Tag: poetry

I have no door in this body.        

                                                                          I am hammering.

At Home Depot. Wood comes in planks and sticks.

                                                                          I strike right into my count.

I am apologizing at my job.

                                                                         I am grateful for a job.

For these points to go up on my bank’s screen.

                                                                         Every other week.

My video game.                 

                                                                         My level up.

Until my visa ends.

                                                                         Until square one.

So far. So good.

                                                                         This hammering without nailing.

This banging without banging.

                                                                         I have forgotten to eat today.

I haven’t been able to call my mom for a week today.

                                                                         8 hours of sleep. 8 hours of work. 8 hours in blub.

Blur.

                                                                         Don’t forget.

Anyone can enter this body.

                                                                         This body has no knob or lock or clock.

It’s instilled in gape. In muted outcry.

                                                                         In a land named after divide.

I am now more child when child.

                                                                         I mean I am 26 meowing at dogs at Prospect Park.

I mean I am running up to crowds and smiling like some sun. 

                                                                         I mean I am collecting rocks just to throw them back at the surf. 

I mean I am raising my lips to foreheads. My hands to pat heads.

                                                                         I mean I can’t stop blabbering.

I mean I am thirsting.

                                                                         Underneath the bed covers, water falls.

Into a well once a tower sticking its tongue to blue sky.

                                                                         This body lips image. Until.

Gentle and full. Until.

                                                                         Quenched.

This is the age of anticipation everybody is talking about, when something is about to happen
that hasn’t even happened yet, and the walls are lined with chairs, there’s a chair next to the
door, on either side of the door where you’re waiting together with everybody else, waiting for
the door to open or waiting for the door to close so you can open it, waiting next to each other, as
if it’s something you earn by waiting—it’s actually happening while you wait, like a delivery
that’s on the way, even though there’s no way of tracking it.  I mean it’s not an accomplishment,
it doesn’t require any effort, not at all, the only effort is in not waiting, the longer you wait the
longer it takes—they’d like you to know it’s easy, like a container that fills up by itself, if it
hasn’t happened it’s only because you’re still waiting, you haven’t finished waiting, it’s the only
possible interpretation.  You don’t even know how long you’re going to wait until you’re not
waiting anymore.  Of course, as long as you wait you’d like to think you’re waiting for
something, waiting to get in, waiting for your turn, like a nervous bird on a perch, waiting until
it’s time, if you’re not getting anything out of it what are you actually waiting for?  You’re
waiting to find out.

thought I had willpower but it   fizzled  away
a pink effervescent tablet,
my dreams became shape-shifters, I let myself want 
what I would see, my ambition
filled my palms and i tucked it between my ribs

I decided to write a long poem, an epic with few line breaks 
that takes up the space my body couldn’t
next to students that were chosen in the yearbook
“most likely to actually be Clark Kent”

I didn’t want to own my story anymore, so i decided to forget 
my face     I watched the Breakfast Club to enter the Teenage Dream:
because happiness is 
a choice  am I right, Ladies?

in an alternative universe, tonight
I became a Man-genius,
feeding chicken pot pie to my pet chicken and writing fiction
I got rid of my makeover-girl glasses and became a Man-genius, 
whose careless youth and potential let him get away.

I never had a gun-pulling contest in kindergarten, nor a cowboy friend— 
if I had One,
They could’ve taught me how to be all grab-and-take-and-don’t-give-back
and they would give me generic advice:
“be yourself” and I would 
listen, before each word I wouldn’t 
give a pause to make sure they’re the right words
model child, “you’re my Number One girl” words,

            I will choose
to touch  My face to remind myself, that, yes
these stress pimples, dried  bitten lips, these eyes
all belong to me at the end

            sometimes I have to work even harder
to remind myself that underneath these puddles and hair there’s a heart,
beating like ice in a food processor, cracking and thumping against the walls
and my ribs remind me of wings &        
                       I  believe  for a split second
if I tried really hard, 
I could float over rows of suburban houses & cone shaped trees & 
family cars, like the  fading  actor  in that film some years ago.

when it was just a flu in china i should have held her
longer    bite-sized chocolate geshmakt   microwaved eggs
zeigezint    there are still a few good things

   persian rice xanax phish at the garden
   hot pizza grilled cheese empty beaches
   cacti cold apples grandma on the other
   end of the phone

when I woke up the saccharin headache had faded

strawberries red-ripe in the fridge