Please come for a visit.
We shall go for a nice ride in the country, and I will listen to you.
Oh wouldn't that be nice!
Won't it be?
I shall heed your dear voice sir, and I will live my life by your code.
Oh, for the sake of Prudence!
If only I had you by my side when the seas of life were tempests, then perhaps, then I could live my life happily, like the clam I know you are, dear sir!
Is this fictitious?
Not really. But you live in books and in old songs from British mouths. saliva.
It collects in your mouth and swishes unpleasantly like snot against your tongue.
But Prudence, won't you help me? If only my heart would remember you dear. Like a dog I want to be fond of, but cannot seem to find the heart to be so, I cannot seem to heed you. Oh, the tragedy of man's soul!
Alas?
I am not part of that sex. A different species one might say.
But what say you, Prudence? Dripping from a dead dog’s eye.
Dear dear Prudence.
Growing up I was not taught to pray to Mary, but to pray to my father. We would say, “Dear heavenly Father, in Jesus’ name, Amen.” On the way home we would sing the devil's music and ask Prudence to come out and play with us like John would.
From the mouths of shot dead cleverness.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
fedexed
all i know about myself is
i like cold coffee. my bangs look nice right now, because i blow dried them from curling and banging up against my forehead in queer angles.
i check the mirror and they are still in place. my eyebrows are even too.
but i don't know what to do with myself. i am my own puzzlement.
there are too many boxes in our brains. post boxes, mail boxes, blog and thought boxes, and wires dangling in between the gray-green brainy mush, each reminding us of all the things we should've said to someone or wanted to say, but we were alone instead. with those technologies that are supposed to keep us more connected.
is this too much? post boxes.
sylvia plath was depressed and so she killed herself.
what did she think would happen to her babies? one and two crawling on the floor with out her.
sheryl used to be a man. but now she is a woman.
when her children were little, she was their father. but now she is married to a man with bulky muscles and her kids have a new dad since she isn't their dad anymore. what did her babies think?
they are not so old yet. neither am i.
i am stuck in my own box tonight. did you place duct tape on top of it? shipments go out in the morning.
i like cold coffee. my bangs look nice right now, because i blow dried them from curling and banging up against my forehead in queer angles.
i check the mirror and they are still in place. my eyebrows are even too.
but i don't know what to do with myself. i am my own puzzlement.
there are too many boxes in our brains. post boxes, mail boxes, blog and thought boxes, and wires dangling in between the gray-green brainy mush, each reminding us of all the things we should've said to someone or wanted to say, but we were alone instead. with those technologies that are supposed to keep us more connected.
is this too much? post boxes.
sylvia plath was depressed and so she killed herself.
what did she think would happen to her babies? one and two crawling on the floor with out her.
sheryl used to be a man. but now she is a woman.
when her children were little, she was their father. but now she is married to a man with bulky muscles and her kids have a new dad since she isn't their dad anymore. what did her babies think?
they are not so old yet. neither am i.
i am stuck in my own box tonight. did you place duct tape on top of it? shipments go out in the morning.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
jon's bird
it is late, and there is a bird on my computer.
a bird.
he is looking at me with eyes like a fiercely blue and green bird. he has a small small beak watching me, dead on. i blink. he does not flinch or move a muscle. he is omnipotent in his world. he does not know mine though.
he is beautiful like seamless dresses with couch flower prints are beautiful.
do you know what this means?
he is the most beautiful creature i have ever seen. i am in love with him. aren't you? can you not be? is it possible?
his tail is longer than my forearm. it curls and curves, dyed teal with God's oil paints. the bird's breast is scarlet. wings, a blending Matisse of greens and aquas and deep blues. the hues bleed into one another.
his head has spiny feathers like wire shocked into vivid green color with a volt of electricity. his eyes are wide. so are mine.
a bird.
he is looking at me with eyes like a fiercely blue and green bird. he has a small small beak watching me, dead on. i blink. he does not flinch or move a muscle. he is omnipotent in his world. he does not know mine though.
he is beautiful like seamless dresses with couch flower prints are beautiful.
do you know what this means?
he is the most beautiful creature i have ever seen. i am in love with him. aren't you? can you not be? is it possible?
his tail is longer than my forearm. it curls and curves, dyed teal with God's oil paints. the bird's breast is scarlet. wings, a blending Matisse of greens and aquas and deep blues. the hues bleed into one another.
his head has spiny feathers like wire shocked into vivid green color with a volt of electricity. his eyes are wide. so are mine.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
弟
my brother is there.
he is in that country, far away from here, that's sending radioactive particles through the air across the pacific, to reach me and to reach us west coast toasters, here, though finally "harmless" to our lungs upon arriving.
but he isn't hurt. i suppose his lungs are experiencing some new radioactive friends. that’s all.
but when the quake shook over there, and we were safe in our warm california climates and at six-thirty in the morning my dad calls, and all we know is japan is experiencing tumultuous shakes and tsunami and now the sky is on fire as we watch the American television, that hasn't bothered to specify what parts of Japan have been affected and what areas are still safe.
we just know the country has been threatened, worse than we can think because it isn't a normal day anymore. my parents watch it and all we see is images of houses swimming in waves, crumbling while buildings burn. and the people are missing, they are lost.
but he should be ok. he should be ok.
they are fine, where he is, in sapporo, 365 miles away its confirmed hours later, but the news keeps talking. we are thankful, but it is difficult, when bodies, thousands of bodies are washing up, they are washing up. the waters took them, and now sea is retching and is sick from the dead, so leaving corpses on the beach as tokens of their madness.
and little sapporo sits untouched. it is untouched.
he is in that country, far away from here, that's sending radioactive particles through the air across the pacific, to reach me and to reach us west coast toasters, here, though finally "harmless" to our lungs upon arriving.
but he isn't hurt. i suppose his lungs are experiencing some new radioactive friends. that’s all.
but when the quake shook over there, and we were safe in our warm california climates and at six-thirty in the morning my dad calls, and all we know is japan is experiencing tumultuous shakes and tsunami and now the sky is on fire as we watch the American television, that hasn't bothered to specify what parts of Japan have been affected and what areas are still safe.
we just know the country has been threatened, worse than we can think because it isn't a normal day anymore. my parents watch it and all we see is images of houses swimming in waves, crumbling while buildings burn. and the people are missing, they are lost.
but he should be ok. he should be ok.
they are fine, where he is, in sapporo, 365 miles away its confirmed hours later, but the news keeps talking. we are thankful, but it is difficult, when bodies, thousands of bodies are washing up, they are washing up. the waters took them, and now sea is retching and is sick from the dead, so leaving corpses on the beach as tokens of their madness.
and little sapporo sits untouched. it is untouched.
Monday, March 21, 2011
30 Q
i have never seen a starbucks within the confines of guaté,
though it may exist. in Antigua, starbucks does not.
cramped into a starbucked corner of laptops and middle aged adults trying to seek refuge in a place that is not home but in which they can indulge in the niceties of coffee scent and life plugged into the virtual. tap tap tap, the keys they press clack against the grind of coffee machines. blending GUATEMALA ANTIGUA STARBUCKS COFFEE.
nobody else here knows where Guatemala is really. its just a nice little accent to the décor of the coffee house on the wall pictured as a pink flowery branch.
this is guate.
$3. 75 in a nice plastic cup that says, “our new cup.
15% less plastic than before. 40% fewer carbon emissions to make it.
visit starbucks.com/csr.”
you can feel good about drinking your four dollar frap. you are saving the environment by drinking out of this cup.
you can feel good,
about starbucks.
because it feels good. of course it does, it’s chocolate. it’s coffee from the volcanic soils of the high regions of the Guatemalan alps. where the city wakes bright and early at 6AM and as the sun awakes so do the people.
these short, colorful people, darkened by sun and soil and by age,
crushed by pounds of the bean upon small, strengthful backs of women.
these mounds they carry on the tops of their heads. how far? as far as they need.
any load they can carry for family or company.
both men and women work their fields if they are lucky, their own plantations. the landscape is more beautiful than your city life in your city apartment. sex and the city has got nothin on this place. sex in Guatemala is surely much better too.
here coffee has no meaning outside of feeding taste.
for Antigua. it means life.
life less entertained unless entertaining the gringo tourists for a buck.
starbucks. 3.75 for a frap. 30 Quetzal.
though it may exist. in Antigua, starbucks does not.
cramped into a starbucked corner of laptops and middle aged adults trying to seek refuge in a place that is not home but in which they can indulge in the niceties of coffee scent and life plugged into the virtual. tap tap tap, the keys they press clack against the grind of coffee machines. blending GUATEMALA ANTIGUA STARBUCKS COFFEE.
nobody else here knows where Guatemala is really. its just a nice little accent to the décor of the coffee house on the wall pictured as a pink flowery branch.
this is guate.
$3. 75 in a nice plastic cup that says, “our new cup.
15% less plastic than before. 40% fewer carbon emissions to make it.
visit starbucks.com/csr.”
you can feel good about drinking your four dollar frap. you are saving the environment by drinking out of this cup.
you can feel good,
about starbucks.
because it feels good. of course it does, it’s chocolate. it’s coffee from the volcanic soils of the high regions of the Guatemalan alps. where the city wakes bright and early at 6AM and as the sun awakes so do the people.
these short, colorful people, darkened by sun and soil and by age,
crushed by pounds of the bean upon small, strengthful backs of women.
these mounds they carry on the tops of their heads. how far? as far as they need.
any load they can carry for family or company.
both men and women work their fields if they are lucky, their own plantations. the landscape is more beautiful than your city life in your city apartment. sex and the city has got nothin on this place. sex in Guatemala is surely much better too.
here coffee has no meaning outside of feeding taste.
for Antigua. it means life.
life less entertained unless entertaining the gringo tourists for a buck.
starbucks. 3.75 for a frap. 30 Quetzal.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
bobos
nobody would like them if they didn't have feet.
they've got beady yellow eyes (truly), spotted brown and white heads and awkward blue leggings that they pop upwards, delicately, to get her attention. but lots of birds do this. many of them attract womanly plumage to the often more flashier version, of themselves. so that the females can look at the other and say, i am beautiful?
bobo means stupid in spanish. he is a clumsy fool on the earth of the coastal seas, but with a dive into depth, he is as graceful as any penguin you ever saw. if you've seen one. maybe at the zoo once.
this is the dance of the blue-footed booby. fascinating creatures of God. he cocks his blue foot upward toward the sea and she sees its blue, like he. it's blue! it's blue! not red! not red! i am no impostor booby. from the coasts of california to the islands of galapogos! i am blue. here for you.
he arcs his back, his torso upwards too, presenting himself. a high pitched whistle emits from him. his feet bounce at her. she wobbles her feet at him too as if to say, yes, i think i am blue too actually.
i pad my feet with the ground. the earth is mine.
beautiful blue boobies.
they've got beady yellow eyes (truly), spotted brown and white heads and awkward blue leggings that they pop upwards, delicately, to get her attention. but lots of birds do this. many of them attract womanly plumage to the often more flashier version, of themselves. so that the females can look at the other and say, i am beautiful?
bobo means stupid in spanish. he is a clumsy fool on the earth of the coastal seas, but with a dive into depth, he is as graceful as any penguin you ever saw. if you've seen one. maybe at the zoo once.
this is the dance of the blue-footed booby. fascinating creatures of God. he cocks his blue foot upward toward the sea and she sees its blue, like he. it's blue! it's blue! not red! not red! i am no impostor booby. from the coasts of california to the islands of galapogos! i am blue. here for you.
he arcs his back, his torso upwards too, presenting himself. a high pitched whistle emits from him. his feet bounce at her. she wobbles her feet at him too as if to say, yes, i think i am blue too actually.
i pad my feet with the ground. the earth is mine.
beautiful blue boobies.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
i take showers
showers have always been boxy experiences. ever since we moved to the apartment, showers meant glass and tile blue box set beside toilet and cream walls. before this, i was tiny. my only memories of not boxy shower, lie in photo albums of slumber parties at my grandmother’s home with joyful plastic bath toys, and loving hands that shampoo your small head, in her small yellow house.
when we lived in the apartment, we had a cat. a secret cat that the manager didn’t know about. when she had to go to the vet we would shove her into that hard plastic adobe colored cat-carrier and cover it with a towel. then, you walk quietly out the door with it, pretending what you are doing is normal apartment behavior, and once the howling starts to sound deadly from around your thigh, you bolt.
but there was no good place to put the litter box for this cat. but we happened to have two bathrooms. let the cat poop in the bathroom, too? as fate would have it, one of these had a bath tub.
for eleven years, spot pooped in the bathtub.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
in this moment
A mud-stained white van hums along a grungy dirt road. Greeted by numerous blocks of boulder and rubble, many rains have carried away much of the smooth, tan dirt designed to "soften" this rocky trail. In these mountains of Belize, of this Central American rain forest, we bounce, we dance. For three gentle hours, rocking is now natural, even enjoyable- a part of any venture that cannot contain itself to the Hummingbird highway. Passing farm first, patches of green jungle and pasture with skinny cows that should be fat, we move through village of fragmented forest and family: a Mayan village, San Antonio.
On the fringes of jungle and pine, of fern and flood, we drive. Motion of rocking, loud voices reverberate through the cab; excited youth cannot contain their mouths. A last venture, we enter into this last moment. I have to soak it in. To remember this feeling, this company, together for once more.
And as we move, a song. A theme song of life and love in Belize and in the world, begins to shake through the car and through the mouths of us. A chorus we become, a vibration, as we shout to us and to one another, and to the forest realm, "everybody wants to be loved."
On the fringes of jungle and pine, of fern and flood, we drive. Motion of rocking, loud voices reverberate through the cab; excited youth cannot contain their mouths. A last venture, we enter into this last moment. I have to soak it in. To remember this feeling, this company, together for once more.
And as we move, a song. A theme song of life and love in Belize and in the world, begins to shake through the car and through the mouths of us. A chorus we become, a vibration, as we shout to us and to one another, and to the forest realm, "everybody wants to be loved."
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