Friday, April 30, 2010

Poem 21 - Bike Wars part 3

Before Benoit Returned to France

Your bare feet this night have seen roof tiles
A cereal box covers your head
Your blood is ninety-eight percent whiskey
You ride your bike like the living dead

You pedal blindly on into a policeman
With Breathalyzer in mouth, you pee on his shoe
He's yelling but you don't hear it through your
Native tongue mutter of f*** you

He gives you a BUI and handcuffs
He holds you in a cell for the whole night
Then next morning urges you out without charges
To ensure that you catch your flight

Poem 20 - Bike Wars part 2

My sweetie and I keep bicycles to ensure a summer rich
We rode out for tea and cakes
But alas she had no brakes
And the passage of our love came to close in a ditch.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Poem 19 - What Sex Does with its Time Off…

What Sex Does with its Time Off…


Being recently released into the world, I realize that I need to budget in order to afford the new york lifestyle, even if that lifestyle involves a crowded apartment with slightly-off-squash-colored walls and nine flights of unavoidable stars. Factored into the finances is a trip to Costco ever few months for a jumbo pack of toilet paper. I purchase the twenty-four pack and walk it twelve blocks on Broadway back to the subway. I understand cars more as obstacles than vehicles in this costly city. I take the N train towards Astoria-Ditmars with the purchase hugged between my knees. And people are staring. Why doesn’t Costco make Costco-sized grocery bags? I’m embarrassed that other people can see how much I go to the bathroom. I’m embarrassed that I like Charmin Ultra-Soft and their cute cuddly bear trademark! I’m embarrassed until I spot a girl at the other end of the train car balancing two boxes of Costco packed Trojans.


I’ve seen many Metro poles danced upon. After high-schoolers are dismissed at the three o’clock bell they make their way to the 7 train at Queensboro Plaza. The girls with black Jordans, faded skinny jeans, risqué spaghetti straps have the train held by their classmates when they hear “Stand clear of the closing doors!” They giggle as they sneak past the sliding doors. And the group stamp their feet and clap along with their chortles as the first ninth grader takes hold of the pole and swings herself around it. With a whistle another takes the tall cold cylinder in her hand and wraps her leg tightly around it. She throws her head back. Boys don’t quite play the same. Between the hours of one and four am I’ve seen them swing by the poles on the ceiling. I’ve seen the drunkards use them to compare their machismo. Holding themselves up on them horizontally or propelling themselves across the car. And even in broad daylight of the morning, there is the occasional couple, stealing a pole all to themselves despite the need of stability by other passengers. He wears a trench coat and she a bright pink dress with a black sheer to match her thick eyeliner and ebony slicked nail polish. They hug one another with the pole between them. His lips kiss her lips, and the pole brushes its chilly lips against both their cheeks. They’re not going anywhere.

Give in
(as much as society will allow without being arrested)

I’m standing at the JMZ station just at the end of Puerto Rico Street. Pacing up and down the platform on a September afternoon. Two Hispanic kids come up the stairs on the opposite platform, both with jelled black hair. One is spikey the other is curly with perfectly straightened bangs. They both wear backpacks without books, but he takes hers off and places it at her feet. So that when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in, he can feel her hamstrings against his quadriceps, her back against his chest, her butt cheeks against his hips. She pulls out her midday snack, McNuggets and starts plucking the up and feeding, hardly admitting interest to the boy. She pops one of the fried birdies into his mouth and he puts his hands on her hips and grinds himself against her in excitement. She does not react, as if this is norm. As if to hump is the mating call and snacking on fast food is how to play hard to get. She continues feeding on nugget after nugget and he pops himself against her backside, thrusting futilely until the train pulls in.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Poem 18 - Balloon Stomach

There is a balloon in my stomach
Air keeps getting pushed into it
I keep expanding

My mom could not afford helium on birthdays
So she would duct tape balloons to the ceiling
At sundown we’d pull the strings
And stretched cake and handle prints would burst
Into little scraps over the gray carpet

The balloon in my stomach does not lift me off ground
And I wonder whether I’ll ever dangle
If I did who will pull me down
Who would pick me up?

Poem 17 - Newton routin translation

Translation of previous poem

a dog says hello
gardening and digging for yogurt secretly
potato farts
rocking out classically
unwanted attention
narcoleptic skydiver
that squirrel is packing
grandpa rides again
owl pride

Poem 16 - Newton routin

This one is a collaboration I did with Kenny.

Newton routin'
Snoot-in boot-in
Fruitin' rootin
Gluten tootin'
Flute'n lutein'
Brute-in' suitin'
Mootin' chutein'
Cute'n shootin'
Coot'n scootin'
Hootin' wootin'

Poem 15 - zombie zebras

The further into this poetry month that I get the more ridiculous my poetry has become. I apologize. I am embarrassed. But I did promise that I'd write the poems each day. I can't always be creative! More than anything I think poetry month just gives you an idea of what I think about regularly...which might have been better left alone off the paper! Oh's too late now...

Zombie Zebras
(yes I only decided to write this poem because I liked the alliteration of the title)

Zombie zebras
can run!
and yet the still
hit trees
at full speed
cheetahs know no better
so they still feed
the stripes and spots
pulse together
the way their hearts
used to beat
and spread red
across the earth tones
of this abandoned safari

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Poem 14

i had a poem about presents here, but i took it down so i wouldn't get in trouble...

Poem 13 - My Student's Secrets

My Students' Secrets

1. On Monday I'm missing class because I'm going to sell flowers with my mom. But don't tell the school because my mom says we'll get in trouble.

2. I don't need to know how to read because someday I'll be a lawyer and have lots of money so I won't have to.

3. Wait, don't tell me, I can do this.

4. This is crazy, you crazy.

5. That's not my father. That's my sister's husband. I know. It's gross, isn't it?

6. Yes, three monsters. No, I can't count.

7. Remember I told you about that boy I liked? Well today he came up to me and told me that he liked me. So I punched him!

8. I like Spiderman.

9. I missed class because my mom had her baby. I'm a big sister now!

10. You're wrong.

11. I've never written a letter before.

12. What's email?

13. Do you use acacia for your face. My friends said that it gets rid of pimples.

14. I like Mexican boys.

16. My favorite place to live is New York.

17. My school is haunted. I know because my teacher said so. She said there was a girl that got raped and killed by the janitor in the bathroom.

18. Another kid got stabbed to death today at my school.

Poem 12 - Last Food Names

If everyone' last name was a type of food
would we all eat what food that we are?
would our character be defined by whether
we ate it or not
would we still bother phrasing
you are what you eat
or what it be an over redundance
would people still lack as much
health-consciousness as our obese do now

what if your last name was a delicacy
or contained an ingredient going extinct
would you go poor or strive to be rich
to accommodate the diet of your name
or grow skinny or find yourself
at the end of your family's line

no, no it wouldn't work unless
you've married and hyphenated
your last name for diversity

Poem 11 - orientation

For [as long as] I’ve known about [sexual choice]
People have requested designation to either one
Side or the other or the interest in bisexuality
Under vague responses peers and parents assume
Wearing baggy shorts and winking at women
I’ve been labeled a lesbian
Being found in boys’ beds with scrambled hair
I’ve been claimed straight
When my lips are first searching they don’t wander
Far from necks and chins and cheeks
And when they’ve struck the smack of their sharing
Lips do not indicate the bearing of male or madame
A mouth merely [matches] another’s mouth
With a blindfold one cannot tell the difference
Without external minds implementing [that] forced tag
I’d like to leave genders alone
And let someone else drive my orientation
Into a bed where pillow cases have crossed
And a single blanket is shared
And my orientation does not lump me into a group
But is titled by the name [of my lover]

Monday, April 12, 2010

Poem 10

i promise i wrote a #10 poem, but honestly i can't post it for the respect of the intimacy of my relationship with the bf. i'll just say that it's about raspberries and let you imagine the rest from there.

Poem 9 - abandoned island items

abandoned island items:

late              airy                                    summer
dress    blooming         like pollen
     pods    squeezing     out     like  a  message
crinkle                 in a glass       cola bottle
                 washed in salty bathwater of ocean
umbrellas caught upside down
   popped open together cheating the origami
game: lantern or lampshade

puddles they run through trampolines
and  sometime  t-shirts   and   trousers
only one providing an inevitable
vertical thrust               claiming itself
the ring of merriment       determining
pants and tees as hollow hung     tents
for the ones with pebbled and sanded skin

the forgotten ones’       skin shades vary
                   depending on the angle of the sun
shards cutting the constant           ly changing territories
as clouds they shift from tree to rock to pool
table settings of salty teacups with only lonely sunrises
           drawing out the flavor of any
semblance of tea
time for the chatter         where   stillness    reigns
all tall tales with the same ending
question:           where does the sun keep its shadow

here rocks are more often thrown at planes
in place             of harsh words for the giant
scraps              of faded paper returned to shore
time and time    again broken frequencies scramble
faster: the red    lizards or blue
striped hummingbirds
gone, gone        like the land octopi and coconuts
frightened or cut away at the dawn
of newcomers and
their noisy treasures and

Poem 8 - I apologize...

NaPo-Writer’s-Mo Block

Nothing is coming

(Sorry this poem is deleted because it really was just that bad!)

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Poem 7


The tree sneezes
and orifices we
hardly noticed
shoot out
white blossoms
each a carefully spun
bundle of tissue
or fresh napkin in a twist
in clusters like a clutch
of balloons

It is catching
and the tree next door
can't hold it in
one moment it is bare
branches of bark like fingers
unmarried unpromised
then -Achoo!-
it wears rings of tussled clouds
white handkerchiefs
collapsed kites
and passes on its spring

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Poem 6 - Kirin ichiban

this has been deleted for potential publication purposes

Poem 5 - Pants Eat Pants

Well this one didn't turn out the way that I wanted to, but I'm posting it anyway because this is my April-month goal. I am not doing any major editing until this whole creation period is over probably. So you'll just have to endure the rough versions for now. Sorry!

Pants Eat Pants

One summer I bought the greatest pants
They liked to stretch! They liked to dance!
And I began to wear them every day
Even the my other pairs would say

“Hey what about us? You’ve got to change
Wearing the same thing all the time is strange
Not to mention they make you smell like you’ve not taken bath
And have the aroma of last night’s noodles that fell in your lap

And do we sniff a hint of the dog’s doody you stepped in on the path?
Why the atrocity of the thing just makes us laugh”
But truth was that my clothes could not smell us
I knew since I’d not worn them that they were just jealous

Our laundry day I switched to my soft cotton pajamas
To clean the greatest pants and silence the others’ drama
But before I could pull them out of the machine
Maybe even before the poor pants could be cleaned

My jeans, shorts, and skirts threw down their zippers and snapped open their buttons
And chased the greatest pants for their super power struttin’
They ate those great pants with their hip-hugging rims
And called for a lint war to wash out the final trims

Yes there was a great battle in that water vortex
And now again I change bottoms each day, all right, who’s next?

Sunday, April 4, 2010

the favorite things

Meetings and suits
Missed lunches
Business dinners
All to end in the late
Arrival at the Marriott

Aching legs and back
Even an aching suitcase
And tired eyes of black type
Across the pages cranking
Out sales points
Level out

Checked into the room
Slide the card
Go on green
Drop bags
Drop pants
Use the newly rinsed
Bowl and sink
While unbuttoning all else

On edge's bed
I catch glimpse of dresser's
Bottom drawer held open
By a cream color cloth jammed

Left behind:
A tote bag containing
A rainbow striped hair clip
In the shape of a heart
A Cherry Merry Muffin doll
With a strawberry skirt
The faint aroma of pound cake
A pair of white ponies
Stars and clouds painted on rears
A blue tutu
Glitter and goo-goo-eyes glued on
Fit for a four-year old

Folding the goodie bag back in
I sigh for day's end
Wondering whether my work
Can even compare
To the brick wall
Before her lost dreams

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Wind instrument

A woman with keys for a bodice
Her legs are a mirroring metronome
Clicking each time they come back to center
Jutting into the air
The blood music, the soul
Rushes to her head
Where she blows through her lips
In time to the clapping skin
Click click click click

gods of gods

Sitting in a deity's stomach
makes the term larger than life
more sensible

She has swallowed the seeds and soil
from her maker's stomach
to build cities, plains, creatures, terrain

Within each breather lies the potential then
for from the deity's stomach may they steal
the seeds to form hybrids and make new life

And so in the bellies of unpraised men and insects
breed new worlds with new indescribables
Skies with textures like bricks, like cream

Mountains which deflate at the sight of blossoms
Fires that tickle the animals' barbed skin

Therefore exist new rulers which stand
larger than known life forming within digestive tracts
thinking not of the lands they possess

So they may roam freely, chaotically
And obliviously find themselves gods

Friday, April 2, 2010

Panty Pranks

Panty Pranks

in an act of free expression
my defiled garments
were left under the influence
of permanent markers
piled in a hot heap
on the tile-trodden floor
of the Laundromat

here is what those pranksters
wrote on my poor panties:

Pink lace boy shorts:
muffin top + doily
sweet spillage

Black & white polka dot bra:
(now with doorknobs)

Floral-patterned granny panties:
insert udder here

White thong:
THE flux capacitor

comfy cotton thong
I believe in magic
Make me disappear

Lavender silk thong:

Baby blue whale briefs:
Rough Seas Ahead

Ribbon-edged sheer:
I’m cheap enough to rip off!

Pin-striped set:
lightning blue thread and bows
Corn or Cob?

Gold ruffles:
Temper Tantrum?
Spank Me!

Cotton rainbow-colored
bikini bottom:
the tunnel to
the land of the unicorns
Beware of Dragons!

Red boyshorts:
Red Rover Red Rover
Send Big Boy on over

Satin triple v string:
Rice Pudding Dispenser

Neon orange and green
heart hiphuggers:
laundry card: $5
bottle of tide: $12.99
new lingerie: $34
your face when you find this: Priceless
ps don’t leave your clothes in the machine
its rude

What those jerks don't realize is that it costs way more than thirty-four bucks to replace an entire set of woman's underwear.

National Poetry Writing Month

April is National Poetry Writing Month and in honor of this I am going to do the poem-a-day challenge. I did it last year and probably only managed to pump out about 15 poems. This year I'm doing it again with a little more ambition! I suppose, the fact that I'm posting April 2nd instead of April 1st for my first entry shows that I'm not too reliable with this one-a-day goal, so I'm going to admit now that it'll be more like an average of one poem a day. It would be more accurate to say that I'll have 30 poems by the end of the month. That is the goal. If you are a fellow poet reading this and want to join in on the quest, let me know! I would love to follow your work as well. And I can also point you to some other great poets that are writing a poem a day as well.