film Evan Almighty was playing (which we watched on the flight four days before from Minneapolis to Tokyo, maybe you missed the sarcasm in my typing), which kept the snoring passengers entertained, I’m assuming. I kept my eyes trained on the horizon and my headphones set at some old Blue Scholars tunes, conscious of the fact I couldn’t figure out what direction we were going.
After a bit I squatted on my seat, slipped past my (snoring) mother, and bought a bottle of water at the concession counter near the back. The deckhand said something to me in Tagalog, and I was really startled not to hear something in English. He tried again. Where are you from? [The perpetual question. If that’s not the first, it’s usually: Why aren’t you married yet?]. The States, I answer. Twenty-five pesos, he says. I hand him two tens and a five and the poor guy looks so confused. Conferring with his buddies, he decides that my five, which went out of circulation who knows how long ago, is acceptable. Last trip back home, I say. Errrybody laughs. That’s the third time in two days.
Joke-jokelang:
Why is this island called Bohol?
Because Cebu was taken.
04 January 2008
on the day my family and i get assaulted by a cup of coffee sailing through a driver's side window at the hands of a pouty and probably O.C.-crazed teen and her mother in a full-length fur coat in a Nordstrom Rack parking lot of Oakbrook Terrace, i break my glasses. i'm bummed. (but nothing a little superglue can't fix.)
the next day, my folks frantically pack for their flight back home after some old-fashioned holiday madness. my mom struggles with finding enough room in her suitcase, so she hands me a little bag to keep that pretty much sums up the past three weeks:
later, during a quick call to check in on how their flight went, my dad starts talking about how nice the weather is in kansas city--how it is so warm, warmer than chicago, that it's so warm that there they are right now standing in Costco with their coats off, just standing there in their underwear.
the end.
the next day, my folks frantically pack for their flight back home after some old-fashioned holiday madness. my mom struggles with finding enough room in her suitcase, so she hands me a little bag to keep that pretty much sums up the past three weeks:
later, during a quick call to check in on how their flight went, my dad starts talking about how nice the weather is in kansas city--how it is so warm, warmer than chicago, that it's so warm that there they are right now standing in Costco with their coats off, just standing there in their underwear.
the end.
19 November 2007
joker.
one. who jokes (what do you take me for)
two. deceptive clause (claws?), as in a contract
three. extra playing cards
used in some games
(i aint playin no )
two. deceptive clause (claws?), as in a contract
three. extra playing cards
used in some games
(i aint playin no )
17 November 2007
confronting an old self
there are rooms and borders. same goes for defenses.
don't feel entitled to anything you didn’t sweat and struggle for.
the coefficients b1 and b2 depend on the elasticity of substitution
including
yourself. because if you are not constantly attempting
to achieve equilibrium, some kind of internal and external
(intrinsically linked) balance, you are a doomed dinosaur. you are
a beautiful creature, but doomed. you are,
in such adaptive contexts,
assumed a contiguous whole.
sensitized and seeking
ethnocultural variations that match your own, a cultural way of thinking
that remains marginalized relative to other issues of theory and practice
remember what's passed.
looking right at a family portrait from some twenty years hence
reminds me of a time I wish I had, an era I feel I missed
by being born
in Amerika, an idea,
the other side of the fence--once it was an ocean, an adventure
across the llanos on a motorbike or a caballo
next to your uncle who in one hand holds a necklace of oxtail bones
to gift to the dona of the farm you are about to visit
having everything and nothing
to do with the you of this very minute
having been humbled by a ------ love
which means it's hard now
to adjust the collar
and smooth the hem of a misshapen relationship
which inadvertently expose the calves that remind you
of the mountains of your birth village
saying it out loud
helps stop the rhythm,
therefore ending the pattern.
your hem is already straight, or would be
if saying that would stop the perpetuation
of a binary, heteropatriarchal, sociolinguistic way
of looking at the world. perpetuation is only
one letter away from
perpetration.
what kind of reauthorization act is this.
an unplanned life has tremendous beauty; there is always
some surprise not knowing how far away the next is
unplanned even if in one hand you hold a necklace of oxtail bones
and if you can't help
but want to lean into the body
of the landscape
inhaling her scent
gifting her with a smooth hem.
don't feel entitled to anything you didn’t sweat and struggle for.
the coefficients b1 and b2 depend on the elasticity of substitution
including
yourself. because if you are not constantly attempting
to achieve equilibrium, some kind of internal and external
(intrinsically linked) balance, you are a doomed dinosaur. you are
a beautiful creature, but doomed. you are,
in such adaptive contexts,
assumed a contiguous whole.
sensitized and seeking
ethnocultural variations that match your own, a cultural way of thinking
that remains marginalized relative to other issues of theory and practice
remember what's passed.
looking right at a family portrait from some twenty years hence
reminds me of a time I wish I had, an era I feel I missed
by being born
in Amerika, an idea,
the other side of the fence--once it was an ocean, an adventure
across the llanos on a motorbike or a caballo
next to your uncle who in one hand holds a necklace of oxtail bones
to gift to the dona of the farm you are about to visit
having everything and nothing
to do with the you of this very minute
having been humbled by a ------ love
which means it's hard now
to adjust the collar
and smooth the hem of a misshapen relationship
which inadvertently expose the calves that remind you
of the mountains of your birth village
saying it out loud
helps stop the rhythm,
therefore ending the pattern.
your hem is already straight, or would be
if saying that would stop the perpetuation
of a binary, heteropatriarchal, sociolinguistic way
of looking at the world. perpetuation is only
one letter away from
perpetration.
what kind of reauthorization act is this.
an unplanned life has tremendous beauty; there is always
some surprise not knowing how far away the next is
unplanned even if in one hand you hold a necklace of oxtail bones
and if you can't help
but want to lean into the body
of the landscape
inhaling her scent
gifting her with a smooth hem.
20 October 2007
ting-hua, or “heeding the words.”
the peels of an egg hard-boiled and cracked
on the counter like all of the choices we make. my fingers
an egg tooth this afternoon an eggshell quiet
the wind from a street past Rockwell is the rocking cocoon
of the sea, or the whisper in an ear on a train
obedience is between two hands,
even the ones that seem totally apolitical and personal
but with political implications, sliding down the handrail,
sliding and catching themselves
ask me to stand, arms wide open.
ask
who’s in the room,
and count the number of stars tattooed on a wrist,
meant to overcome character inadequacies
through their broad texture and character
tell me you hope you never get tired of waiting for the world
to come to its senses
old planets can’t help obedience; ever elliptical.
and especially the limits within which these evolve
like our mitochondria always coming from our mothers
and because we have been fed our words we speak like strangers
and it’s actually ok; the little things the everyday interactions
that get under the skin are largely systemic. or like courtship,
the structure to achieve a specific outcome. Science vs. Romance.
celestial bodies, horizontal—
as in orbit.
I profess ignorance but ask questions.
I just can’t read
the script I was given to follow.
just because you squeeze our hands
while trying to pull us up,
what can be trivial to some
are the rules of the game.
words “a totality of oppressions,”
systematically based, entwined, all needing to be eliminated
and creating new (liberating) ones.
on the counter like all of the choices we make. my fingers
an egg tooth this afternoon an eggshell quiet
the wind from a street past Rockwell is the rocking cocoon
of the sea, or the whisper in an ear on a train
obedience is between two hands,
even the ones that seem totally apolitical and personal
but with political implications, sliding down the handrail,
sliding and catching themselves
ask me to stand, arms wide open.
ask
who’s in the room,
and count the number of stars tattooed on a wrist,
meant to overcome character inadequacies
through their broad texture and character
tell me you hope you never get tired of waiting for the world
to come to its senses
old planets can’t help obedience; ever elliptical.
and especially the limits within which these evolve
like our mitochondria always coming from our mothers
and because we have been fed our words we speak like strangers
and it’s actually ok; the little things the everyday interactions
that get under the skin are largely systemic. or like courtship,
the structure to achieve a specific outcome. Science vs. Romance.
celestial bodies, horizontal—
as in orbit.
I profess ignorance but ask questions.
I just can’t read
the script I was given to follow.
just because you squeeze our hands
while trying to pull us up,
what can be trivial to some
are the rules of the game.
words “a totality of oppressions,”
systematically based, entwined, all needing to be eliminated
and creating new (liberating) ones.
10 October 2007
the remaining umbilical.
checking a box on an intake form, you probably only know the label:
the capacity to jump 18 inches.
teaching someone to think only one way, they will find their own back door.
write things down. take record. so these things
can once again exist, if only to be folded, slapped
shut, tossed aside, or re-opened
together the pieces sound hard, definitive. like breathing.
a node choked off so the branch can reach for light.
spending the rest of the afternoon sitting stonefaced on the stoop
in a pale blue smock, a Zuihitsu in a tea mug straight up, on the rocks
a language that sits foreign in the bones
apartments
for rent in an abandoned building.
existential as a y-intercept
regardless of slope.
the scapular barre perfectly perpendicular to the central channel,
trying so hard to have the arms around us like a cup of water
the body sinks as if always seeking lowest ground.
too much to ask for civility in this nation-state:
we are not its first inhabitants so must
respect what already exists, the condition of soil,
what already rests. waiting to be reaped.
I accept the abysmal. I just don’t want to be a dock,
a jumping-off point.
a curb taken too fast has punctured my dantien
breathing has become one minute, has become ten. there
should be no changing constants, no shadows cast against the brick
each weekend has become one minute, at the corner of what’s the point street
road construction ahead
feels like a negative slope
feels like for every five units of m, we lose one unit of change
“show me the action plan,” says the director of whatever. “we need budgets,
outputs, more freshly sharpened pencils.”
the oil of an orange under the nail.
squeezing.
the capacity to jump 18 inches.
teaching someone to think only one way, they will find their own back door.
write things down. take record. so these things
can once again exist, if only to be folded, slapped
shut, tossed aside, or re-opened
together the pieces sound hard, definitive. like breathing.
a node choked off so the branch can reach for light.
spending the rest of the afternoon sitting stonefaced on the stoop
in a pale blue smock, a Zuihitsu in a tea mug straight up, on the rocks
a language that sits foreign in the bones
apartments
for rent in an abandoned building.
existential as a y-intercept
regardless of slope.
the scapular barre perfectly perpendicular to the central channel,
trying so hard to have the arms around us like a cup of water
the body sinks as if always seeking lowest ground.
too much to ask for civility in this nation-state:
we are not its first inhabitants so must
respect what already exists, the condition of soil,
what already rests. waiting to be reaped.
I accept the abysmal. I just don’t want to be a dock,
a jumping-off point.
a curb taken too fast has punctured my dantien
breathing has become one minute, has become ten. there
should be no changing constants, no shadows cast against the brick
each weekend has become one minute, at the corner of what’s the point street
road construction ahead
feels like a negative slope
feels like for every five units of m, we lose one unit of change
“show me the action plan,” says the director of whatever. “we need budgets,
outputs, more freshly sharpened pencils.”
the oil of an orange under the nail.
squeezing.
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