I have a poem…
I have a poem
just for you and
your polka dot dress,
with your favorite heels
dangling from your fingers,
standing there in my doorway.
So Han’s walking down the halls of Bespin with his old friend Lando. Leia’s there, and lookin’ good. Han thinks he’s off to dinner - maybe some wine, a little flirting, and then back to the ol’ guest quarters with Her Hotness.
But the door opens, and there’s Darth Vader.
Han doesn’t look incredulously at Lando; he doesn’t duck or run away.
What does Han do?
He starts shooting at the motherfucker.
He starts shooting.
Be like Han.
“ You’re so fucking smug. You look like you’re having the time of your life… ”
Ulysses Calvillo’s sister. Holy shit this was funny.
I live for this.
Pulp
Your pale face, blue-lipped, starving
eats the bleached paper, swallowing
written word and a numbered edge
to satisfy a stomach ache, lusting
for the jet black ink of thought,
jotted down on the facade of lined paper.
By now, the whole notebook is in
the cheeks of your mouth.
Your molars, crushing the paper into pulp,
and your tongue, shoving the soggy mess down
the opening of your throat.
I’d find it ironic if
this very piece got swallowed.
Funnier still if some of it
got stuck in your teeth.
Poise and reckless propositions.
this knot in my stomach. a stone sitting on my intestines. it’s strange how there is no physical solution to this physical feeling, but an emotional, invisible solution such as language or thought that will grind this stone to gravel then dirt then dust. shouldn’t i know how to grind that stone? this isn’t the first one to pressure my guts and make my day uneasy and anxious. shouldn’t i know how to grind this stone? this abdomen… the divider of my body and mind. the conqueror of my confidence and self-respect. i suddenly don’t like myself. everything starts draining toward that equator like a rapid river beckoning for its solemn sea. my eyes feel tired and my lips feel tired and my heart feels tired. I close two of those but the hole in my chest gapes toward the waning moon, asking that beloved white rock and that starry cape she owns to give hope and reason to the chest and stomach and mind. my lungs inhale the chill of night and the chill of indifference and i sit down and bow my head, straining my neck where my shoulders arch to the center of my upper back. atrocious, haphazard feelings rummage through the rest of my integrity and the stone grows, not grinds, in my stomach, filling it with indiscriminate doubt.
Was that not a round of applause?
my fingers are quills, tracing the nape of your neck; the arch of you back. this novel, my memoir, my poetry, this entry, flow and sprawl on your skin, staining your body like pages absorbing ink. i feel you chill and suddenly, i’m the blind reading your flesh’s sensitivity. the metaphors, living and breathing on your chest and in your hair and inside of you, even making kafka jealous. i can’t tell you how i feel any other way. the words are on you; in you. in translating my written thought and the language in my eyes, you will see an unspeakable, invisible metaphor with no metaphysical limit. transcendent to a reality beyond what is perceptible to the senses. this is my unconventional imagery to you.
Mother Theresa, your dress is aflame.
i think i need to sit down. bang on this keyboard until my hands hurt or the neighbors wake up. until the buttons fly off onto the carpet and to that mysterious world where you lose things and they never come back. my stream of thought is stuck. i feel all of it backed up by some invisible dam’s stone walls. overloaded. i have so many things on my mind and so much more emotion to shove down my throat, to hide from the naked eye. i have my hands full. sometimes i try to get lost in that place. to lay next to the remote that was never found. right next to the mailbox key. the missing sock when you’re sure you put the pair in the dryer. the nail clippers. yesterday’s newspaper. the twenty dollar bill. your favorite toy. your lucky marble. your father. your courage. your understanding. your sleep. your speech. your brain. yourself.
Chinatown
