POEM A DAY DRAFTS 8-14

January 8th, 

Pressed shirts, 70’s jacket manufactured

in Hong-Kong, smell of fractured liaisons

faxing, emailing, smiling

through beguiling gymnastic rabbits.

I make an impression of fingertips on the glass

window-door.

Andy Warhol would have ripped a vocal chord

should he have come face-to-face

with this Pintresting chaste Tim Burton

space, unevenly paced

birth-day party dressed up as

job-interview. The high How-Are-You’s

and hand-pandering shakes me to my core.

Is this the adult-world warned of

and written in diaries of mad-women

only given the choice between illegal sex-work,

and legal sex-work? Pant-suits, after all, 

are hyper-gendered stereotypic,

picturesque working mothers come to 

steal jobs. And clothing must be professional,

it’s no accident that fetishes include

uniformity. We can’t keep profession

out of the home, like Mr. Big can’t keep his enormity

away from his secretary’s mouth. But, we love

power-dynamic, don’t we?

Even when our celebrations are decaying

and the good-byes are exchanged,

the host doesn’t know if they deserve praise or shame.

Did they put on the right clothes, did they

forget their names? Haven’t they

forgotten their own! The title of their childhood!

That old home that travels with us,

staring back at us, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

Selfless

   Shea butter    on hand    spread bitter

          palm,to wrist,to wrist,to palm

   rivering,    weaving,    between fingers

balm against lips, war paint under eyes .

  Summon moon and traffic police light

       An Ultra Blue, ink i ng the nigh t, 

Sta lk s  of  l egs,  praying « mantis » throughout

   a dewy stone floor

  Hollow stars fall from pixel-flickering

tiny flames reflecting in

 burning nameless comet-trails down cheeks .

    Crisp paper feathering; dried lilies

                     up at me

     gazing                       from the grave .

Hallucina

Earth is always singing: we are always dancing.

Some believe God is inside of us all.

During the Big Bang, the bell shattered

good intention spilled out every elsewhere;

our dictionary cannot help us map the stars,

but damn, do we try

to use it.

My brain must be a 

pool of wires. I hope the connections are
secure. Should I interpret this 

creature looming over my shoulder?

Is it God? Is the devil at my fingertips?

Does my piano suffer from cognitive dissonance?

I ask too many questions. My canvas is

getting full. It’s always dripping.

I can’t help but miss the first beat. I’m too shy

to dance. So, I try to sing, too. But, Earth is much louder

than me. 

I hesitate too much. My chords are

disconnected. The progression isn’t easy to follow.

It’s hard to keep tabs on a mind that

looks in the mirror, and declares,

« I see you. »

capital H

Sun falling; light leaves unrecognized

ink blots in my eyes. I walk into a store,

wearing tuition money as a thrifted worn down

army-brown, the door-attendant asks 

« Can I help assure you walk out having spent 

the blood of your father? » She

smiles with her eyes because, her cheeks would 

shatter. I can tell she doesn’t recognize

my ink blot eyes.

I carry her question in my pocket, and my

cell-phone weighs a heavenly ton,

so I remove both. I cannot find myself

in the screen, and the junior department

giggles.

For a second, in a flash, behind winter coats

and sweatpants, I see trees.

To be feminine is to be wild, fully

functional. A machine with feral wirings,

journal entries, cerebral networking, talking to 

each other. Doesn’t he understand?

I see him in the forest; Jean Toomer, 

singing a folk song, holding his walking stick,

his sugar cane. River, ocean, tides of Ophelia

would dissolve him. 

What is a man, without his stick? Do I need

guidance? Am I stuck?

I have the option of throwing myself in.

« In » a shady, empty haunting. 

He notices me, and offers his

money. Commodity. I need it. I

need it. I need it. I need

it. That blood. That sugar. That

security. I can no longer commune

with winter-bringing white.

So, I toss my scarf into the bin on my way 

out. The door-attendant rings

like a may bell, saying, « I’m sorry you couldn’t find

what you were looking for. » 

未だ Hither-to,

言はもう無い

川 空 声は 『時間』 から

生まれた 聞こえない

風 野 追跡

そっと、名は 蒸発

炎ように揺らめき 瀧 門

人声は一声?

静かの  雫

Equation & Conversion

giving = receiving

Anemony lungs, embracing veins

Filtering venom, passing down chains

violence ^living

Vapor waves, tanks, storebought 

Shooting pastel bullets, rainbows anchoring joy

∞ duration (feeling)

Time, effervescence, babies crying,   .

I still love you

Photographic shards of 

         glass  Fall from trees

                    cloaked in mid

winter graces  Dancing drops of

         Light is our primary currency

                    Is that still in your heart?

Does the love still fit  Do

         You remember  The language 

                    Lost  Remain  Recall  Re

Habilitate  This fledgeling desire

         Smiling  Reflecting in each of

                    These seeds  raining 

Heaven into your sugarbird nest 

         Shimmer  Argon oil  Collecting

                    Sun rays  Fool.  Weary

Traveler  Step into the light & dance

         Roots are the steady feet  of

                    Gods  &  rusty lovers

Begging for diamonds as if for mana 

          from the air  Wood  Awaken

                    Melting.  Rhythm