yesterday i saw your ex girlfriend
and from looking at her
i can begin to understand why you want me to wear
a dress
why you want me to trade in my sneakers for heels
my fitted caps for bangs
my words for silence
my words are collections of knick knacks
crowding your living room walls and end tables
it's only a matter of time until you decide to downsize
maybe that's why you never bring me around your friends
you say they're not into "social awareness"
i always wonder do you see my light skin as a benefit?
my assertiveness just a turn-on?
since i go both ways, i must be fucking for two
outspoken women are attractive
but inconvenient when their words work against you
and you thought you washed out all that social conditioning
so paint this picture with me
if we were ever to go out with them
i'd be wearing that dress and
you'd be head to toe in the finest camoflauge
they'd never be able to tell we speak of
white-supremacist-capitalist-patriarchy
would this remind you money can't buy ancestral amnesia
what you fail to recognize is that our histories cannot be contained
by bleached textbooks and glass
you want to forget about
the desecration of our mental landscapes
so i try to remind you
about rice fields turned mass graves
rivers swallowing run off military waste
and the off white seams stitched into the gowns of gi brides
i thought your roots had meaning
more than something to be proud of during pacquiao fights
and definitely more than a row of books on your shelf
see i thought my roots had meaning
even though
sometimes i want to wear that dress
let's call it gold
i'll be your trophy for the night
your champagne glass, bubbly
intoxicating exoticism
will be you happy then?
cause these days i have trouble making eye contact with myself
mirrors are constant reminders of hypocrisy
my reflection locks me in
a mosquito in resin
the silence inside self conservation is comfortable
and tempting
a frequency all too familiar
tell me, do you feel safe
with me
when you recognize the stone binaries carved into their mindsets
will you still hush me when i speak
and pull my waistline leash tighter until i'm straight
it's only a matter of time until it rains
and i won't be gold anymore, just yellow
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
to all the boys i've loved and will love
part i
the gold earring underneath your bed is actually a port key
now if you don't know what a port key is
please refer to the 4th installment of harry potter
a portkey is an object that transports someone from one place to another
just by touching it
back to this gold earring though
we'd spent that november morning in bed
when i noticed its metallic smile shimmering from the shadows
upon closer observation
tracing the edges of its unfamiliar shape
i was transported back to every time i received a lie
oblivious or suspicious
pre-packaged or naked
freshly coated with gold or rust
there is a room in my mind that hosts all of this deception
boxes of lonely jewelry missing its other half
the stench of perfumed bedsheets
this is where all those deleted texts and voicemails go to hide
where skeletons feast on fireflies
where grapes grow thick and heavy
and i can't wait for sweetness
i want the truth as sour as it comes
but there you go again
rolling through a rolodex of laminated phrases
it was always excuses and never reasons
part ii
after playing mom to 3 different boys
i've learned to be selfish
yet
there is a point in every relationship when i unlearn this
falling back into old patterns like
grooves sliding into familiarity
gut feelings become familiar
eels swim up my intestinal tracts as i send out doves every 30 days
we are noah's ark on repeat
repetitive like loading clips into guns
and waiting for the familiar cock to crack silence
there is a point in every relationship when i fall
into the cracks lining your palms
when i want to know more about you
than you know about me
because love only feels right with collateral
it only feels right when i'm being ignored
when fidelity is put on hold
and trust is postponed
this is the only kind of love i've ever known
but i want to know familiar like
scars and birthmarks
like the freckle under your eye
your eyes are two circular amber anchors
i am sinking and falling back into old patterns
familiar like our bodies are everchanging rubiks technology
when everything always fits
part iii
to you, acknowledging history is voyeurism
i used to watch my mother finger through a dining room table
plastered with cellphone bills and receipts
you could have mistaken her for a detective
trying to catch those fireflies swimming between bedsheets and passenger seats
burning black holes into her heart
like cigarette burns into arms and armchairs
what made you think it was okay to lie
to feed me salt instead of sugar
when you knew i didn't know the difference
part iv
every night
i cut the moon in half
and give you the bigger piece
the gold earring underneath your bed is actually a port key
now if you don't know what a port key is
please refer to the 4th installment of harry potter
a portkey is an object that transports someone from one place to another
just by touching it
back to this gold earring though
we'd spent that november morning in bed
when i noticed its metallic smile shimmering from the shadows
upon closer observation
tracing the edges of its unfamiliar shape
i was transported back to every time i received a lie
oblivious or suspicious
pre-packaged or naked
freshly coated with gold or rust
there is a room in my mind that hosts all of this deception
boxes of lonely jewelry missing its other half
the stench of perfumed bedsheets
this is where all those deleted texts and voicemails go to hide
where skeletons feast on fireflies
where grapes grow thick and heavy
and i can't wait for sweetness
i want the truth as sour as it comes
but there you go again
rolling through a rolodex of laminated phrases
it was always excuses and never reasons
part ii
after playing mom to 3 different boys
i've learned to be selfish
yet
there is a point in every relationship when i unlearn this
falling back into old patterns like
grooves sliding into familiarity
gut feelings become familiar
eels swim up my intestinal tracts as i send out doves every 30 days
we are noah's ark on repeat
repetitive like loading clips into guns
and waiting for the familiar cock to crack silence
there is a point in every relationship when i fall
into the cracks lining your palms
when i want to know more about you
than you know about me
because love only feels right with collateral
it only feels right when i'm being ignored
when fidelity is put on hold
and trust is postponed
this is the only kind of love i've ever known
but i want to know familiar like
scars and birthmarks
like the freckle under your eye
your eyes are two circular amber anchors
i am sinking and falling back into old patterns
familiar like our bodies are everchanging rubiks technology
when everything always fits
part iii
to you, acknowledging history is voyeurism
i used to watch my mother finger through a dining room table
plastered with cellphone bills and receipts
you could have mistaken her for a detective
trying to catch those fireflies swimming between bedsheets and passenger seats
burning black holes into her heart
like cigarette burns into arms and armchairs
what made you think it was okay to lie
to feed me salt instead of sugar
when you knew i didn't know the difference
part iv
every night
i cut the moon in half
and give you the bigger piece
Sunday, November 15, 2009
ocean
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
the halfway point between korea and america
is where i call home
even then, this is not accurate
though i was born a US citizen
my blood contains traces of hanguk soil
so can you imagine what an entire circulatory system looks like
stretched across 5686 miles of ocean?
you could tightrope walk along my vascular tubing
play me like a bass and pluck the frequencies
of what means to be alien
the other
always a foreigner
when asked about my nationality
"american" is never the right answer
not even when
i pledged my allegiance
exchanged kimchi for burgers, duk for cookies
korean school for little league softball
and never once uttered my middle name
suhyung, korean for flowing water,
in fear of opening xenophobic floodgates to racist currents
that swallowed my tongue, my lungs, my muscle
and forced me to learn to breathe underwater
pushed me into the middle of the ocean, where i reside
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
no "american" could never the right answer
my aunt begs to differ
she refers to me as the white american
white american
acts as lashes against my yellow skin that used to yearn
for such identification with handprints of achievement
taunting us from the other side of the glass ceiling
soo-moh, i'm not angry at your blindness
because we share the same story
we both know
cousins sharing songpyon during harvest
sam-il oon-dong bloody fists pounding for liberation
the taste of busan sunsets
makeshift wedding gowns of war brides and orphaned amerasians
churches turned incinerators
screams of burning men and the smell of martyrdom
a baby crying in front of soviet tanks
our families bullet ridden and hung like laundry in town squares
outstretched hands between sisters and brothers
across proxy war barbed wire
now, across the pacific ocean
i know you know
what a riot really feels like
the smell of edward lee's blood
the weight of his mother's heart
the absence of police and ambulance sirens
how to differentiate the sound of breaking glass, from shattering dreams
tell me what's so different between me and you
tell me, when your grandchildren come home with stories of playground racism
will you trade kimchi for burgers and korean school for little league
when they lose their language
will you call them white americans
let's face it
we both wear resentment like christmas ornaments clinging to the walls of our throats
and despite what you may say, we speak the same language
broken english, broken korean
both broken
after our days are done, we both return to the same neighborhood
on the underwater outskirts of acceptance
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
the halfway point between korea and america
the halfway point between korea and america
is where i call home
even then, this is not accurate
though i was born a US citizen
my blood contains traces of hanguk soil
so can you imagine what an entire circulatory system looks like
stretched across 5686 miles of ocean?
you could tightrope walk along my vascular tubing
play me like a bass and pluck the frequencies
of what means to be alien
the other
always a foreigner
when asked about my nationality
"american" is never the right answer
not even when
i pledged my allegiance
exchanged kimchi for burgers, duk for cookies
korean school for little league softball
and never once uttered my middle name
suhyung, korean for flowing water,
in fear of opening xenophobic floodgates to racist currents
that swallowed my tongue, my lungs, my muscle
and forced me to learn to breathe underwater
pushed me into the middle of the ocean, where i reside
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
no "american" could never the right answer
my aunt begs to differ
she refers to me as the white american
white american
acts as lashes against my yellow skin that used to yearn
for such identification with handprints of achievement
taunting us from the other side of the glass ceiling
soo-moh, i'm not angry at your blindness
because we share the same story
we both know
cousins sharing songpyon during harvest
sam-il oon-dong bloody fists pounding for liberation
the taste of busan sunsets
makeshift wedding gowns of war brides and orphaned amerasians
churches turned incinerators
screams of burning men and the smell of martyrdom
a baby crying in front of soviet tanks
our families bullet ridden and hung like laundry in town squares
outstretched hands between sisters and brothers
across proxy war barbed wire
now, across the pacific ocean
i know you know
what a riot really feels like
the smell of edward lee's blood
the weight of his mother's heart
the absence of police and ambulance sirens
how to differentiate the sound of breaking glass, from shattering dreams
tell me what's so different between me and you
tell me, when your grandchildren come home with stories of playground racism
will you trade kimchi for burgers and korean school for little league
when they lose their language
will you call them white americans
let's face it
we both wear resentment like christmas ornaments clinging to the walls of our throats
and despite what you may say, we speak the same language
broken english, broken korean
both broken
after our days are done, we both return to the same neighborhood
on the underwater outskirts of acceptance
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
the halfway point between korea and america
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
d.m.s.
i cannot see the moon
but i can feel its stare
how did i write you such truths
when you never were
i fell into the eye of our hurricane
let the storms hands press against my back
until
it
was
too
m u c h
how did i write you such truths
when this never was
but i can feel its stare
how did i write you such truths
when you never were
i fell into the eye of our hurricane
let the storms hands press against my back
until
it
was
too
m u c h
how did i write you such truths
when this never was
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
the mummy
the egyptians did not document the process of mummification
did not tickle sheets of papyrus with inked instructions
or carve the bellies of buildings
maybe they thought it was too holy to ever be inscribed
but after years of whipping tomb doors like anthropological slaves
we've boxed their secrets into a science
first a bath in sodium solution
then an incision directed to the abdomen
third, they removed all organs excluding the heart
dehydrated the cadaver with natron
stuffed dried cavities
and finally wrapped them in linen
six steps would bring you to gates of heaven
i contemplate if the egyptians knew of their fate
treated mummies like their monuments
elaborate and beautiful
while some find this process grotesque
i don't know what could be more romantic
than to see your insides
to treat your physiology like a monument
if only you were not afraid to cut me open
if only you were not afraid of truth
i want truth
i want to disintegrate into a time before christ
inhale the breaths of a priest sweating into the face of anubis
so i can
for once
reach inside a man without killing him
the egyptians did not leave behind documents
only sparks for mass produced translations of hieroglyphics
dressing scripture in multilateral incisions
turning ancient texts into suicidal ransom notes
into personal ads into love poems
i write you love poems and when you ask who they're about
i say, somebody else
nah we could never work out cause i'm a cancer, and you're a virgo
i speak in tides to massage your earthquake insecurities
ocean wave words splash against your beached mindset
just hoping for erosion
while we circle lake washington
periodically blowing amnesia into bloodstreams
interacting like ocean and earth would after the apocalypse
discovering fault lines for the second time
because we left our hearts in tact
and you might have forgotten, but i haven't
we are not in the afterlife
this is limbo
our priests were organ thieves who dumped our bodies into the nile
our exes are defaced gods who left us face down
in the mud and in between bed sheets
no the egyptians never left instructions
but you and i never needed any
we are professional embalmers
now this process has become all too familiar
over and over again we
bathe in ripples of laughter
unfold our vulnerabilities
remove all rationality
fight until we lose all trust
stuff our egos
and dress them in silence
six steps away from the gates of heaven
over and over again
i fall into the eye of your hurricane
even with the storm pressing against my back
still lay down to die
thinking you will take me there
only to awake alone in the coldest silence
with iodine bruises and fresh iron exit wounds
i am a fool to think you could look inside me
when you can't stand the sight of my naked body
you want a mountain range
with ribs like the himalayas
someone magnificent and deadly
something worth fighting for
but my belly is an inverted valley
hosts glowing orchards that do not bloom all year round
the trees do not hide at sunrise
but stretch their backs and purse their nectarine lips
knowing their harvest is just around the corner
i am where seasons exist
i was alone before you
and i can be alone after
liberation is lived through isolation
i am killing this part of myself to breathe again
yes, you were once my priest
but you could never bring me to the afterlife
did not tickle sheets of papyrus with inked instructions
or carve the bellies of buildings
maybe they thought it was too holy to ever be inscribed
but after years of whipping tomb doors like anthropological slaves
we've boxed their secrets into a science
first a bath in sodium solution
then an incision directed to the abdomen
third, they removed all organs excluding the heart
dehydrated the cadaver with natron
stuffed dried cavities
and finally wrapped them in linen
six steps would bring you to gates of heaven
i contemplate if the egyptians knew of their fate
treated mummies like their monuments
elaborate and beautiful
while some find this process grotesque
i don't know what could be more romantic
than to see your insides
to treat your physiology like a monument
if only you were not afraid to cut me open
if only you were not afraid of truth
i want truth
i want to disintegrate into a time before christ
inhale the breaths of a priest sweating into the face of anubis
so i can
for once
reach inside a man without killing him
the egyptians did not leave behind documents
only sparks for mass produced translations of hieroglyphics
dressing scripture in multilateral incisions
turning ancient texts into suicidal ransom notes
into personal ads into love poems
i write you love poems and when you ask who they're about
i say, somebody else
nah we could never work out cause i'm a cancer, and you're a virgo
i speak in tides to massage your earthquake insecurities
ocean wave words splash against your beached mindset
just hoping for erosion
while we circle lake washington
periodically blowing amnesia into bloodstreams
interacting like ocean and earth would after the apocalypse
discovering fault lines for the second time
because we left our hearts in tact
and you might have forgotten, but i haven't
we are not in the afterlife
this is limbo
our priests were organ thieves who dumped our bodies into the nile
our exes are defaced gods who left us face down
in the mud and in between bed sheets
no the egyptians never left instructions
but you and i never needed any
we are professional embalmers
now this process has become all too familiar
over and over again we
bathe in ripples of laughter
unfold our vulnerabilities
remove all rationality
fight until we lose all trust
stuff our egos
and dress them in silence
six steps away from the gates of heaven
over and over again
i fall into the eye of your hurricane
even with the storm pressing against my back
still lay down to die
thinking you will take me there
only to awake alone in the coldest silence
with iodine bruises and fresh iron exit wounds
i am a fool to think you could look inside me
when you can't stand the sight of my naked body
you want a mountain range
with ribs like the himalayas
someone magnificent and deadly
something worth fighting for
but my belly is an inverted valley
hosts glowing orchards that do not bloom all year round
the trees do not hide at sunrise
but stretch their backs and purse their nectarine lips
knowing their harvest is just around the corner
i am where seasons exist
i was alone before you
and i can be alone after
liberation is lived through isolation
i am killing this part of myself to breathe again
yes, you were once my priest
but you could never bring me to the afterlife
Monday, August 17, 2009
my place in the world
my place in the world
is two rubber soles taking root
between black gum spots embedded in blocks of cement
my place in the world
is on street corners
i am a feature of inner city safari
for passers by safe behind teflon glazed vehicles
to whom i appear dirty and unreal
my place in the world
is a breathing piece of art
with two pairs of lips
one of which
i am supposed to keep shut
and the other
always open
my place in the world is a plethora of identities
i got more names and numbers than a phone book!
ma, ho, shorty, dime piece, honey dip, bitch, down ass bitch
5 foot 5
measurements
36
28
39
36, 28, 39
36-28-39
these names and numbers have come to real my life
because in a man's world
all that matters is
who you know
and how much you can get
as women we've been stretched to fill a capitalist model
our bodies
should reach their full potential
as simultaneous incubators
24/7 sex machines
and holding cells for male discontent
our bones are bars
constantly beat on
so-called male revolutionaries
expressing distress for men higher up but
blindly releasing violent words against our wombs
are not war drums
my place in the world
is like water
cause i've been told the only things you should never pay for
is water and pussy
i guess i am just like water
for my mind has been polluted
with abstract colors shapes lines
packaged in billboard skin
made up in jawbreaker layers of mac make-up
bound in nudity
and blinged out handcuffs
eyes chained to TVs and magazines
my place in the world
is to be occupied
arranging mental filing cabinets
bursting with collections of cut-out fashion ads
images of what i am supposed to look like
above each illustration
a title, and a measurement
just names and numbers are all i know
my place in the world
is to be occupied
like the land my grandmother slept on
punctured with shells and stamped with the approval from boots of GIs
where my body is under martial law
the pathway from school to home is a war zone
a battle is between me and soldier struggling to unzip
but he's got 100 lbs and 10 inches on me
so i find religion in 30 seconds and pray to their god
that after he's done he'll snap my neck
i'm already so close to dead
seeing through salt waterfalls as he
rips
splits
me open
defiles the holiest place of my body
playing dead
my place in the world is a feature on 3rd world military tours
he is safe behind his bright flag and shiny gun
and i am dirty and unreal
my place in the world is
pollution
occupation
names
numbers
stained with sweat and sperm
occupied by thoughts of
ho
bitch
shorty
36. 28. 39.
my place in the world is just
a woman
is two rubber soles taking root
between black gum spots embedded in blocks of cement
my place in the world
is on street corners
i am a feature of inner city safari
for passers by safe behind teflon glazed vehicles
to whom i appear dirty and unreal
my place in the world
is a breathing piece of art
with two pairs of lips
one of which
i am supposed to keep shut
and the other
always open
my place in the world is a plethora of identities
i got more names and numbers than a phone book!
ma, ho, shorty, dime piece, honey dip, bitch, down ass bitch
5 foot 5
measurements
36
28
39
36, 28, 39
36-28-39
these names and numbers have come to real my life
because in a man's world
all that matters is
who you know
and how much you can get
as women we've been stretched to fill a capitalist model
our bodies
should reach their full potential
as simultaneous incubators
24/7 sex machines
and holding cells for male discontent
our bones are bars
constantly beat on
so-called male revolutionaries
expressing distress for men higher up but
blindly releasing violent words against our wombs
are not war drums
my place in the world
is like water
cause i've been told the only things you should never pay for
is water and pussy
i guess i am just like water
for my mind has been polluted
with abstract colors shapes lines
packaged in billboard skin
made up in jawbreaker layers of mac make-up
bound in nudity
and blinged out handcuffs
eyes chained to TVs and magazines
my place in the world
is to be occupied
arranging mental filing cabinets
bursting with collections of cut-out fashion ads
images of what i am supposed to look like
above each illustration
a title, and a measurement
just names and numbers are all i know
my place in the world
is to be occupied
like the land my grandmother slept on
punctured with shells and stamped with the approval from boots of GIs
where my body is under martial law
the pathway from school to home is a war zone
a battle is between me and soldier struggling to unzip
but he's got 100 lbs and 10 inches on me
so i find religion in 30 seconds and pray to their god
that after he's done he'll snap my neck
i'm already so close to dead
seeing through salt waterfalls as he
rips
splits
me open
defiles the holiest place of my body
playing dead
my place in the world is a feature on 3rd world military tours
he is safe behind his bright flag and shiny gun
and i am dirty and unreal
my place in the world is
pollution
occupation
names
numbers
stained with sweat and sperm
occupied by thoughts of
ho
bitch
shorty
36. 28. 39.
my place in the world is just
a woman
Thursday, August 13, 2009
1nce again
it's 96 degrees outside
and you stopped responding to my texts
yes
i get mad
when you don't write me back
i will say some stupid shit like
what the fuck are you fucking doing when you aren't fucking responding me
even though i know you're downstairs
tickling records till they join chuckling bass lines
sometimes
i imagine you're knitting notes and stringing them to symbols
constructing a monument of symphonies
a hidden display of your affection
but i know it's probably to your ex girlfriend
the one you dated 2 years ago for 4 months
and still haven't gotten over
after all
we are just friends
i am not traditional
in the traditional sense
you will learn to hate me for that
you will have to learn to hate me
i am not traditional
after the line-up of ex-boyfriends
i realized
i have never been in love
just lonely
or drunk
or broken
i have always been broken
you will hate me for being broken
i am not traditional
i do not find resolution in you
i find solace
you breathe silence like gunshots
sending volumes of quiet that relax my every muscle
your eyes glow like windows lit up at night
lighthouses
my eyes are cinders
that burn you down to size
i am finding reasons to burn you
you will hate me for burning you
are you okay with that
are you okay with my naked body
with hair in some places
my cellulite
love handles
can you handle the force of my flesh
against a backdrop of megan fox
against facebook photos your ex girlfriend
you know i am not traditional
in the traditional sense
i am not her
i do not wear pastel colors
or drink flavored vodka
i do not suck validation out of dick
i do not come with an off button
i cannot fit in this love triangle you're shoving me into
i do not fit in shapes
i am not beautiful
i will not be your video vixen
or the coffee for your sugar
i will not kiss you after she's spit in your face
i am not her
you will learn to hate me for that
you will have to learn to hate me
i am always at war
ready for battle
we are always at war
i am always losing
i am returning to my fog
when callouses are carved and scurvy takes our bodies
i will still drag tracks of paralysis to the helm
when we'd rather feel water gliding through
the grooves of our fingerprints than the fog
i will still grab for land beyond the horizon my eyes can barely touch
when the lanterns sigh out their last flames
i will still clutch you and ignore passing ports of fortune
after the wars are over
after we've decorated the sea with casualties
and our ships, once magnificent
our pride, once impregnable
are in pieces
i will treat your wounds with moonlight
i will trace the bodies of verses into your back
with my fingertips
plant poetry in between dissenting vertebrae
you will learn to love me
you will have to learn to love me
you will never learn to love me
it's 68 degrees outside
this is the 16th time i've given up on you
the air is thick with what could have been
i learn to breathe accordingly
i will learn to breathe accordingly
and you stopped responding to my texts
yes
i get mad
when you don't write me back
i will say some stupid shit like
what the fuck are you fucking doing when you aren't fucking responding me
even though i know you're downstairs
tickling records till they join chuckling bass lines
sometimes
i imagine you're knitting notes and stringing them to symbols
constructing a monument of symphonies
a hidden display of your affection
but i know it's probably to your ex girlfriend
the one you dated 2 years ago for 4 months
and still haven't gotten over
after all
we are just friends
i am not traditional
in the traditional sense
you will learn to hate me for that
you will have to learn to hate me
i am not traditional
after the line-up of ex-boyfriends
i realized
i have never been in love
just lonely
or drunk
or broken
i have always been broken
you will hate me for being broken
i am not traditional
i do not find resolution in you
i find solace
you breathe silence like gunshots
sending volumes of quiet that relax my every muscle
your eyes glow like windows lit up at night
lighthouses
my eyes are cinders
that burn you down to size
i am finding reasons to burn you
you will hate me for burning you
are you okay with that
are you okay with my naked body
with hair in some places
my cellulite
love handles
can you handle the force of my flesh
against a backdrop of megan fox
against facebook photos your ex girlfriend
you know i am not traditional
in the traditional sense
i am not her
i do not wear pastel colors
or drink flavored vodka
i do not suck validation out of dick
i do not come with an off button
i cannot fit in this love triangle you're shoving me into
i do not fit in shapes
i am not beautiful
i will not be your video vixen
or the coffee for your sugar
i will not kiss you after she's spit in your face
i am not her
you will learn to hate me for that
you will have to learn to hate me
i am always at war
ready for battle
we are always at war
i am always losing
i am returning to my fog
when callouses are carved and scurvy takes our bodies
i will still drag tracks of paralysis to the helm
when we'd rather feel water gliding through
the grooves of our fingerprints than the fog
i will still grab for land beyond the horizon my eyes can barely touch
when the lanterns sigh out their last flames
i will still clutch you and ignore passing ports of fortune
after the wars are over
after we've decorated the sea with casualties
and our ships, once magnificent
our pride, once impregnable
are in pieces
i will treat your wounds with moonlight
i will trace the bodies of verses into your back
with my fingertips
plant poetry in between dissenting vertebrae
you will learn to love me
you will have to learn to love me
you will never learn to love me
it's 68 degrees outside
this is the 16th time i've given up on you
the air is thick with what could have been
i learn to breathe accordingly
i will learn to breathe accordingly
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
yay
it was a...mild wednesday night... i was bored... so jocelyn and i decided to play poetry tag... try it sometime!
jocelyn: bravado lingers off my emotions and all i want to do inhale, exhale, breathe it all in.
robin: breathe in smoke like swallowing eggs of eels and coughing up their newborn ghosts
j: hauntings occur more than sunrises and i'm getting used to it setting into my skin
r: i'm getting used to settling into my life like getting ready every morning is a landslide
j: and i be dirty, grungy, filthy, fuck it call me a disaster
r: my respiratory system collapses into windstorms. my bones fold and buckle into earthquakes. there is no richter scale for anatomical breakdowns.
j: the smoke dances in my body like a hurricane, veins crumble as ribcages release flying canaries. this is why the caged bird sings.
jocelyn: bravado lingers off my emotions and all i want to do inhale, exhale, breathe it all in.
robin: breathe in smoke like swallowing eggs of eels and coughing up their newborn ghosts
j: hauntings occur more than sunrises and i'm getting used to it setting into my skin
r: i'm getting used to settling into my life like getting ready every morning is a landslide
j: and i be dirty, grungy, filthy, fuck it call me a disaster
r: my respiratory system collapses into windstorms. my bones fold and buckle into earthquakes. there is no richter scale for anatomical breakdowns.
j: the smoke dances in my body like a hurricane, veins crumble as ribcages release flying canaries. this is why the caged bird sings.
oh my god
i made the conscious decision...to not smoke tonight! and now i can't sleep! my brother, whom i am jealous of, is sound asleep, induced by mj itself. so what the fuck man. i could clean. i could. but i'm not in the cleaning mode at all.
instead i'm texting jocelyn about our favorite animals and colors and how i'm not in the same time zone as her when i sent her 11:11.
lalalala
instead i'm texting jocelyn about our favorite animals and colors and how i'm not in the same time zone as her when i sent her 11:11.
lalalala
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
by request: han
my mother released me from her womb with a heavy sigh
surgical lights illuminated small knots of blood and placenta
the doctors sawed me in two upon sight
shipped one half of me overseas
and flung the last slab of body at my mother
twenty years later i still delicately finger the stitches
grow disgusted, tear open sutures,
paralyzed at the possibility of releasing these scars
koreans call this han
lament
grief
isolation
vengeance
the grandest combination of words is futile
every time i stretch my hand out to the core
it shifts shape evades my grasp turns to smoke
han resonates upon the explosion of mental landmines
historical debris ricochets inside the walls of my skin
scores of independence movements scribbled in our blood
but we've never been free
traded from one sphere of imperialism to another and
another and
another
we are now split, shared
our bodies, disassembled constellations along the 38th parallel
dmz / demilitarized zone
red tendons peeking from vacant limbs like crab meat
our bare ribs smiling, to a glowing hole in the sky called hope
while the resentment hardens inside my chest
slick obsidian replaces blood
i shatter
into a thousand pieces
and come together only to feel out familial scabs
searching for words to record this insufferable ringing locked inside me
our cries are the echolocation of festering wounds that will never heal
writhing, struggling for air that i was never meant to breathe
i am the daughter of grocery store revolutionaries
with the romanticized destiny to be tied in my place
to suffer in silence
but agony bursts through my eyes and drowns every shred of light
even if you ripped out my tongue like a weed
snapped arteries dangling like fresh roots
dripping juice
used them as ribbon to lace my lips shut
i will never be silent
my body lies over the ocean
my body lies over the sea
my body lies over the dmz
bring my body back to me
bring our bodies back to us
strip the mud of our skulls and the crucifixes from our walls
hang up the bones of those who died
in the name of someone else's country so we can pray to something real
we speak of revolutions we know we won't live to see
but we will never stop fighting
surgical lights illuminated small knots of blood and placenta
the doctors sawed me in two upon sight
shipped one half of me overseas
and flung the last slab of body at my mother
twenty years later i still delicately finger the stitches
grow disgusted, tear open sutures,
paralyzed at the possibility of releasing these scars
koreans call this han
lament
grief
isolation
vengeance
the grandest combination of words is futile
every time i stretch my hand out to the core
it shifts shape evades my grasp turns to smoke
han resonates upon the explosion of mental landmines
historical debris ricochets inside the walls of my skin
scores of independence movements scribbled in our blood
but we've never been free
traded from one sphere of imperialism to another and
another and
another
we are now split, shared
our bodies, disassembled constellations along the 38th parallel
dmz / demilitarized zone
red tendons peeking from vacant limbs like crab meat
our bare ribs smiling, to a glowing hole in the sky called hope
while the resentment hardens inside my chest
slick obsidian replaces blood
i shatter
into a thousand pieces
and come together only to feel out familial scabs
searching for words to record this insufferable ringing locked inside me
our cries are the echolocation of festering wounds that will never heal
writhing, struggling for air that i was never meant to breathe
i am the daughter of grocery store revolutionaries
with the romanticized destiny to be tied in my place
to suffer in silence
but agony bursts through my eyes and drowns every shred of light
even if you ripped out my tongue like a weed
snapped arteries dangling like fresh roots
dripping juice
used them as ribbon to lace my lips shut
i will never be silent
my body lies over the ocean
my body lies over the sea
my body lies over the dmz
bring my body back to me
bring our bodies back to us
strip the mud of our skulls and the crucifixes from our walls
hang up the bones of those who died
in the name of someone else's country so we can pray to something real
we speak of revolutions we know we won't live to see
but we will never stop fighting
Sunday, July 19, 2009
#1
Robin
Why are you so negative?
Robin
You shoot your mouth off
Robin
You take shit too personally
Why can’t you just buck up
Grow a sac
Stop being so sensitive
I’m tired of explaining myself
To strangers who refer to themselves as
Family, when they were self-proclaimed
Friends, when they’ve broken the rope one too many times
I know you only care when you have to
Every time an individual strikes a match to my behavior
The tide in my entire body begins to rise
Nervous system goes into overdrive
Synapses snap crackle and pop back and forth
Explanations, marinating in 20 years of stomach
More acidic than ever
Reluctantly resurface
Stronger than ever
They ride the rising sea as it burns
Through physiological landscape
We always have to go to war every time
I know you only care when you have to
I’m tired of them telling me to thicken my skin
Don’t you know I’m without filter
Walking the earth in my own flesh and blood
Which is a lot more than I can say about anyone else
I’m tired of them telling me to thicken my skin
When the color of it has already caused me enough problems
The way I see it
Underneath we are all flesh and blood
I want to be flesh and blood
I want you to know how my body functions
How the tide rises
Where red wire tendons exhale from exhaustion
Where circulatory tubes are clogged with plaque
I want you to see where I’m wounded
Where I’m bleeding
Then you wouldn’t have to ask all these questions
In the name of strengthening friendships
But I know you only care when you have to
I'm tired of turning myself into an anatomical diagram
I'm tired of making myself easy to read and accessible
I am not your science project
They say
We came from the stars
I want to be flesh and blood
Bare red like the sun
No one questions the sun
And why it burns so brightly
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
sneak preview of a piece to come
he begins to circle me
a shark sniffing for blood
and i was born with a wound between my legs
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
i don't carry pens
because i write verses in my phone. but if you ever see me playing on my phone, i'm prolly not texting, but writing.
some digital snippets inspired by tonight's open mic:
1. a peculiar rebellion felt from puffing past innocent bystanders as i suck the white man's dick. i've sucked enough white men's dicks to really know what shame is. i've sucked long and hard enough and learned how to transform pity into grins.
2. stale cigarettes replace fingers that make borders of your body.
3. we were never head above water, just above ground. meant to live out ancestral destinies staining the dirt with our blood. our cells integrating with the earth. and watching dollar signs drink the water from the ground, made delicious and worthwhile by our bones.
some digital snippets inspired by tonight's open mic:
1. a peculiar rebellion felt from puffing past innocent bystanders as i suck the white man's dick. i've sucked enough white men's dicks to really know what shame is. i've sucked long and hard enough and learned how to transform pity into grins.
2. stale cigarettes replace fingers that make borders of your body.
3. we were never head above water, just above ground. meant to live out ancestral destinies staining the dirt with our blood. our cells integrating with the earth. and watching dollar signs drink the water from the ground, made delicious and worthwhile by our bones.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
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