Monthly Archives: July 2017

And Ode to Our Legacy

I once asked myself
“If you could reach back
into time
and change anything
what would you do?”
And different answers presented themselves
from different parts of my being.
A well-lit knoll at the center of me said
“I would teach those before me
how to build a legacy for themselves,
one that is so much greater than that
which they have left.”
But a darker corner of my being
glared with savage eyes from the shadows
and growled, “And what is great about
the legacy they have left?”
“Why, much” came a cautious response
to which a long and piercing silence followed.
“Would you start by showing your ilk
what it means to destroy a human being
and reveal to them their successes
on reserves?”
A bewildered response spoke volumes
in gaze alone, though
further questions followed.
“Would you show them the tattered remains
of a people whose potential they squandered?
Would you object when your knowledge
was used to better rob a peoples of their homes
and languages
and minds
and souls,
Or would you take solace that such was being done
with expertise?”
The glare of bared teeth shone merciless contempt
brighter than any sun.
“Would you moralize and preach
their wrongs only to watch
fruition brought unto them,
And if so,
could you stay your anger?”
The air of shame was palpable
and the voice in the shadows
drew closer to the knoll
“And if you harboured anger toward them
would not your fondness for them wane?
Could you still teach them
knowing them as they truly were?”
Startled
a part of me left the light
and backed into the shadows
speechless,
As a darker part of myself lurked into the light
and sat atop of the well-lit knoll.

Make a Wish, Pay the Price

Desolation is an understatement.

You got your wish,

having entirely forgotten the old saying:

Be careful of what you wish for: you might just get it.

On the alien terrain you now stand,

the crescent Saturn and its glorious rings are rising on the horizon,

in the background of the deep dark blackness of space.

Deep dark loneliness is now your company,

A just reward for your incessant complaint:

of living in a place with too many people.

Gone is the noise you hated and complained,

the silence now is deafening.

You look around the alien terrain

and wonder is there life here.

How you wish you could share this experience with someone.

But hark, you hear something,

a low whirr mumbling.

You run across the alien rock plain of small and big stones,

and behind a large rock

you see a spacecraft

completely alien

its door

opening

revealing

a

figure,

eyes

capture

yours,

cannot

move,

frozen,

the

alien,

looks

like

.

.

.

.

.

.

DAVID BOWIE!!!

You float on board his spacecraft,

involuntarily,

abducted!

You got your wish again!

Too bad, so sad.

A Poem Addressing an Audience

Dear Mom

I am 27,
Not 7.
Be home by midnight, you say.
Nay, I say, nay.
I can walk, run, ride and drive.
I can find my way home.
Men are wolves*;
Taxis are dangerous;
Bears are at large,
You warn.
Puh-lease, I say, please.

 

* In Korean culture, people refer to men as wolves to imply that they are alimalistic and rapacious.

Direct Address to the Sleep Trainee

 

Sleep

was pure distraction.

A trick played on you.

Sometimes a song or hypnotic chant

to conjure the night’s quiet.

 

Mothers tisked, tisked.

Warning of a reckoning.

We didn’t care. We had you safe in our house.

I got drunk and said

that you were the heart inside my heart.

 

The premise is:

a baby will manipulate you

a baby will manipulate you

I took first year psychology

I know about projection.

 

Soon you came to know us

my face her voice our breath

light leapt from your eyes

And in that knowing, nothing was the same.

 

Each night as you woke

fear came on. Panic.

But we were next door,

ever your volunteers.

 

Exhaustion is confusing.

It can never come, until it does.

Could you ever know all the tears and anger that turned

on your circadian rhythm?

 

Your training began as a marathon of pain.

Your cries hurt, the heart

inside my heart.

Apparently sleep is a learned skill.

I was told that all good lessons cost us dearly.

 

Reaching out to the door,

calling out horse, scared.

Was there knowing in your voice?

 

I don’t know about that.

Any of that.

Soon you slept and soothed yourself.

Without us.

in spite of us.

Occasionally I go in to turn the sheets

and make my nightly manipulations.

I Want My MTV

You asked me to do this
You did this to all of us.
You subjected these nice people to my inner monologue
That i’ve been privately enjoying for years.
Get ready for a string of tangentially associated pop culture references
And echoes of times when i had feelings and let them lead me.

Girl i’ll be your loose-seal,
Take your hand,
And Blue myself.

Girl i’ll be your Han Solo,
combat attack a Hutt compound,
Awaken your force.

I’ll be your white walker,
Warm you through the long night,
Heck i’ll even hold the door.

Cause you rick my morty,
I mask your greatness,
Meseeks to assist you in any timeline.

You’ve pulled back the curtain
On a collage of random shit
I find funny
And use as a social litmus test.

My sisters were music snobs,
You and I speak visual arts,
Specifically some degree of screen,
Serial, episodic joy and misery.

I want my mtv
To start playing hour long dramas.

youre like
a misspelled word
atop a red squiggle
but
i thirst to nix such
automatic prescriptions
of
wrong and right
to click simply
“Ignore all”
and love the
spills
that define us

Hand held.

You

Are attached to me like a

One

Two

Three

Four

Fifth

Sixth finger.

Hands tightly wrapped around the curves

The outline

Of your casing.

The walls that keep you together

The guards that protect you when you start to fall.

But when you fall

You fall hard.

So I keep my hand held tightly

Around my handheld device.

 

My Uncle Reads Shakespeare

“To be or not to be?”
Debatable.  Have you heard of Schroedinger’s cat?
“Hath not a Jew eyes?”
Statistically, yes.  But you never know, he could have had an accident.
“What’s in a name?”
Letters.
‘’But wasn’t Othello a noble, romantic soldier?’
Surely not, didn’t he just off his wife?
“What is a woman to do when the men are so unanimous in their judgements of her and their plans for her?”
Judge them back?  Give them silent treatment?  Gosh, this one’s difficult.
“We fail?”
Sure.  Anything’s possible.
“Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
Presumably because that’s what his parents called him.
“When shall we three meet again?”
I’m free next Thursday.