A Streetlight Anomaly

Smarts Is Smarts

2011-06-10T20:24:00.000-07:00

It’s easy for these fellas to be smart, I used to think. They can talk about their Shakespeares and their thermodynamics. Us normal folk just stand and nod. Those facts could be right. They could be wrong. We’d never know. Words is words.

One day, I thought, “why can’t I?” I got looks. I got manners. My mom taught me well enough.

So I decided I’d try. I went to a café where the walls were shelves of books. I got talking to this professor fella. Glasses and a coat with leather elbows. He was talking some such about space.

I said, “Why, of course,” and, “I wholeheartedly agree.” He smiled. He spoke more about the stars and bursting suns and the pull of the moon. I nodded and acted like I understood. I suppose I did. After all, words is words.

He stopped and said, “I’ve never met such an astute, capable man quite like yourself.” He took out one of them smoking pipes. He put some tobacco in, lit it with a match, and slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

Boy, he looked smart.

I said, “You flatter me, sir.”

He smiled through those glasses. “Say, why don’t you come by later. I’m having a bit of a get together. Just a nice little soiree. I’ve invited some other professors, scientists, doctors, people you are probably quite familiar with.”

I said I’d come by later. He gave me a bit of yellow scrap with his address on it. He said, “Well, until then, adieu,” and walked out of that little café.

That’s how things started. It was easier at the party. Smarts is easy when you’re surrounded by it. Just stand straight, look them in the glasses, and say broad things. Things like, “I agree,” “That’s remarkable,” and “I heard about it. How is it, exactly?”

And they kept at it. Words is words. They probably knew that, though.

I wanted to stop, but that professor kept inviting me. He was a good fella. His smoke smelled good. His glasses was so happy. The drinks poured out like rivers. The food was delicious. I didn’t know what I was eating most of the time, but the smart people ate so I did too.

There were girls at the parties, too. Pretty ones. Some wore glasses, and I liked those kinds. They was fun to talk to. I acted smart and they’d laugh and smile and then they’d be on me.

Fucking smart girls was nice. They would say things the whole way through. One girl moaned calculations and formulas out loud. One mapped stars and constellations on her body. One girl recited a poem from some German writer, and then the poem turned into a song as she came.

The girls would always whisper, “Brilliant…” and then fix their glasses. Boy, they were pretty.

That’s how I became a smart person. The fellas liked to talk and eat and drink and laugh. The ladies liked that and fucking. I could only oblige.

Then I thought I’d bring new people like me. I’d teach them how to be and what to say.

I taught a few. They taught others. Before I knew it, the parties were full of us.

That professor fella got happier and happier. His glasses was shinier than stars. The girls all had these sneaky looks, like they wanted to laugh and throw bricks into windows.

People talked more. I’d like to think I learned some. I learned about solar systems and art and formulas and that German writer. I bought a pipe and smoked it with my hand in my pocket.

I could tell who the newer people were. One fella would say, “I heard about it. How was it?” “I heard it was remarkably astute,” another would respond.

But words is words. They’ll learn that.

science fiction pt. 2: The Black Hole

2011-06-07T21:46:00.001-07:00

After watching the end of the world, my friend and I ventured into space. The moon was boring. It was too gray for me. I needed black and white. Maybe some red.

My friend agreed. “Bring the Hot Pockets,” he said.

We were strapped into the shuttle. Our spacesuits were upgraded and ready. We looked like robots or space plants. Plants look like metal in space. At least that’s how I imagine it.

My friend was silent. I didn’t know where we were headed. He had his course set. Things were smooth.

Everything was smooth. The shuttle, our space suits, the space outside.

I looked out the lone window. I wondered if the stars were the inside and we were the outside. In space, things tend to get turned up and over and all around.

In some amount of time, we arrived. It was a black hole. From a gray moon to a dark black. A collapsed star where no light escapes.

I thought we would stop, but we headed straight into the black hole.

“No one knows what happens in a black hole.” I read that in a book once.

The truth is nothing happens, and everything happens.

I heard sounds. Clattering, pops, footsteps, dust drops, and everything else. I heard the most beautiful music. But I was deafened by silence.

I smelled daisies, lilacs, violets, flowers I didn’t even know. But my nose was flooded with the clean, sterile white of hospital rooms.

True, light doesn’t escape black holes but neither does darkness.

After some time, we were spit back into space. Or maybe we were swallowed by space.

Here we are now. The shuttle floats. We float in its guts.

My friend hasn’t said a word in days, months, maybe years. I know he’s alive. He always searches for those Hot Pockets. “Where are they?” he’d ask. “Just keep looking,” I tell him. I forgot to pack them.

I don’t like what his eyes tell me. Inside his corneas is a nonchalance. The corners show disappointment. If I look into his pupils, I see myself, wrapped in dough and drowning in tomato sauce. My arm is wrapped in teeth.

I want to say, “This is just science fiction.” I want to tell him.

But I’m not much of a scientist.

And who’s to say this is fiction?

science fiction pt. 1: The Friend

2011-06-06T21:53:00.000-07:00

He came to me the other night. He asked, "Do you want to see the end of the world?"

"Sure," I said. I was curious.

We took the first rocket. Our space suits were flimsy and fragile. They masked everything. He never saw the fear or wonder in my eyes. He never saw the happiness.

His suit fit him perfectly in all the right places. Mine was a size too large or a size too small. It's hard to remember.

We reached the moon in minutes. I took my first step. I was weightless. I was taken by the nothingness and black of it all.

The moon itself was gray and dull. It was devoid of romantic misconceptions. It was what it was.

We stared up at Earth. He looked at his watch. He wanted popcorn and snacks.

I wasn't hungry. Every movement showed anxiety. Every step showed anticipation and excitement. He stood calm. He would have been smirking. At least that's how I imagine it.

We watched the Earth become nothing but grains of salt, sand, and tuna fish. It was quieter than I'd expected. No explosions or asteroids or giant lizard creatures. One minute it was there. Then it wasn't.

He laughed. I could hear it in my head. And I understood. I understood why he wasn't shaking as much as I was. I understood why his suit fit. I understood his lack of fear.

He had seen the Earth become nothing before. Maybe multiple times.

We're still on the moon, eating tuna fish. "Do you want to see everything become whole again?" he asks.

I say, "sure." I'm curious. Part of me even believes things will be whole and the Earth will be there again.

But that's what friends are for.

2011-05-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

I submitted. It was like pro-wrestling.

My weight mixed with gravity.

I crumpled. I was smushed

into carpet. From there, I

wasted away. I saw the ceiling.

I saw the stars. They blinked

at me. Curiosity grew but

I didn't have the strength.

Constellations passed one

by one. The sky was my

circus. Orion, the Big Dipper,

a crab and a bear. My hair

and nails grew. The dirt stuck

in my skin. My bones became

dense and then hollow. I shed

my skin as I stood finally.

I floated into the sky. The night

took my amber bones

and covered them in ink.

2011-05-17T22:41:00.001-07:00

They handed me a pamphlet

that promised all the secrets

of the world.

It was six pages

front to back

and as big as two matchbooks

glued together.

They said six pages was

enough to tell the story.

I read every other word

There was no mention of

the curve of her hips or

vanilla ice cream on a slice

of blueberry pie or

picking apples redder than

her face after wine

and a kiss.

I didn't make it to the

prayer at the end.

I crumpled it up.

It landed in the garbage,

atop the picture of the woman

with her breasts out and

the expired coupons.

2011-05-15T22:22:00.000-07:00

This time of night,

he never used lights.

He walked into the bathroom.

The shades were drawn,

just allowing a few lines

of moon when the wind blew.

He didn't know what color

the toothpaste was, though

he'd know in the morning.

It tasted like peppermint candies.

He turned on the tap

and guessed at the water,

rinsing his mouth and splashing

his face. The soap made his face

look ghostly if he could see it

in the mirror. He washed it

away.

He had removed his shirt

in the four strides between

the bathroom and the patio.

At the sliding door,

he placed his hand on the glass

to feel the cold. From outside,

no one could see his lower half.

His hand dropped to his side.

The frost made moons where

his fingers had been.

He moved into the bedroom,

lied in his bed, and thought

on his unintentional celibacy.

2011-05-10T22:01:00.000-07:00

When you look into smoke

as it gathers in front of a lamp,

it looks like any other breath.

Both are carried up by the wind.

They end up somewhere in clouds.

An airplane passes by. A child

stares out the window,

a few inches of acrylic, and

falls asleep. For a moment

his hair brushes the smoke

or breath that once came

from your lips, which are

raspberry in the city light.

2011-05-09T22:34:00.001-07:00

The morning walk

to the bookstore

is always nice. I

enjoy my coworkers.

I write when I'm

not working, and when

I'm not doing that,

I play in a band

with my friends.

I'm the type of

writer who spells

it "cigarets".

I smoke a pipe

for the sweet

smoky taste.

I pound it against

my shoe, like they

do in the movies

those experienced

men with their

Oxfords and suits.

My flat is white

and green. I wake

up to a face

belonging to a girl

I love. It's scary

how much I love

her. She reads my

words and hears

me when I talk.

Sundays, I spend

all day with friends

that live a walk

away. We eat and

drink and talk even

though we saw each

other just yesterday.

The girl gets along

with all of them

and they all love

her. But not as

much as I do.

I sleep every night

without tossing

or turning. In a

perfect world,

I don't have a

perfect world.

2011-05-03T22:26:00.000-07:00

When I hear a piano and a girl singing

I think of spring.

Petals open and dance in the wind.

Dotted lines move from flower

to flower,

delivering wordless messages.

I hear tiny wings

zipping against cloud blues.

Grassy hills smell of lemons and mint

tumbling head over heels.

I can see the wind and I speak into it.

The flower dust tells me.

I hope it carries the right words.

You should be here to share this

with me.

2011-05-02T22:09:00.000-07:00

The spider clings to the wet cloth,

which hangs on a plastic hook

stuck to the tiles with closed air.

Only twelve minutes awake

I balance on feet still asleep

feeling the shake of water.

My eyes close in a way of

remembering. My shoulders

are wet and ache.

They open and land on the spider

dancing up and down the cloth.

I'm not sure what kind it is.

Every brown spider is a recluse.

Every black spider is a widow.

I think it should be dipped.

I turn the water off.

I decide not to be a murderer

for one morning.

2011-05-01T22:53:00.000-07:00

"Is this the life I wanted to lead?"

I think as my head digs into a pillow.

My mind lands on a country scene.

A villa, colored peach in the sun,

sits with its legs crossed atop a hill.

The grass is greener than it should be allowed.

One side of a hill is scraped

by a patch of tilled land.

I park my red scooter by the villa.

It looks like a cherry stuck into sorbet.

I call out a girl's name and hear a quick answer

from inside.

We embrace and kiss.

Her dress is white with a blue flower pattern.

It floats up and touches my fingers

I smile because I can't help myself.

Her neck smells like flour, sugar, and cinnamon.

Inside is cool but bright.

I stretch my arms out of habit

and land face down on our couch.

I hear laughter and turn my head

to see her in the kitchen.

The window casts a spotlight on her.

I pick up a book and turn the page

to where I left off.

The pages smell like her fingers

mixed with lemons.

I know this because she curls up

right next to me.

My eyes open to pitch black.

Sprinklers hiss outside.

A dog cries from someone's patio.

Is this the life I want to lead?

2011-04-28T23:34:00.000-07:00

He once had a straight back. Tall, slim, shoulders wide. Overall superb posture. The attraction was seen less in the mirror and more in the glinting eyes of the girls in class and on campus.

The world changed him. Years gradually passed. He shut himself in more and more. He forgot the feeling of open doors. confined in a single room, then a single corner. His back curled into itself. Hunched shoulders that nearly touched each other. Bones jutted from every part of his body like pelicans clambering through bits of cloud.

His muscles tied into hard knots like tree roots made of baked clay. Sleeping felt much like lowering a contortionist into a small cardboard box. Except that might have felt comfortable.

His bones molded together. He resembled a bag of feathers.

One day, he separated. He floated away.

2011-04-26T22:18:00.000-07:00

Slammed against the wall, she panted.

This would have been hot, she thought. But he was speaking in that language she couldn't understand. She wished she could learn that tongue just by tasting his sweat lining his lips, but it was still nothing. Empty words scattered with a salty flesh.

His words seemed to stick onto her and all around her, forming around her body, squeezing into her and grasping her throat. Something between a caress and a choke. The walls seemed to smear with his words, slowly at first, like thick paint mixed into a white clay. She could imagine his handprints pressed into the words drying on the walls, the patterns in his palms like snakeskin but his fingerprints like smooth seashells warmed against a rising tide.

The words seemed to come faster, quicker. They were dripping from the walls and ceiling now, like strawberry preserve mixed spilled into ocean water. And then just the ocean water. She could see the salt drying, star-like.

They finished and he began speaking normally, in the words she'd known since childhood, but she still barely understood.

2011-04-24T22:57:00.000-07:00

Playing it by ear, the blind musician plucked gently at the gelatin strings of his guitar, funneling his passionate, incredulous heart into a single four inch-wide hole.

The passersby ignored his quiet pleas as he strummed a tune that he remembered hearing one autumn day, when the crickets suckled against ripe apples fallen into the debt-soaked dirt, the faint shadows of sparrows and hawks crawling through grassy shade, enveloping the little boys cries as he found the baseball he had been searching for until that moment.

Our musician coughed, kerchief in hand as he ignored the plum-colored drip and continued the strumming, continued the ignorance as women continually dug into his bare ankles with their clacking high heels.

"Good morning," he said to the prettiest girl he'd seen.

2011-03-20T16:22:00.001-07:00

the wind chimes fell
against the door frame
the same symphonies
as the children battling
glass soda bottles
with metal spoons

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Knitting and Patching - Chapter 2

2011-03-10T21:40:00.000-08:00

when I saw him I didn't know I saw him at first because I was putting my socks in the brown drawer and I saw something black that I thought was my shadow but it was him

I think I should have been scared

he was a shadow and didn't say anything when he saw me and I saw him just staring at me and then he was gone

then I saw him in my sleep but I had my eyes closed but I saw him and felt his breathing on my ear and he told me things

he used to be my dad and then he wasn't because he ate a rifle while he pulled the trigger and then his face was the wall and the wall was brain mush

he told me about mom and how he loved her but also didn't love her at the same time

I asked him if he had been happy but his shadow just shrugged and stared and kept on staring while I did my homework or napped so maybe he was happy or maybe he wasn't but now he was a shadow

at first he only came every so often at night but then he hung around more and more and then more until he was always around like when I peel oranges and the juice gets under my nails and all I can smell is oranges no matter how long I put my hands under the tap

he didn't say much aside from telling me about the gun and the wall but then he said more things about other guns and other walls in other countries

so I told mom about him and she was surprised and I don't think she believed me at first or ever but she did mention something about bacon down the drain which made me laugh but then she got mad and sent me to my room with no dinner even though I hate bacon

he was harmless in the beginning and only came sometimes and only stared with his shadow eyes and maybe I should have minded and then he started doing things

it started on a tuesday night I think because that's when we have spelling and I remember seeing my spelling sheet on the refrigerator and it had "Excelent!" written on it in red and I was washing dishes at the sink but I didn't need to use soap on this one plate I was washing because it just looked like some oil but it was too red to be oil and I didn't feel any hurts in my hands or anywhere else but then I saw the fork and then on the ground where the rat was with one of its back legs still moving when I heard a grunt from a corner shadow but then mom came in and saw things and yelled with this look in her eyes like when one of the neighborhood cats caught our favorite bird and I was thinking about the "Excelent!" the whole time and the number of red colors in the world

that happened a lot with more rats and some birds and crawly things for mom to find

they were like gifts or pranks and maybe it was supposed to be funny, and it would have been funny except it wasn't and mom definitely didn't think so because she yelled at me all the time and I was always in my room where the shadow whispered to me and the walls

and then the thing that used to be my dad made lots of noises like whispers, whispering my mom's name and then leaving a bird in the living room and mom would be pale and sit in her chair a lot and knit things and mutter to herself and jump when she thought she saw things that weren't even there

mom didn't believe me and I would tell her but she wouldn't believe so I would end up in my room and a shadow would whisper to me

Knitting and Patching - Chapter 1

2011-03-04T12:23:00.000-08:00

It began out of simple curiosity.

My lovely son, Alex, was born with that quality, always so bright and curious and questioning, exploring every minute fact and ellipsis in his text books.

The boy loved to read. He'd often curl up under the glow of that yellow lamp with a hardbound book dipped into the sepia of times past, while I sat at my favorite chair, knitting and knitting away. I would smile to myself as I saw him turning the pages of some Dickensian fantasy, delving deeper and deeper into a complex factory of turning gears and rusted hinges.

"Oh dear..." he said one night. His eyes remained glued to the pages, still translating phrases.

"What is it, m'dear?" I replied in mock concern accompanied by a slight teasing smile, the kind reserved for inquisitive children and Alzheimer's patients.

Alex went into a long explanation of the plot. A man charged with murder, a chase, a shootout with the police, a narrow escape, all culminating in the man being buried alive. He was most concerned with that last plot point. He spoke on and on, long into the night about being locked inside a cramped coffin and covered over in tons and tons of dirt, sweating, panicking, suffocating...

Burial in media res.

---

Alex's father, Thomas, was a troubled man whom I supposed I loved at some point. The drinks-more-than-he-speaks type with the habit of smoking in the shower.

The stench of those cigarettes I'll never forget. Walking into the bathroom, still steaming and misty, only to be greeted by the odor of tobacco rolled into an aged, rotting pork, a smell that only carried over to the bedroom. His sweaty body lying atop mine reminded me of the time I had left some deli meats on the thermostat for four days. I would hear him snoring before either of us came close to orgasm.

Blunt, passionless. Just like his cigarettes.

---

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that one night. Alex was eight, reading one of his mystery novels while I knitted a deep magenta scarf. The crescent moon outside was perfect, the kind of moon you don't forget, and our stomachs were still warm with a meaty stew and arugula salad.

As suddenly as a clearing fog, Alex asked "how did he die?".

He was staring at the wall covered in framed photos, the wall that had been plastered Thomas's brain matter and bone fragments.

I had been out getting groceries with an infant Alex when Thomas decided enough was enough and committed himself to the trigger of his hunting rifle. The smell of rancid bacon took months to vacate that wall.

I paused before answering Alex, mabe too long. Something I couldn't explain kept me from telling him the truth, something I couldn't explain. The smell, the lack of passion, the fact that I had never cum during our entire relationship.

How did he die?

"Well, dear, your father was a sailor. He shipped goods on a big ship. Fabrics and meats, in fact. Yes, that's it! But one stormy night, his ship was overtaken by the waves. The ship, and the crew, including your father, were all lost at sea, blasted to bits. Your father drowned, like being buried alive but with the ocean instead of dirt."

Alex stared at me with his head slightly tilted. Maybe too long.

"I know this is terrible news to hear, especially so late..."

"Drowned?"

"Yes, dear. I'm sorry, I should have told you before..."

The heater clicked on in the vents.

Alex was thinking. I could see the cogs turning behind his eyes.

"What is it, dear?"

"Well, that's not what he told me."

2011-02-26T16:22:00.000-08:00

I've been working on a horror story. It has talking ghosts and a flamboyant mummy.

I'll be posting chapters in here as I finish. In the meantime, you should read some of Roald Dahl's short horrors or purchase Joey Comeau's One Bloody thing After Another. Of Roald Dahl's stories, I quite like "The Landlady".

2011-02-04T00:44:00.001-08:00

You put it at the lowest possible, still audible volume and stretch your ears to listen to the deadest of silences.

It's the same sound as the beer bottle graveyard, lined up across the headboard of the bed for the past few months.

2011-02-04T00:40:00.000-08:00

"my, my

what big teeth

you have"

the boy said

shaking the jar

filled with

someone's grin

2011-01-25T01:24:00.000-08:00

neither poet

nor musician

merely curious

2011-01-25T01:22:00.001-08:00

surrounded by bottles

the illuminating fear

that this might not be far

from what the future holds

2011-01-25T01:21:00.000-08:00

clack clack

a brother finds a habit

fingernails embedded

in teeth

clack clack

2011-01-25T01:20:00.000-08:00

digging away

figuring out the roots

to understand

how the fruit will bloom

2011-01-25T01:19:00.000-08:00

trust

lost as quickly

as a grade school trumpet

sold in his sleep

2011-01-25T01:18:00.002-08:00

petitioning with himself

he decides to let her go

to explore his own road

for now

2011-01-25T01:18:00.001-08:00

dog scratches

behind her neck

destroys the fleas' family

2011-01-24T11:09:00.000-08:00

wrinkled sheets

the buzz in the room

sleep is for the troubled

2011-01-19T17:16:00.000-08:00

walls drenched in

lamplight

fading dreams

consciousness

like a full moon

creeping

Movie Review

2011-01-19T17:15:00.000-08:00

"She was trying

to find perfection"

said the overweight man

with his shoes untied.

2011-01-18T23:41:00.001-08:00

have you ever held your breath

while staring into an aquarium?

pretending to be one of them

floating perpendicular

afraid of bubbles

licking at your gills

slicing through kelp and salt

with a dull knife point

except I could never

hold my breath for long

so then the little ones would eat me

bit by bit

until I was just another smear

in the blue glass

2011-01-18T23:33:00.001-08:00

no need to be unapologetic

her legs spread into

a simple arrow

the pounding in her head

was actually coming from

her upstairs neighbors

dust falling against

her red knuckles

the smell of carrot cake

somewhere across the wood floors

her fingernail polish had chipped

she laughed

thought of her brother's

action figures

the one that was an infantryman

with the body connected

by a hook and string

"yes, sir" it would say

yessir

2011-01-18T23:22:00.000-08:00

untamed

the head lifted from

the car seat

wading through the lights

sorting out

the unfamiliar colors

his throat clears

and asks "have

you ever loved someone

enough

...?"

the bare handprints

on the glass

remained silent

pressed into his

aching forehead

dripping in the city's

arctic glow

Growing Up

2011-01-15T22:11:00.000-08:00

applying

interviewing

by phone

interviewing

in-person

not for

a girl

for once

Sleepless

2011-01-15T22:09:00.000-08:00

rough sleep

because I don't have

you

to dream about anymore

2011-01-12T23:29:00.001-08:00

it's one of those nights

where I'm not sure

if I should be sad

or happy

2011-01-12T23:28:00.001-08:00

a bleak crack

perhaps luck

is turning

Rêver de Classe de la Français

2011-01-11T11:29:00.000-08:00

Forgetting what little

French I had learned,

it was just a classroom

full of students

talking with their lips

---

I've slowly been exposing myself to French music and culture, which is, I suppose, beginning to seep into my dreams. I took three years of the language back in high school but that's all gone and past. I'd really like to learn French to a point of fluency. Some day.

2011-01-10T00:11:00.000-08:00

missing your smile

I try to remember

exactly how it looked

and realize too late

that I've forgotten

how to do that

too

2011-01-10T00:08:00.000-08:00

no tears

to shed

or groans

shuddering out

of our bones

when we

eat

peanut butter

for dinner

again

2011-01-08T16:23:00.000-08:00

planted into the carpet

a body pining

for the next bloom

Brother's Words

2011-01-06T23:16:00.001-08:00

"it's not about

what you see

it's about

what you hear"

2011-01-06T18:15:00.001-08:00

incandescent

the empty beer bottles

whistled in the wind

along the dusty headboard

2011-01-06T18:10:00.000-08:00

his heart exploded that night

KABOOM!

twenty-three penguins died

in Antarctica

what was left of his heart

was strained through

a dollar sign

produced a pitiful jewel

that was given to his son

his son embedded the jewel

into a ring

hoping a girl existed

who wouldn't scoff at it

so he waits

Francesca

2011-01-05T21:34:00.000-08:00

Francesca

hair pulled tight

and dress clean laced

bleached

innocence in her lips

the world tasted foreign

Francesca

with eyes full of fear

and wonder

deep bags in her eyes

the red hints in her cheeks

from the open window

and a cross

adjoined on both sides

by her collar bones

Francesca

unaware of the aether

that seeped out of her skin

and affixed naive minds

the love of so many

boys at heart

---

As inspired by Priscilla's sketch. It's from a while back, but I was going through some of my earlier posts and I wrote a poem inspired by the sketch right before this one.

2011-01-05T12:42:00.000-08:00

undeterred

the young hawk perches

upon the half-naked bush

and looks into its ragged branches,

stares into the eyes

of the sparrows chirping

chirping fearfully, pleadingly

the young hawk ruffles its wings

continues to stare

directly into their beady eyes

with a single question

"what menu?"

Sponge

2011-01-04T10:53:00.001-08:00

Green and yellow
Dipped into stray
Rice grains
Forgotten but desired
Through the boy's aged look

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2011-01-03T12:24:00.000-08:00

For those not in the know, I am participating in this little project. It will be a good way to to get back into writing after my extended writing hiatus. Here's to 2011.

2011-01-03T12:09:00.001-08:00

Looking through my posts, I was wondering why I had so many unpublished drafts, but then I remembered the exclusivity I wanted to keep at the time. I often type out first drafts on here before writing them out, in ink, into my journal, which is a bit of a backwards process but that's just how I like doing it.

I'll try to publish a few of my favorite drafts every so often. Here are two poems I wrote for Amelia for the Summer Secret Santa exchange. She likes werewolves.

---

I guess I should have known

the disheveled clothes, the

wild hair, the taste for meat,

I thought they were just more

reasons to love you

but it's all so obvious now

and I guess it's too late

since that night you bit me

"we're all prone to kinkiness"

I thought in my sleep

but looking on the bright side

at least we get to spend more

moon-swept nights together,

running through the countryside

scaring sheep, chasing cattle,

just the way lovers should

---

we ran all night

our palms pressed into

the half-dirt

half-mud concoction

sprinklers turned on

along the wet cement

trees twisted together

and apart in the wind like

ropes held together by a

force of will

and a hanging bell

late night joggers

saw us as shadows flashing

out of the corners of their eyes

and dismissed us just as quickly

hearts continuing to respire

I smelled tree roots

digging into the worm's home

the father silenced

by the extra bedfellow

corpses spooning dirt

and moonlight climbing out

from between opened

fingers

stars tumbled

sounds of mothers praying

and wooden feet

stamping on weeds as

blood issued from

sheep's clothes that went

"moo"

we laughed about it

in the morning

our cheeks smeared with

dried red

wearing things that

weren't clothes

one last kiss

it's all we could do

to ignore the dread

of bottle-driven parents

and the thirty days before

our next night out

2011-01-02T20:23:00.001-08:00

Dust chips away

fingerprints

I stare into the

mirror

and only see myself

staring back

Familial

2011-01-01T12:40:00.001-08:00

Wiping the milk white soap
from my forearms
steam against
home video memories
I saw the veins
in my hands
for the first time

2010-09-20T12:13:00.001-07:00

Potential mortal peril should not be the only time to show you care.

2010-08-18T15:01:00.000-07:00

I was published over at unFold, which specializes in short form poems that can be posted through Twitter.

That's the last time I will write a sonnet that is less than 140 characters.

2010-07-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

This was made a while back. The illustrations are by Mike Bautista. The words are my own. I love it. I love the way others illustrate my words into their own interpretation. I thought it was worth reposting.

2010-04-19T23:27:00.001-07:00

I've considered working at a home,

you know, filled with elderly, geriatric

men and women in faded clothes

and wrinkled skin with walkers with

tennis balls stuck on the legs,

because I love meeting people with

stories to tell and listening to stories

without really committing much of

myself to the narrative, not telling any

more about myself than the bare

minimum of what needs to be known

but then I realize that I can't deal

with death, which is inevitable, even

when people say it won't happen for

a while, but growing attached to someone

living at the home and having them

pass away might be too much for me

because all my relationships are based

around the fact that no one, no one

I have any personal attachment to,

has died, which is not to say that

they've never ended because, let's

face it, people change and friendships

end, but no one has died and when it

does eventually happen, I see myself

being stunted, emotionless, hiding

behind that same stupid smile,

and maybe that's the most scary thing,

not being able to show how much I

care about someone once they've

passed from the physical plane, this

silly place where we grab onto each

others' hands and stamp our feet in

the dirt and watch sunsets and walk

with little tennis balls on the legs

and meet stories with people to

tell just so I don't have to commit

myself to the narrative.

2010-04-01T21:40:00.000-07:00

I haven't updated in a while, and for once, I'm ahead/on-schedule with my 365, so here's a quick poem.

Too tired to fix myself
something to eat, I
rinsed the plates and
smoothed out the bed.

You moaned in your sleep,
words I could understand
as well as Shakespeare.
I smoothed the hairs off
your forehead, hummed a
tune I had heard at
the grocery store.

I turned the plastic rod
between my fingers to
shut out the sunlight, to
keep it from rinsing out
your eyes.

I settled in next to you,
catlike, inviting myself
into your hands and arms
as you moaned again and
nuzzled your head against
my shoulder.

You scolded me for waking
you up, playfully, with that
smile on your face, but settled
back into your dream
I hoped I was in.

Here is the original scanned in from my notebook. Pretty much the same other than messiness and a few word/tense changes. To be honest, this is one of the few instances wherein I actually like how I wrote the date.

~

Also, I was a over-joyed when I came back from class a few days ago to find that Priscilla had illustrated one of my 365 poems. She's a wonderful artist and interpreted my poem into the visual medium better than I could have ever imagined.

Of the Rabbit in Daylight

2010-03-04T22:39:00.000-08:00

I saw the rabbit

in daylight while I was

getting the mail (the

keys tangled with purple

lint from my

pocket).

We shared a moment

or eyesight and

wiggling noses, until

I broke the gaze

and headed inside

to get carrot sticks

I had

saved.

By the time I found them

and stepped back outside,

the half-moon was out,

so I stood in the cold,

smelling the manure in

the air,

holding cold orange bits

between my fingers.

2010-02-25T22:57:00.000-08:00

jealous of childhood morals

the poets with their

words coming out so easy

and full

I spat on

the paper

lifted the dead taste buds

from my tongue

and stapled them

to graph paper

little blue grids

surrounding

infinitesimal evenings

dining alone

sucking on grapes

telling the walls

exactly what my eyes

said

almost

2010-02-22T22:30:00.000-08:00

the shine of fresh

snow

on a morning

in Southern California

the description

didn't make sense to

the realtor either

"selling houses

is simple"

he said

to the lamp post

I was leaning my forehead

he should have

said that to

the rotting floors

and the ceiling

that still smelled

of blood

and baby

vomit

Just a little something to keep things updated. My 365 has been going on and off. Purging and binging with ink-stained fingers halfway down my throat. I guess my goal is more to have 365 poems by the end of the year rather than actually writing a poem every single day.

2010-01-22T11:40:00.001-08:00

I haven't exactly been updating this blog too much, but I have a 365 poetry project going which may or may not interest you.

I Yawned with My Mouth Closed

2010-01-14T16:34:00.001-08:00

I found myself on top of a building
my toes half-buried in soft gravel
that felt like a shag carpet
the moon made faces at me
and the clouds tasted like
dark mountains

I felt my feet take me
like they knew where
I should end up
the wind felt beautiful
against my cheeks
as I fell
a cool breath of hookah smoke
blown through a light bulb filament

even halfway down
I hoped to land in a hot air balloon
and sail away to some
far-off island where everything smelled
like pineapples
instead of splattering my bones and muscles
into gutters and fire hydrants

but I woke up
and wished that I was back in a
Chicago hotel

"Whatever", Someone Said to Me

2010-01-12T19:35:00.000-08:00

I listened to the chanteuse
singing her heart about
something I could only understand
through the feel of the tongue

the smell of the storm
came in through the broken
window screen
and it tasted like the first car wash
of the day

trees shook and danced
mimicking the sounds of raindrops
that hadn't yet fallen
leaves made landing strips
of the sidewalk
alongside the stray blades
of grass

I heard the brakes squeal
under pressure
mixed-gender yells and screams
a romantic horror
that went to black at the last scene
as the two lovers
were about to kiss the knife

I wasn't sure
why I was bleeding
but
I knew
why I was laughing

2009-12-28T23:48:00.000-08:00

my tryst
with
the beloved
princess ended
quite abruptly
when she
realized
the crown
I wore
on my head
was just
a trick
of the light

That Dream Was Exhausting!

2009-12-21T15:03:00.000-08:00

I stood waist deep in a cloud
holding a fishing pole over the side
I wore a fisherman's hat covered in hooks
each one labeled with the name of a
past lover

I reeled in a mermaid
the hook embedded in her fourteenth vertebra
her blood was green and blue
she cried and her tears turned into birds
that plummeted into the waves

I would have thrown her back into the sea
but she knew too much
so I strapped her to a rocketship
and launched her into space
the last thing she said
were words sung into my ears
that broke my bones
and stained my lungs

I told my grandchildren
so they could understand
why I walk with a cane
and a limp

2009-12-19T22:09:00.000-08:00

she had this look in her eyes
as though she knew
the contents of their wallets
with one flip of her stray bangs

she rode into town in a car
painted black and grey
the license plates looked blank from afar
reflecting the stars blotted out
by exhaust
she wore pigtails braided and knotted
with a man's vocal cords

the wind took her arm
and escorted her between buildings
stepping onto curbs
smothering leaves under soft heels
like it was someone's birthday

but her horns didn't fit right
they were too big when I was close
too small otherwise
and from across the street
she had this look in her eyes
as though she knew

---

Fumbling for inspiration after an extra long paper, I wrote this poem inspired by this drawing by the lovely and talented Sonmi.

2009-12-14T00:16:00.001-08:00

mom handed me
a candle
lit at the top
puddles of wax

it was heart-
shaped

like she knew
something
I didn't

2009-12-09T11:53:00.001-08:00

should have been there
instead
when the comet
hit your eye

when you
gained those
superpowers
all the sounds
you saw
and the faces
you heard

and the words
of pity
written on
the back
of plastic flower
stems

2009-12-05T23:58:00.001-08:00

pick up
your feet
don't scuffle
socks leave
footprints
too
you swallow
too loud
switches don't
require
that much
strength
don't let
the carpet
know
you're around

2009-11-30T09:32:00.000-08:00

anxiety hits
like
a sack of
toy trucks
all set
in
reverse

leaf blowers
yawn
outside

Juked

2009-11-24T18:27:00.000-08:00

One of my prose-poems was published over at Juked today. Go check out all their poems and short stories. They have some really great works up. I could waste whole weekends on that site given the right mood.

Also, according to the editor, I'm the first Alvin to be published on Juked. Milestones.

The Riot Makes Wishes at 11:12

2009-11-19T22:27:00.000-08:00

nose made love to knees
but it was all the same
the way you pronounced it

the red wax trickled
down your cheek bones
onto the cotton
stained and smothered
like children's faces
rubbed into piles of
rotten berries

"how do you think
jam is made?"

father says
as he zips his fly
and puts the button
back where it
should have been
always been

mother lynched the sheets
but rubbing out the scratches
was hard
even with all the matches
she used

sulfur caked into hair
so many wishless birthdays
dried icing
tracing out
the knife blade

2009-11-18T23:41:00.000-08:00

we met
at the back of my fist
the smell of the tar
lining the bricks
manhole covers were
pillows
the man with the sun-stained
teeth
picked the dirt from his nose

"I touched brain"

he laughed
and slept
the smell of blood
in his fingernails
that he filed down
with business cards
and butcher's knives

fine lines
crossed by dirty
wet socks

2009-11-17T23:15:00.001-08:00

the spraycan burst
paint flew
into eyes
smiles
teeth smeared
with lipstick
the old man's
elbows

I felt
aluminum
embedded in my
skin
red-tipped
sparkles in
fingerprints

so the cops
would never
trace me

red hands

2009-11-12T23:53:00.000-08:00

boy played
his card games

solitaire

with
the aces
all lined-up

like men
wearing
blindfolds
sucking on
cigarettes
waiting for
the firing
squad

to show
them
what they've
been
missing out
on

2009-11-08T23:46:00.001-08:00

"don't"

the son said to his father
tears streaming down his face
as he flapped the pillowcase open
it felt like home

he dropped the puppies in
tongues stuck out
teasing all the school children
on the playground
tied up the open end
tighter than any shoe
or fist

he elbowed the door open
afternoon sidled in
shook its jacket
and took a seat
next to the mass of pillowcase

"don't"

his boots led him out
sunlight over one shoulder
puppies over the other
he thought they felt like marshmallows

his son followed him
tripping over the color of autumn
reciting something that sounded
like a song
it was coughing

"don't"

they came to the river
with the colorless fish
swimming and constant movement
stars in orbit
in deep space without a bottom

he slung the pillowcase off
his back
homes and marshmallows
yip-yapping all at once

"don't"

he let go
hovering for a second
like a ball of ice floating up
into upside-down space

"don't"

his wife woke up somewhere
mid-kiss with another man

I Thought You Said "It's a Game of Chants"

2009-11-07T23:56:00.000-08:00

I threw darts at the
blank pictures on the wall
while my uncle slept
his troubles away
in the arms of another
high school girl

I traced the exit wounds
with the conductor's wand
my brother's shoulder
where he would have been
shot
I led the orchestra
off-tempo
the clarinets whined

my parents watched the
radio
waiting for the song
to waltz and smile to
floorboards creaking
toes digging pits of brass
into igloos

but all they played was static
so they danced anyway

Plastic Eggs Stain My Teeth

2009-11-04T23:21:00.001-08:00

I poked at the heart
with an open umbrella
the old man's cane
surgery without ever
attending medical school
or watching tv

I picked my head up
and tried to read the digital
clock in the store window
but the half-bottle of aspirin
blocked the minutes
so I either had some time
or

I left him where he was
the rain had stopped
months ago
so I filled my pockets
with pennies and
sprinkled them among
the children with hungry
faces

I convinced their tummies
they were filled with chocolate
copper and brown mixed into
dirt
left a crunchy taste
like desert skin or
the tales wives lie about

and the size of their fingers
told me where they
hoped to find their next
meal

Bagels and Tea for the Lactose Intolerant

2009-11-02T23:13:00.001-08:00

I gave her my number
told her to call me back
so she shot an arrow
into my skin
telephone poles traced
around the barbed arrowhead

she cut her thumb
with a butter knife
my tears were laughing
while she jumped out
the first-story window
and watered the grass
with her veins

and a neighbor walking a dog
turned the the hose on
and drowned our lemon tree
until we didn't have
nearly enough sour to
match the bitter

so our burnt tongues
became a silent melody

2009-11-01T16:54:00.000-08:00

I left my
insides outside
where we picked
up the down
for these pillows
and sheets and I
would have
said otherwise
but your eyes
lied
to me
while your glasses
said everything
I needed to know
and you brought
your eyes
up to mine
to kiss away
the smile from
my face
and I turned
my head away
at the last
minute
five in
one of
your hours

2009-10-29T23:33:00.000-07:00

I was fed up
with the
roommates
so I started
hiding their
things in the
nooks
and crannies
of the apartment

"What are
my condoms
doing
in this
carton of
eggs?"

I don't
think they
understand
my sense
of
humor.

2009-10-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

he pointed out the window
and said "the ocean is out there"
over the roof-curled smog past the
changing streetlights past the
fog past the
couples breaking up past the
kids riding plastic trucks past the
students scribbling late homework past the
crayons and wax past the
screaming voices past the
whispers to no one past
last week past
light pollution past
the marine layer past
the horizon past
blue skies
the ocean is out there
he pointed out the window

a handful of stones

2009-10-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

One of my micro-poems is featured over at a handful of stones today. Check them all out. I love how much can be said in a few short lines.

2009-10-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

no problems
being just another
frivolity

she had another
boy to
share weekend
moments
with,
no doubt a
nice coat rack
of a human

while I am
just
Tuesday's sleeveless
jacket

2009-10-20T00:10:00.000-07:00

He wiped the toothpaste
from his purple, wine-stained
lips
saying, "This smile is
all I have."

And the quarter shouted
quietly from its corner,
the smell of webs
tangled in Washington's
nose.

2009-10-18T23:56:00.000-07:00

"If you can't stand
the heat,
stay out of the
kitchen"
the dead president
whispers to the
crumb-covered walls

Fuck that.

If I want to eat
my pancakes
while the kitchen is
halfway to Hell,
I will.

A delicious, syrupy
bonfire.

2009-10-18T15:03:00.000-07:00

Everyday
after the click of the dead bolt
sliding into place
and the hum of the morning air

he passed by
the neighbor's cat,
basking in the window,
interrupting the utilitarian
window shades.

It was a black cat,
always staring into something else
and he wasn't sure which
he hated more,
the bad luck
or being ignored.

Great words from Becca

2009-10-14T11:41:00.000-07:00

when we're
married (to
each other
or others)

let's not ever
feel
like we're
waiting
for something
to happen

that's not what
life
should be.

2009-10-12T23:58:00.001-07:00

I shoved
a butter knife
into the back
of my skull.

The why
doesn't matter.
You still
found me
unattractive.

Pissface.

2009-10-09T09:02:00.000-07:00

I dreamed
she spent the night
at my place

no sex
no scandalous mouths
or gaping libidos

just warm hearts
and curious fingers
on summer breeze waists

Age of In-No-Sense

2009-10-05T22:02:00.000-07:00

"Are you very
much in
love
with her?"

"As much as a man
can
be."

"Do you think
then
there is a
limit?"

"To being in
love?
If
there is,
I haven't found
it!"

She glowed
with sympathy.
"Ah--it's
really
and truly
a romance?"

"The most
romantic
of
romances!"

2009-10-04T23:28:00.000-07:00

It felt like
it should have
been
midnight

but it wasn't
even
eleven

So just
another hour
of waiting
for phone
calls

or
building up
courage
with no
effect

2009-10-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

Known for cheesy lines,
the type of shit found in
greeting cards,
holidays filled with empty
laughs
Passed out infrequently
to the masses
of platonics,
tectonics
phonics,
candy for the little boys and girls
But no candy
when it mattered,
for the hypoglycemics
banging on locked
candy shops,
fists bunched up into
wrinkled spirals.

Gloom Cupboard

2009-09-30T21:49:00.000-07:00

A couple of my poems were featured a few weeks back in issue #106 of Gloom Cupboard. Check them out along with all the other amazing poems.

2009-09-28T20:14:00.000-07:00

I'm not
going to lie:
the lasagna
was good

but that still
doesn't
answer
the question of
"will you marry me"

2009-09-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

I didn't set
an alarm
I have
nowhere
to be
I can
wake up
whenever I want

Assuming I
wake up

Bust Top

2009-09-22T00:30:00.000-07:00

At the corner of Michelson,

where the bus was supposed to be,

you took my elbows

and you shook my face.

You told me about the wind

while you folded birds out of paper

and set them loose into trees,

your hair smelling of perfume and lace.

You whispered something, but

you turned your head away

and I just assumed it was a joke,

something lacking in taste.

You boarded the bus that appeared,

your words came back on crumpled,

creased wings. "Goodbye" you said

with sea-filled eyes. "What a waste."

2009-09-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

We yelled out our hearts

as we dove off of the cliff

feet first

into the blue carpet sea

"I cheated on my girlfriend!"

"My dad touched me when I was

seven!"

Their heads bobbed back up

smiles creeping through

ingenuous sunlight

"Dog food tastes all right!"

"I was the one behind the wheel

that night!"

The air flapped with sincerity

hung out to dry

It was my turn

and I went into the dive

feet in the air

head cradled by Poseidon

"I'm just another guy!"

2009-09-20T10:22:00.000-07:00

Impact

the TV told me

it said

that it could be the

worst

moment

but then it said

that it could be the

last

moment

And I thought to myself

"I think I can make up

my own mind about this"

Chicago Acoustic

2009-09-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

the cloud wasteland was the

facade

the click click thunk of

plastic wheels worn down

on tiles

and sidewalk cracks

pulling at everything I

own by a cheap

metal handle

"are we here?"

we smiled to each other

while we walk

we can smell the sky

entrance into keyless doors

massive room filled with bodies

of energy

confused stares

into familiar faces we haven't

seen

"it's all so much smaller in reality"

we smiled to each other

we held each others' hands

octopi would be jealous

we sing into ears

that might be listening

and mimic dances

and we hug each other

relieved to know

we exist

we snorted into cups

and forgot the public

while the forks and wooden sticks

still felt the same

between our fingers

"this dinner makes no sense"

we smiled to each other

we stayed up late

the conman's method of

lengthening days

we shared beds

"are you asleep yet?"

we smiled to each other

we waited

we cry without shedding tears

until we do

and we squeeze each other

until the choking feeling goes

away

I lose myself

riding above the wing

staring below into the

light garden

the past days waving over me

recent memories

colors

sounds

lights above town

we smiled to each other

Snow Fox Poem

2009-09-17T17:57:00.000-07:00

secret secrets

beat slow hearts felt

nice on the cold

eyes that stare into a

focused nowhere

snuggled into itself

quiet acceptance of

identities based on powder

blizzards

horizons that go unseen

and furry bodies that

follow suit

looks into me

finding the cage filled

with the dozen lemmings

moving as one

eats them down through

central nervous systems

synapses

and that's when they

build the fireplace

ignoring the footprints

bypassing the chest

straight for arctic centers

global warming at its

best