Sorry, Mom Productions Medley

Thanks to the musicians who played at the Sorry, Mom Productions party tonight and whose words, in parts of this piece, I've borrowed -- credit goes to Flower and Man Up, Yancey.

---- ---

Every word speaks                                     to your skin.
Every.           word.                I,           utter
is guaranteed. To      miss
                                                                                 something.



hindsight                       beats 20/20
             and i fucked    up
as i often do

i was born with all the angst               of the 90s
                                               and if i were born a decade earlier
my suffering might have meant
                                                                              something.

i. stopped. hating (myself)
          so i can stay

a little longer

...vinyl tomorrow

                                                       he's from the east side
she's from the west, when they
                                         press reset
they know they'll
never              get                        rest

thought i saw a rainbow
                just the oily remains                       a car
already passed                  by           their fingers strumming
like hooks                 stretching              at strings
unseen                               i'll educate you
in police brutality
                           And the selfishness
of the life you
    didn't use
                          And i decide the rain

which leads me on my way

we're so focused on who we're becoming

we never discover who we are today.

--- ---

dig me shallow

---

mourn me with shallow roses
do not dig so deep
that the memory of me cannot be heard
above the Boston gusts
that rush through skyscrapers and ancient
courthouses with speeches
inscribed like the poetry I tried to tell you
would keep you
when I was gone. bury me
not so far to
forget the wind chimes of a thousand perfect
vowels and
adjectives erased for the perfect word
to describe my happiness
the first time you moved me into sadness
so much it hurt
so deep it cut to reveal my heart
no longer encumbered
by the broken seal it once had felt

---

Needing

---

i shan't
i can't
i won't

i want

---

Etch and Sketch

----

In writing, build the scaffolding
but once it leads you where to go
tear it down.

There is nothing but autobiography
what stories do we tell but our own?

he was a Megabus lifer, she could tell;
he wore baggy pants 
that could be stripped off easily
if it got too hot
and pulled on quickly if it
ever cooled
he had a subway six-inch
that once was
a footlong; Mountain Dew and
fogged glasses
and one of those way-too-expensive
pillows attached
like melted skin to his neck
the tattoo
of the well-traveled.

she didn't think too much of him
who thinks on a bus
of anyone other than them?
but then his was
the only empty seat left and
he moved, apologetically, but spoke:
"Yeah, I still don't know how
to show people who I really am?"
she stammered -- what an odd thing
to say to a complete stranger -- but ahh
when she looked closer
she saw the white Apple earphones
crisis averted, and he
noticed her, and he
mouthed an
apology.

outside
a car sped past them
its lights blaring doom
to the Honda
ahead of
them

eventually, she
got the story out of him:
he was once in love
and though that was long gone
he still rode buses
to remind himself

their relationship
was an etch and sketch
of overnight bus routes
creating and erasing
the distance between them
in sleepless East Coast strokes.

Lincoln in 2015

--

i see Washington's pointed spear
in reflection at your knees
as goes the victor's history
your memory enshrined forever
in mute caskets of nearby cemetery
your rightward foot carved in marble
your knuckled fist clenched in power
your tight pursed mouth
your eyes so solemn
four score and seventeen years ago
this whole world lit up in fire
do you weep as they
erect statues to your sword
but not your silver tongue?

--

This Is Your Poet Speaking

---

And there's the city
And here the people
Dancing on your fingernail
For a breath you're above it
And suddenly landed, you
Return to dust
As surely as you ever were
Falling you rose up

---

Organ Donor

i am all faults and tissue
one more than the other
remember that
when you come to excavate
all the good that is left in me

#snapchat

this fog that lingers on the lake

perfectly still, forming salt

pillars gazing back at the sky

remembering what they left behind

don't mind if I take this snapchat

and paint copies of you

there are no originals

except this, these

will have to do

The Dream We All Dream But Can't Admit

---

i laid in bed
and closed my eyes
and dreamed of sleep
the sweetest dream
one can have
while wide awake

---

New Glasses

---

i looked up
it was 6 pm
And i saw the moon
rising again
And smiled
Because this time
i could see
everything
each crevasse
and imperfection
It was the first time
i saw the moon
for what it was

(beautiful)

--

Photokeratitis

And if you squinted you could see
A couple walking distantly
Like figments of a fog

Their haloes wrapped concurrently
Beneath a bearded, wizened tree
They spoke of love so mystically
The breeze it settled instantly
As if in raptured pause

Throughout their moonwalk melodies
The sun did shine so splendidly
Oh dream oh heart oh ecstasy
The world passed by so quietly
Hear birds allowing you to me
Oh God it hurts so much to be
The sacrosancht melancholy
Of being half a whole

And while they spoke the scenery
Did curl up in a winter freeze
And shriveled up its ancient leaves
Then headed to the coast

And if you squint today you'll see
The sun-blind spot of memory
A couple walking distantly
Like figments of what was
They faded just because

One of Those Nights

i had one of those nights
you know those nights

just thought one glass of wine

nights, only meant another

nightcap nights but

i’ve been out here two months 

and haven’t been out

and they’re gathering 

in the kitchen 

roommates

i haven’t met yet but

they invite me along for

one of those nights

which is how I ended up

discussing morality

with the Canadian kid

origins are a funny thing

from Alberta, but really from

Pakistan, at least, his 

parents (have you been,

awful place, Pakistan is,

he says) and I agree

that we are not

where we are
from. Would you
blow up the bridge
or the baby?

so it was

that type of night

one of these nights

i’ll wake up

refreshed and alone

you’ll have 

wrapped my skin

in a mannequin

and left me

to admire

the moonlight again. 

---- 

Another Night in September

My untied shoe
The broken pipe
My half-smoked cigar
The gushing water
My unfinished article
The trickling street
My faint shadow
The beauty of it all

I walked away
and returned
it was gone

Exposure

she was good because she felt

i felt bad because i didn't

we remember such things

when leaves change and

we notice the cracks in

sidewalks again, when

we look down more

(look up)

the sun is a cursor

it leads to the Potomac

where she floats

naked and burnt

i’m trembling to touch

and i reach out

and the water is wine

and then blood

we remember such things

i, remember, this thing

still, she floats

Reading

hold me

at the corner

of a page

in that moment

before turning

pause

just a second

and wonder

what happens 

when you leave 

one

for another

and you forget

the words 

to move on

pause

before you do

and wonder

if you are 

ready

to make

this page past

pause

just a second

before turning

that moment

of changing

from present

to past

to future

pause

(and turn)

--- 

The Point of it All (or Sexy, Sexy San Francisco)

The Point of it All (or Sexy, Sexy San Francisco)

so maybe the point isn’t 

in bays of San Francisco sex

wrapped around the great

Treasure Island of Human Waste

where you can see the lights

of bridges leading always to the other

city across another bay

Oakland’s magnanimous display

west black east brown middle white

the most fucked-up Oreo in sight

but at least it’s diversity

(when women say they’re diverse

my Chinese-Filipino friend says 

they should not want to “die-first”) 

but that’s beside the point 

that isn’t in bays of San Francisco sex

that I imagine tastes something like

sweet, sticky, buttery 

chocolate strawberries 

dripping syrup down my 

all-you-can eat pancakes

that spell San Francisco sex

as religious as Sunday brunch

---- 

Consciousness

---

sitting in a Sydney ashram
chanting soar-throated psalms;
     Hare Krishna
     Hare Krishna
his holiness Ghanashyam asks us
to call him shyam for short;
     Krishna Krishna
     Hare Hare
the soul leaves, the body replaced
by another by the scent of your soul
     Hare Rama
     Hare Rama
like rose petals to roses
like shit to glorious shit
     Rama Rama
     Hare Hare
repeat these sacred words
a hundred-and-eight times
still don't know what they mean
that's okay because divinity
doesn't need me to be divine
it just is
all things surrounding
that is
all things and me
     Hare Krishna
     Hare Krishna
animals without karma
men with karma
until they fuck it lost
and become animals
until they do
their time
and are reborn as men
to fuck it again
     Krishna Krishna
     (Sorry Sorry)
I'm not being present
(presence the divine)
(presence the sanctuary)
I'm thinking of my rosary
and how I fucked it lost

and Lesian
the sahri-eyed individual
fed on raw carrots and almond milk
bred patricide from swollen womb
lactose intolerant to the gluten-free
mother goddess to the veganities
like Joel Osteen on Sunday morning
even Australia can't escape
the great American dream

---

Tanning

Tanning

she used to wear bracelets
so many they eclipsed her thin wrist
and pinched my skin at night
as I kissed to kill
time so delicate it bruised purple
under the moonlit window with
the dead roses; I forgot
to throw them out
and now it's too late
because it's been two years
she doesn't wear bracelets anymore
she took off the waterproof watch
so I can't ask her the time
she was tired of the marks they left
when the sun painted her skin
but stripped her wrists pale

Acclimating

Acclimating

the first rule of diving: breathe
slowly in, slowly out
or you'll rise
and expand
and eventually
POP! like a balloon
soaring
too high
too fast

i feel i've forgotten (how) to breathe
it's not so easy to forget
i feel i did
your stones in my pocket
don't skip more than twice
and i'm surfacing
heavy and high
passing my bubbles
(a bad sign)

i awake above the waves
my ear drums blasted
in salt, and
teary-eyed
fumble
into the coral shore
not noticing
my bleeding soles

Boarding Pass

 Boarding Pass

What is this feeling? 
As if loving you 
set my heart into a turbine pit 
All gasping, burning, fiery, 
You are the runway set on a seaborne cliff - 
forgive me if I close my eyes 
from time to time 
to feel the thrust 
of my soul in my chest 
And my fingers clutching firmament 
that's never really there

Awakening

 Awakening

I woke as if someone had punched me

rubbed my hand against my raw cheek

swollen and numb as a dream

that I had chewed my insides out

with each sleepy grin

and spat out the meaty parts

of me that felt wrong, out of

suit, cardboard and thick

with saliva and regret

leaving craters,

they think it might be wisdom

teeth finally pushing apart,

as if to say, “enough, is

enough,” you

are twenty-three

it is time we

came out.