Glory to the Host

I've witnessed a barrage of westerners

Winging their way into a self-glorified state

of accomplishment,

But they haven't yet dealt with the histories

which their empire is built upon

the bloodstain cries of massacres

And exploitation.

I'm a raw mind now, but these are ideas

you've never thought of

yet

Until they become PROFITABLE to you.

(I'm speaking now) To the host.

Don't it always happen this way.

Anger is a Secondary Emotion

Fine, I'm angry enough to change

I'm settled enough to jump off

I'm free enough to cry

Finally, I'm being myself again.

we're all the same

I'm not that different from you

but you are different from me

I'm not who you think I am

but you are who you think you are What makes

us different from anyone else on the planet?

That one ill girl, she had rashes on her mind

But you still feel she is less than you

You fools

There are no original ideas

Only a perverted sense of ego

a Fair Trade

sometimes, I feel cheated.

that the only

thing I got out of

years

of agony

and hidden

pain

is compassion but then I

remember

that compassion is what fills

Your heart

and that

means

that I am

filled

with Your heart

Known

The best way to know everything

Is to realize that you know nothing

But that the One who knows all

Knows you

afar

I want to be completely honest

I let go of you the moment I saw you

Because I thought memories may wound me again

Like they sometimes do

Though dreams could never revive my hopes

The way God does

I fear

I do dream about you

Traces

Traces of a life

I've yet to exist

Visit me like a vapor

I strain my neck

To capture its thoughts

And discreetly

They fade away

His Voice

I'm brave beneath the mire, You say
Your trust in me produces fire.
I crave Your mysterious touch
Loving me so much, so much
A rush that quenches my deepest desire

My response has never been so right
To the beauty of the face of love

You have found me beautiful in Your sight

And all is well with my soul.

My God

Life is not love without You

The way it's supposed to be

I adore you with all my heart

My beautiful, amazing, brilliant

Maker of the universe

Minority complex

You are just as confused as I am

Don't pretend you know yourself,

You multi-ethnic mutt

We came to the States as beggars

You and I,

So what, you have an American mom.

Aren't we acting for the same crowd?

Feel pressure to perform, do you?

Go ahead, release it

Feel the artificial warmth

of applause and public recognition

To appease your aching minority complex.

We've all got one

Trust in the Lord, you say

What do you have to bring?

A monologue, I'm sure.

Another round of holy applause for this clown, please

"Find your own voice" he tells me.

A helpful young cheek, this one

I find many to be just as helpful.

To the hidden people, whose histories have

Been exploded out of their compacted intestines

Brains ripped out and compartmentalized

Into this damn society's grid.

There is no use for you in this world as you are now

Don't let the accolade fool you.

And yes, I'm passive aggressive.

Deal with it.

God is Jealous

Would a heart that is frozen

Bitterly flowing

Endless reminders of pain



Dare to believe once again

And be revived by

Your name that is Jealousy

I let her go, but she is still with me

Who you are truly

Is

An honest woman of great beauty,

A wife of noble character,

A source of endless maternity.

You are filled with love

Warmth

Mercy

Kindness, justice, an advocate and a faithful

Pillar.

But you lost your way somehow,

Forgot the beginning of life

Forsook the hope in my eyes

Forfeited the rights to my heart.

I forgive you,

To the Father

Who deals with all in His grace and love

I’m sorry you had missed out

On the truth of who you really are

And the rest of us through you

I will remember all the few moments

We had when

You touched my heart, and we bled together.

Deep inside, I know you are still alive

I know you are with me.

I believe we will be who we are

One day.

Invalid

This is the past I say, dare I say

All in the past no more today I feel

no more

You said, don't feel the past

You said, don't feel

The way you feel anymore

Did you hear my voice I ask?

Did you hear your own?

It's never been this open, I tell you

The truth I am

The truth, I am

the truth

You see

Reluctantly

I was so

Lost in what you forgot to see in me

while I was yours to keep, to reflect your self esteem

That you forgot to cry and recall your past, indeed

That you forgot to believe in me

You forgot to believe

in you in me

While you forgot to feel, you killed my love

My dear you killed my love

You fought the will to bleed

While you forgot what's real, you killed my love, my dear

You killed my love

for you for me

What does He see in me

What design did You build in me?
This longing, misdirected,
Silences all devastating pleas.

What fever did You ignite in me
That I would sequester
My own body parts, a gruesome ordeal?
I'd rather bleed and stagger
Than to stumble out of Your presence.

What pleasure do You find in me
That You would remain faithful
To this faithless heart, my Love?

The first to die will live to last

Death I do, this is my deed
Indeed this death, to life I bleed
I bled to life, when blood I took
And take His life for mine to lead

A hope to end all hopes on earth
A life more final than its own birth
is what I've found, the day I died
I denied myself to find my worth

No more pain, hunger or thirst
No longer orphans, no longer cursed
For the first shall fall behind to last
And the last shall be found as first

Love of a child

This one is new, I picked it up from the curb

And waved it to my mother who was waiting by the car door

frowning, dear child what is this dirty thing?

A torn sock, gutted and loosely strung with threads all around

reminded me of a picture book I once read about a raggedy doll

who came to life upon meeting the love of a child.

Perhaps, I thought

if only I could love it, it would come alive!

Love it tried I, my mother disapproved and hurried,

Grumbling under her breath about the junk I brought home.

Why do you like this garbage? Why don't you like new dolls,

like all the other normal children?

I could never stop beaming, the imaginary doll

was already coming to life, buttons and yarn and the whole nine yards.

Loving her! He is such a delight, he's actually beautiful

But mother has plans, and her heart has forgotten what it means

to bring dolls to life. dirty, she mutters

Please don't throw him away

I pleaded

Don't

(because I love him)

I'll throw it away, I promise

But I kept him alive in my drawers

Dancing, and singing, and telling me stories until bedtime

He makes me laugh (I thought to my mother)

but she will never remember the feeling.

He is able to make us stand

Things are beginning to align.
People have said my whole life, "She is a lost cause".
Everytime I hear it, I feel a deep resonance in my soul, something placed in me since birth.
A curse passed down from my origin, speaking of abandonment and futility in love.
Are these people calling out the truth which fits in the cavity of my soul? Or its emptiness?

Be careful what you speak forth.

I am tempted to surrender to this voice, the despair of hopelessness.
"Abandon her for she is abandoned"
(I wonder if this is what you are experiencing, my friend of signs and wonders)
"Abandon her for she will abandon you"

Time has nothing on the Lord.
One day I could be here, the next day I am a thousand years ahead of everyone else.

"But do not let this one fact escape your notice, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like one day."
2 Peter 3:8

Every man

Every man is a new man,
Not one is ever the same again.
No man is himself, but a shadow
Of the man he really is.

Every man is a new man,
That I meet albeit in the same places and the same context
And the same times as before
They all go about, in boyish curiosity
In secret quests and charging pursuits
In sulking defeats and fiery tempers
Satisfied, yet discontent with ambition.

Every man is a new man,
His condition does not define him.
His reason exceeds and tries him.
But faithful he remains to the truths in his heart,
To beat of his own heart.

the Truth is too good

Can't I just stay here with you forever?
You are so good to me. You are so good.
You're everything I need.

How could I have forgotten, slipped for a moment
And decided to take control
Of my own needs, to find a solution for myself?

You take me back
You are my caretaker
You are my lover
You are my all

Psalms 4:4

In your anger do not sin;
when you are on your beds,
search your hearts and be silent.
Selah

My heart is broken and leaking out all over the place.
I'm angry... so angry.
There, I said it.

I guess I WAS hiding.

Mom

I rested this morning before your love became true
A touch on my forehead was the beginning
of Understanding
Everything I had lost since my childhood
You were timid and beautiful,
Yet your softness was foreign.

I felt like you were saying,
"You don't have to beg for my love any longer"
And it took many tears for me to receive it,
Because I didn't realize

That I am still your daughter

Co-dance-pendant

Believe you me,
I know me you
And meanwhile, you mean well
But well is not meant
To replace what is meant to be
Between me and you.

Ursprache

I can't sleep because everyone and everything wants me to be a part of it.
Aching for oneness, the whole entire world.
While it cries "Ursprache" in the belly of the beast.

What needs are so great they would forget how to be met?
What does it see in me that would fulfill its destiny?

A conduit for its passions,
A host for its lust
The Worldly opinion always weighs so heavily upon us
"You must! You must!"

Do I aim for greater things or stand very still
In the sovereignty of time, like the timeless sage
Without a burden of ego or will

Or does My Responsibility carry this burden
To bring forth the new season
with its own manual brute forceful reason?

Perhaps one day the everythings and everyones that ever need me
will trust me to become the me that it never knew would be what it needs.

regenerating

losing effort to keep distance selfish ideologies 

died in heart transition flight posing to wrench 

a precious gem from a desert landscape deep deep
died again and again through each
layer flesh and bones and organs shutting down
cycle growth is sunset sunrise vital rhythm
growth, up up
spinning and shedding infiltrating stratosphere
resonating interdimensional space
between neuropathways and heart beats dance thunder
Stars between feet kind of motion in the ocean
Traversing between mind and matter and all that chatter
babbling Laugh ha ha grow ha
Explode you twinkling eye and wrinkle in time, loved that book
sense is none you happy child awakened wide

sometimes the worst pain is right at that threshold of knowing what is the truth and the best and is love and realizing everything you've ever done to substitute it

and the best feeling is the release
of everything you've used to substitute it
to let in the real thing

Father hope

when I sit here and think about
whether you will ever know
how I felt about you, I would feel a death
Those tired fears exhale gently,
And I'm released.
Strength is the surrender of my soul
to the Lord
to my Lord

the screaming tears are never wet
but they are sweeter than blood
when your wound in me is reopened

I would sacrifice my heart
like you wanted, needed
to make you feel like a man
(you wonder why I would let others)
when your wife could not fulfill that
you could take from three more
three more mothers you would have ravished
to make you whole

Thank God
I am the only one I let you ruin
I say to myself

But it's not enough for my heart to heal
to escape the way I feel
to forget
the heart I had for you before
the yearning and trusting and beautifying
effect your love would have had on me

Would have on me

Has

A tiny, timid, new.....
But I'm afraid to say it

There is no absolute Truth

Because Truth is a Person you have absolute faith in

Life is

A process of translating reality into truth.
Death is the consequence of preferring to settle for a more convenient reality.

Practical advice

Love and nourish the weakest parts of yourself - they are what connects you to the source of Life and communicates the deepest need of humanity. They are the most fought over and highly prized among the heavenly hosts.

Hey me, find yourself!

Tired of cheating to live, lying to be free
Sticking to my guts is about the only
practical advice I can abuse
Genuine love is about the only thing I can refuse

Who am I really, you dear self?

Inside out, you've bled throughout
But your heart is still hiding out
In a cage for someone to unlock,
Or at least be discovered, simply to be

What I think about at least once a day

Where does this sadness come from and how can I make it beautiful?

My lovely sister holds the universe for me, for one morning

Sometimes Life just falls into your lap in a messy, tear-stained heap and you are just supposed to shower it with kisses and hugs and love it.

Before the foundation of the world

I remember a time...

Before the foundation of the world, I sat there in the heavens, basking in His presence and knowing it for eternity as my home. I observed all that was being created by my Father, having myself been created out of a spark in His eye. I knew nothing but pure love and joy and righteousness in the courts of the Lord.

I watched as the beautiful blue globe withdrew further and further away from Him, into the darkness, men in compelling and violent awe of the power of free will given to them. His firstborn turning away even from Him, exhausted from the distance and desirous of the convenient pleasure around them. I watched as the Father wept, and experienced the most sorrowful yearning to ever be felt by anyone, but could not be consoled. He knew he had to feel it. All of us could not bear His heart to be broken. Even then, He was very deliberate in all of His actions, and threw a celebration in the heavens, as He sent His Son down to fulfill the mission of His heart. Even in the place outside of time, we could never cease to be in loving awe of this Entity, the Creator and source of life. It was not possible. The fullness was always understood and accepted.

One morning, I boldly asked the Lord to send me to carry His light onto the lonely ball.

"But they want to know You, they MUST! They just don't know it yet. You can do anything, Father, your heart must be known to all. It is finished!"

"My child, it is a long and weary journey. The message is joyful and my Spirit with you, but the atmosphere will almost kill you. As long as you carry only My burden and walk in my presence, nothing will harm you. Do you want to? You may be tempted to forsake Me"

Perhaps I was eager already, and rushed forward. Perhaps I was excited for the journey, a bit curious but also full of the hope of His glory.

He trusted me, with His message to the world. I was naive, but He knew it was my naivety that was gentle enough to preserve, and the boldness that would see it to the end. Did I have a doubt in my mind? Did I even hesitate? I could never imagine what existence would be like apart from His presence..."I am always with you, I always love you, I always will, as long as I AM," He would tell me but I couldn't fully understand what "always" meant.

I would go through indescribable lengths to remember Him, and He to pursue me...

One thing I know now for sure is that I would have never known Love as much as I do, had I never asked to be born into a world without it.

Multiples

I'm sometimes so afraid to reveal my true self

That it all comes out some other way

I feel like I contain thousands of little children

Each with its own secret

And they know that the Big Mother 

Does not want them to be expressed

They hold secret meetings in large cohorts

To discuss the possible solutions

When a consensus has been reached

They find the strength to defy authority.

Prophecy of the new season

Three paths...
One is short, dark and "low". (Possible marriage)
One is long, "higher" and filled with potential of power, but with a struggle against confusion and a sense of "scrambling" against a glass ceiling. (Urban Planning)
One is the "highest", headed towards a great white orb that melts into an multi-dimensional painting of many interpretations. I am led by the sound of bells. (Bells sounding from the church, the consistent element through an evolving landscape over time). There is peaceful green pasture and I have naturally followed it before I even realized it was right. (Design)

I will be happy.

The eyes of our heart

We have to see and hear with our hearts

Not just with our eyes and ears

Words and arguments are tools, weapons, and fortresses

But only a heart can decipher a heart

Only One

That time hits again.
I've done all I can, and there's still more to do.
I look at the clock, and want to just lay down and sink back into the beginning of time.
I want His presence, where I just know...who He is. Who loves me.
The times I can't seem to find that love for myself from myself, from my family, friends, lover or music, art, food, clothes, images, worldly riches...
There is one who is pure Love, the source, the truth, the one and only...infinite and Good!

I've lost my mind and heart to this Person...
The only Person who deserves to have it all

Childhood thoughts

Culture has always been a major topic for me. I have a lot to say about it, if anyone has an ear to hear. But lately I have not been able to speak about it because of the deep pain interwoven with my story that makes me afraid that people will not want to hear it. I feel rejected when that happens, so I usually just shut down. A couple of trustworthy people I have told, but otherwise I have learned to be silent against my own will...But the power of narrative is that I can become free from all that I have experienced if I just let it out.

I don't even know where to start, but not all stories have a beginning and an end.

I was a happy child, sensitive and bright and always full of joy. All my Sunday school teachers expressed to me how I stood out because of my brightness. My parents told me that as a child, I was adored by everyone at church. I remember being so happy and full...I didn't even know I was Korean until a kid in 1st grade asked me if I was Chinese. I remember answering, "yes" and then coming home to tell my mom who corrected me. She was a hard, quiet lady from that time. I don't remember playing with her much, and she was always distant. She told me once that she didn't talk to me until I was 3 years old when I was singing incoherently to myself and she realized that I was singing the lullaby she sung me to sleep. I remember that song and how dearly I felt towards my mother, and how much I loved her.

Gosh, I loved her so much. I almost forgot that feeling.

The song that was really comforting, she would pat my back as she sung it and it was the most beautiful sound in the world and I always looked forward to that feeling. It was like being inside her heart and feeling the beats, like it was inside her womb. I was a part of her and could have carried the wounds within her and heal it, I knew I had that power, if she wanted to let me. She didn't realize that I was closer to the Great Power above that could heal her, and all she had to do was open. She thought because I was a child, she had to protect me from her emotions. Once in a while, my father would explode on her and then the source of that love would abruptly shut off. I loved my father too, so I just wanted him to be happy with us and love my mom. I remember even when he got really angry and pulled out his belt on me I knew I just had to bear it for a little while until he felt better. I always quickly recovered and showered them with hugs and kisses afterward. I just wanted to let them feel the love I felt.

The rain makes me reflective

I met with an older friend for lunch, and went about my usual ramble with unusual restraint because I recently discovered the significance of narration. I wanted to look through his eyes instead of tell him my view, since I have seen all I could see with my own. I spoke of hopeless and an estranged life, and he spoke of the balance of greater things. I felt so safe in a view which encompassed many sorrows and joys into one story of peace, and a victor. The wisdom that comes from age is too often neglected; it is shelter in a storm.

I went to the beach today, driving up highway 1 north of Santa Cruz. The sky looked unusually large above the freeway, the clouds were majestic and I learned their names. The big white fluffy clouds are Cumulus, the white and dark clouds are Cumulonimbus, and Nimbus are the dark stormy clouds. I thought that it must have reflected God's heart because I once could not believe He had room for me there. While we were quiet in the car listening to the synthetic beat of the music, I remembered the times I had buried myself into a cave of illusions. Raves, they called them, where the music and drugs would artificially weave a harmonious state of mind into the collective conscious and overheated bodies melted deliriously in the corners of the room. There was a deep, subconscious belief that we had to escape reality to experience peace, love, unity, and respect.

We wondered how long it would take to ride the 1 all the way down to Socal as we sliced through the fog that hung so carefully in the trees.

Davenport.

Nimbus clouds were hanging ominously over the distant sea, and two great birds were floating still in the air. There was no other reason for them to be outstretched in the wind, in the same spot for the half hour we were there, except for sport. We huddled in a blanket for warmth but the distant Nimbus clouds had arrived to a spot over us and began to water us furiously. On our way back, we found a hole in the wall Mexican place that was actually a deep cavern for happy hour and I took two shots of tequila for the sake of having no occasion and that it was Wednesday and I'm not employed, dammit. The bartender had deep blue eyes like the beach and talking to her was like splashing in them.

Small group was pleasant because a song was birthed out of a prayer for our brother and the fullness of Spirit was aching to fill him. He was in France for business school and the prestige and academic pressure was depriving him of sleep and community. We let the Spirit express itself through song to feed a hungry orphan. I wish we could have let himself respond with the tears he held back but he was rushed off to another meeting.

The next activity was making collages, and we revisited our 5 year old inner child as we cut and pasted magazine pictures, singing childhood songs and making fun of each other. Children are usually very confident, because they know who they are. It is very powerful in its purity, to simple BE. It is the strongest force in the world to Be Yourself As You Are.

Each person presented in front of the whole group and I was amazed at the depth of each person's soul, although perhaps it wasn't so apparent to anyone else. I was ashamed of mine until it was on display and I had little to say, but everyone came in to fill the silence with their depictions. "You're close to the source of Creation, the Creator. You enjoy making something amazing out of nothing, a true creator. You want to do something beyond this world."

Sometimes it's good to be reminded of who you are.

It is not a game, and the rebound may not win

I guess, love is letting go, a battle of hearts
You cannot win until you lose

If you don't share the vibe, then leave me tonight.
I'd rather be alone
To heal from these wounds upon wounds
Of which you have graduated with honors, a general with medals
As in all the rest of the departments of your life

I don't have the energy to try or to fight,
I've lost it before, and I am in the ward.
It's a sick sick world out there
I am but one casualty, invalid
Can't you see what you're dealing with?

The smell of anesthesia fills the air, but we're all still aching in here
Leaving me but the inside of my eyelids
To agree with sound of the promise
Beating underneath the bandages, summoning
The day that I see the sky again

Home

I thought about my parents' careful house, the stillness and the silence as the three of us crept along the dusted furniture and the vacuumed carpets - as though we did not so much occupy the space as move within it like stealthy lodgers. If you left a glass on the kitchen counter for more than five seconds my mother would whisk it away, wiping up the wet ring on the Formica with a furious sweep of her sponge. Covering out tracks, removing evidence of ourselves. It seemed to me we apologized for our very existence in the very way we lived, bowing and ducking as though to escape the notice of some vengeful god. It wasn't life that was lived there, but eternal penitence.

~Katherine Min, excerpt from Secondhand World

Beauty

I wondered what being beautiful had done for my mother other than give her no direction in which to gaze but into her own reflection. The state of being beautiful was indiscriminate; it was there for peasants and kings. You couldn't reclaim it for yourself. You could hide it under chador or veil, but it would be there still, more enticing for its secrecy.

The state of being unbeautiful was a more exacting affair. If a man found you attractive, you knew it must be so, that he must have looked hard and long to see something within you and was not just another wistful aesthete panting after loveliness.

I was suddenly glad I wasn't beautiful, that I didn't suffer my mother's misfortunes of vanity, her disappointment in how far beauty could get you, which was, in truth, not as far as one might imagine.

~Katherine Min, excerpt from Secondhand World

Limerick for the Narcissist

Scrupulous, the work of an arrogant loner.

He becomes vulnerable to all sorts of murmur,

Apprehensively seeking a crowd

To approve him being allowed

To be considered his own intellect's owner.

It's funny how much we can assume we are lonely
When all we are is undiscovered.

Someone called me a jerk today.

For deciding not to go party with them.
It got me thinking. What is a jerk?

(1) a contemptibly naive, fatuous, foolish, or inconsequential person.
(2) a quick, sharp pull, thrust, twist, throw, or the like; a sudden movement.
(3) any sudden, quick movement of the body, as in dodging something.

To sum up,
A naive fool who likes to suddenly thrust away from or dodge the current of the present world, pursuing its opposite direction.

It made me think...
Can you define someone by their movement? Or do you define them by their mass?
A feather in a vacuum falls at the same speed as a bowling ball in a vacuum.
Too bad we can't test all our theories in a perfect vacuum, to treat all mass equally.
At the speed of light, mass increases and becomes a relative mass.
As I move towards the speed of light, I don't even notice that I am becoming larger, otherworldly, and incomparable to stagnant masses. The light defines me.

It makes me realize that no matter what, I will be offensively large to some people who have decided to stay in the same place forever. And my movement might make someone uncomfortable.

Absently used

I am not my own
& I am not yours
I am but alone
But I am not yet one

Our hips align before
Our hearts even decide
There is nothing more
Nothing more resides

Did we hit the finish line
Before we even tried
You're laughing as I cry
You leave me out to dry

The Surburban cement-scape is becoming all too familiar to me in its brutally vacant rawness.
Everyday I wake up to a window with a humble tree tending to quiet sky-whispers, on a tiny plot of grass adjacent to the sea of asphalt. It is a daily reminder of the taxes which are rendered to Caeser, which goes into the infrastructure of the world's most cruel and backwards economy. So all flamboyant illustrations aside, it gets really tiring to drive from place to place, connected to a cellphone to direct my next destination. Intellectualizing the concept of 'space' and 'property' can relieve the tension, but only produces wormwood juice. Maybe it's relevant, but I can talk to myself using a string of disjointed climax thoughts which conceals the valleys in between, pretending to be expressing the highest truths when my fellow vessel detects a desperate scramble within my deepest being for connection and release. I have the most curious ability to detach and then reattach to humanity, but I often pass it by without notice, until my hunger pulls me back. The hunger is so human, and it aches for the purest divinity, but my appetite has been trained to receive an unnatural diet. If humanity were like the natural landscape over which we've piled layers of cement over in order to transport these steel modules which carry money-driven motivations and other fragments of illusions to build the Babylonian empire, as my heart of flesh has been paved over with stone, then where can it find the tiny crack through which a strong vine can break through and all the organic creatures of the earth can find refuge and life in its Majestic, Eternal Growth? Our hunger is this crack. I must'nt neglect this tiniest, lowest voice of my spirit whose cry is for the Vine.

Truth before love. Love based on truth.
Please touch me, hold me, be held by me. Frosting, sweets, junk love.
Growl, I bite you! Wild beasts roam, without a master.
Control is not love.

I'm holding onto the words surrounding you, like an aura and a veil.
Do you love me? My hope fills me with desire
Yet you desire to be desireless
Listen to me, wait for me, care to build me up.
Love builds up, but knowledge puffs up.
When the perfect comes, the imperfect will fade away.
Such is the glory of man.

The glory of man is a woman.
Who was deceived, and caused both to fall into temptation.
Fall of mankind, separation from God.
Who am I to separate man from God?

lonely togetherness

We entered in the new world, together
We ached for the land subdued
You swaggered to its coasts while I dug the soil
It was within our grasp
But distant
And words themselves were unattached, as ships
Without a captain on an unmapped region
Tossed and pulled by an earthly force
To attach our souls.
We held our bodies together, but our minds apart
Sending pieces of our hearts
On the ships across the reckless storm.
Upon receiving news of one, the other's
Yearning is temporarily soothed.
The solitude is gentle but mournful.

I birthed inspiration
last night. The contractions were less severe than usual,
Though it took a little while
The world formed a membrane around my imagination
and my joy was beginning
to suffocate.
I was tempted to plunge into the fog
where there is refuge from reality. Returning
to slumber, to the womb.

I lie awake, and unsullied

Willing to succumb to my mother's heartbeat
Reverberating throughout the cavern of ambition, where corpses of
Ill-timed dauntless pioneers have long since dehydrated

And the newest ones
swell their elastic skins in anticipation
Of liberation

Open and breathe, there is no darkness
Where we are going
In the flow, blowing through the cobwebs
And dust

The man of earth

We chimed the stars with our talk of destiny
Staring into its reflection on the twilight sea
Letting the roots unfurl into our flesh
And the branches intertwine.
You pinched its fruit for ripeness,
And the ripest ones descended from above your reach.

You traveled so far a distance, a sage
Communing with the leaves

Flower beds and snowy peaks cradled a lonely search
For the depths of richness, transcending the eye

Hungrier, still but you searched granite faces
Across mountain ridges
For a sign of divine compassion upon an earthly man.
The surface has yet to be pierced.

Cling

The hardened heart shatters my tongue
I taste the distance with my feet when I
Cling to the Love that binds for eternity

Spirit life

That flesh were mist, I could vanish when you exhale.
Open hearts lay bleeding on the surgeon's table
As He cuts away the garment of flesh.
That hope is reality, I walk on the waves when He calls.
Shadows respond to death, but my spirit responds to Life.
This Life has a name.

burdened

I woke up crying this morning because I was hurting from being in studio all week and weekend, sick and burdened. During our final reviews, the professors were critiquing our diagrams and axonometrics. After two and a half hours of painstakingly poring over each individual's work, as I was feverishly praying to Jesus to calm the storm in my head, they give us a break. I rush back to the studio to finish off the rest of what I needed and pinned it up. My work looks sickly and underfed, like myself. It's time for me to present, so I take a deep breath and exhale a stream of consciousness that seems to disturb the female professor, who frowns at me like I am a weed in a bed of beautiful budding sprouts. The class is a set of chess pieces. They are gentle with their criticisms, although I can feel their disappointment and I meekly nod at their suggestions. Of course, yes, I can do better, I will work harder. I can do that.

There is something serene to the surrender of my ambition to excel in this class. I used to be able to harness this energy, but I have grown beyond the point of grasping these fine hairs of theoretical education. The people in the class are brilliant and focused, but I cannot match their energy. I surrender to God, who is powerful above all authorities and thrones, and He is meek and humble. I find rest.

Z comes by, to give me acupuncture and we have a light conversation about people, thoughts about each other, some words of comfort. I am distraught, but I do not reveal it to him because he does not react well to anything that will upset his balance. I wonder if that will do well for our future. Perhaps I must struggle with this alone. Perhaps this is good for me. I am still learning a lot about myself. I cannot let fearful attraction be the center of my relationship with him.

A good friend comes over for a little while, and he is searching for something as well. It comes out reflectively through tranquil illustrations and observations. He describes a snapshot: A boy with a red helmet stand before his reflection in the pool. He holds an old yellow tether ball, and the pool reflects the blue sky. I want to know about this boy's life, but my friend does not want to put all of his cards on the table. We play with my prism glasses for a while, trailing our rainbow shattered fingers over the light. He ponders on how every experience with a friend may be the last one. I can see how much he has grown.

My inspiration washed over me like a sudden rising of tide, but I lost my grip and let it pass.
Lately, my thoughts have all been tied to the ocean. I wish I could open my heart to him, but I still haven't cracked the code myself.

I'm wasting time on the computer, blogging about my day. I have lots of projects due tomorrow, yet I am not alarmed by the amount of work due and am waiting to become desperate. It is the remnants of my self-destructive patterns, which are slowly washing away with the tide.

The Ocean

He tells me to enjoy life, it's like ice cream that must be consumed before it melts.
The dog barks, and splashes water from his bowl all over the sidewalk, the same place
where we played a silent game. Eye Heart You.

He can wink with his eyes closed.
Some people have a neurotic psyche, and you don't want to stare them in the eyes for too long.
Berkeley bums have hungry eyes, searching for the deeper nourishment seated within the hearts of tender humans. Sometimes I am running low myself, and I hoard my grain. I find out it is safe to share.

My knees have been less pained because he tells me to adjust my walking. I love my feet now, because he kisses them. I love myself now, because he kisses me. I want to teach him how to swim properly, even though he surfs. I want the ocean to remind him of me.

Accepted by God

Telling myself I won't go back,
I won't go back.
It's so beautiful, the mirage.
It's so devastating, the brimstone.
If I lose my saltiness, will the Lord turn me into salt?

But I'd rather be a fig tree,
Whom the Lord walked under one day,
Nourished by my fruit.

I can already hear the words you will use,
Ignorant, Fixated, Brainwashed.
But do you question why my heart turns away from
A seemingly good thing?
I have tasted better.

I hear His voice, and it is Life.
Truth, Flowing, and Free.

Shadow of God

There I go again, stumbling over myself
Retracing the steps of my childhood,
Fixed upon a mirror.
Captivated by Vanity's lies,
I forget the unseen reality in which I have been born.

Are you in love with my shadow?
Why do you beckon, when you want so much
To discard your own?

But I will never forget the day
My shadow met you, and we danced for a little while
In the reflection of a promise
Until my spirit realized that without God,
Nothing is perfect.

Free will

Your inspiration comes from the mountains and the moon
The ocean carries your desire, you ride her passion
Carving her body with your strength
All your life's momentum, released in a crashing moment
To discover your own depth.

How you carved through life, caught the waves from my heart
And translated it into another challenge.
You spoke to the waves, though they did not reply...
You did not wait for it. You could not obey.

How I wanted to speak!
But I've come to understand that I have no command
Over my own heart,
As of all realities. My waves gently lap your legs
As your face sets with the sun, hardened with determination
The water undulates from the rhythm of divinity
As you skillfully ride on your balance, exhilarated

I am engulfed by my own desire to have you
But you are but a man.

I have already been tamed once,
by one whose voice the wind and waves obey.
Under his command, I am in eternity
And one with the sky...
There is no other.

I beg the Master to change the seasons,
To unite us, to consume a man, defy your will
He tells me that He has given every man the universe
To discover Him, and the right to deny.
Now I am silenced once again, compelled to wait
As love does
For you, for you, for you
to discover the Author of the mountains, moon, and ocean.

The Lord is gracious and merciful;
Slow to anger and great in lovingkindness.
The Lord is good to all,
And His mercies are over all His works.

Psalms 145:8-9

Free

You make walking feel like flying
And waking like breathing
Trying like hoping,
Giving up like breaking free

Quiet despair

the vacuum in my room is unbearable
pregnant with aborted ambitions and all sorts of
empty reasons
the music kicks in, I am sinking

Even the sunlight through the leaves
are blinking,
Away the tears that never stood a chance
to illustrate the heartache

Of a tragedy that never ends
and the hope that always dies
Instead of me.

the Earth has many words

Smoke signals rises from your nostrils
when my eyes are hummingbirds
Flitting from the blossoms of your words
Do I dare say that you
Make me feel?

It makes me want to dance
To the earth's seismic activity
And stretch out into the galaxy

But when I look down,
I see my feet are bound
Like our words, like my heartbeat
I want you to compare my hair with
The night sky
The chilliest kiss of the season is here.

No use crying

I heard a screeching
when you coughed under your breath
you are distracted

your eyes are darting
My mind has split into two
To read your movements

To follow my thoughts
Spilling from my mouth like milk
That won't stop flowing

I am forever
Cleaning up after myself
The milk that I've split

f(Happiness) = Int(Acceleration of existence + (Rate of acceptance)^2)dv

I always thought happiness was not where I am, like a picture someone drew but I was not in it.

Song #2

I don't want to wake up because
I find myself being raped by reality
So I close my eyes and it all becomes
Simply another game to me

Like you, no one ever held my hand
And made me their own

Mr. Elvis Presley comes back from the dead
to play the redundant legend
While Thom Yorke wails tamely about
the angst of living alone

A rockstar's life is designed to be lonely
A rockstar lives only to roam

The pavement my feet can never avoid
Confines me from escaping into the soil
The costume I wear is always evolving,
Reminds me the shame of being unknown

So Jesus darling won't you be the one
To lead me on home.

Death of a seed

There were pieces of me all over the floor where I shattered. There are some of those who helped me pick some up, some who carefully stepped aside to avoid the mess, some who stepped on them on their way out, and others who stood there and rationalized how I could have prevented the fall. I lay there, picking up one splinter at a time, burning with anger and shame as those empty words bubbled over them. My mother and father, this teacher and that friend, this pastor, that other. I saw their outer shells, hollow with treachery and feeble love. I wallowed in bitterness.

Then God came and picked me up, and He told me that everyone will be held accountable for their own lives. He told me to look at Him and forget myself. As I moved towards him, the splinters were absorbed into the earth and a new figure sprouted from within, the very embodiment of true love.

He kissed me three times.

With each kiss, my skin broke open and my mind chimed three times,

'How happy are the seeds that sprout into root!
How happy the root that burgeon into stem!
How happy the stalk that bursts into blossom!'

The light figure walked to those others, the frail bodies standing over where the pieces had been, and He touched them so slightly. They broke open, like an egg, spilling out the sadness and pain that were bubbling into the empty words they had given me. Immediately I bent down to wash it away as if I saw my reflection in it. I stood up; my own heart welled up in compassion for them like fruit in the season of ripening. I forgot my bitterness, and I loved them.

--------------------
My father once told me, "Your happiness in life depends upon whether you see everyone around you as a devil or an angel."

I replied, "No, my happiness depends on whether I can see everyone around me as human or not."

Nowhere

Ohh, the sun fried crisp in honeyyy
Dripping on the refreshing skyyy
The businessman's hair gel is runnyyy
Money is his life is all a lieee

Thoughts made no sense in my head, but the melody was caught in my head like a fly in a spiderweb and the complex mapping of cityscape was enough to keep it reeling. I tried to skip out of the sheer irony of a medieval weather in a metropolitan setting, but the droning hub of pedestrians drowned out my whimsy. Immediately my feet landed on the cracked cement, dragging my head from the clouds. Shake. Walking along, I stepped up to a brisk stroll. But my eyes kept on watching. The city kept unraveling. My feet stepping. My heart drumming.

Night crept up like a yawn, but I was still restless. School was over, summer was before me like suburban sprawl and I still felt the vacancy that papers and exams left in my schedule. I hate that word - 'schedule'. It makes me think of a tall, skyscraping bureau of thousands of little knobbed drawers labeled with dry words. Each of those drawers has receipt-thin papers with procedures written on them in some sort of code. I've never cracked the code. The code is written in Courier New and is spotted with abbreviations. My mom cracks a wooden stick on my open palms. I shudder out of my dreamlike metaphor. Schedule means responsibility means obligation means punishment. I shudder at the word 'punishment'. The city is yawning.

Night makes me think of the blackness of my mother's hair that stained the hair of my sisters and myself. Thick and bundled like massive ink brushes that wait patiently on our shoulders like a writer's burden. They are brushes full of ink that have never stroked paper. We carry them like broken wings, impatient and walking and walking. I wonder, can we write our stories with our feet? Stroking the pavement, my pedestrian canvas, with the voiceless pounding of my unresolved arguments and hopeless thoughts. But the rubber on the soles of my feet erases my memories, rather than preserve them, as I walk down the street to the next chapter.

I still remember a time when I lived with them, I screamed too loudly when a moth escaped the kitchen cabinet and the cans of tomato sauce cascaded onto the stove and exploded. But somehow I was quiet in the sanctuary of my room when my arms were covered in red writing, swollen from pressure. (Why don't you care). At the time, I did not know what cliche meant, nor the fact that thousands of others were displaying symptoms of a birthing world. Had I known, my mocking laughter would have made more sense. My mom was cooking something in the kitchen that smelled fishy and salty, while my toddler sisters wrestled on the kitchen floor. Ha. Ha. Ha. The mirror reflection returns my laughter, jeering with large beady eyes and a jutted jaw that grows bigger and drooling. Its hair grows dry like a walnut tree in the winter and splits into millions of tiny threads that seep out into the corners of the mirror. Amused, I bare my teeth and growl. The reflection fades at once into my old, kneeling self. I'm not afraid of you.

A rapidly snarling dog jerks me from contemplation in front of my apartment. Anger immediately flares up within me towards the owner. I tell it, 'I know how you feel'. Cooing to the dog like it was a puppy, I dig into my bag to find the leftover pizza and begin to feed it. His growl softens to a questioning whimper, scarfing ravenously while occasionally snarling at me through his mistrusting and longing eyes. I see humanity in his eyes. I see myself in his eyes. Millions of splintered bodies, ravaged, neglected, hopeless faces are staring out in his tiny pupils that seem simultaneously overjoyed with the cold and dry scrap of food that it is consuming.

Kim's Post-urbanist take on Progress

Repetition is ignited by the unresolved. It manifests in insanity. When we are not in motion, we start to repeat the action, thought, emotion until it is satisfied with a collision that propels us forward. We submit to any force that will extrapolate our value to give us something in return, and we mistaken it for the right collision. Thus vicious cycles of exploitation, obsessive compulsive, abused turned abuser, molested turned molestor, and shortcomings are passed down from teacher to student, parent to child, state to citizen. We mimic others who appear to progress confidently, because they seemed to have received the collision and been resolved of something we have left gaping open.They seem to be moving from their previous status to another, one we assume to be better, because modernity is the 'mark' we aim for. When we receive collision in the wrong direction, we progress towards it the way a flower will grow towards fluorescent light in a dark room, perpetually in a state of want and need because we are stuck. We have not received a collision towards truth, but based on the movement alone we assume we have and "settle for it", and the level of life at which we last received contact repeats. Confidence is the acceleration of identity. Identity is the mass. Love is the true force. (Force equals mass times acceleration). God is the only source of true, eternal love. Jesus Christ is the only way to the true, living God. Christ is the Bare Life, the one whose death has no consequences (for he had overcome it), who stands outside human law and divine law as established by the Sovereign, "He who decides on the state of exception", who is made to suspend the law, yet keeper of the law, declaring that there is nothing outside the law, a figure of slavery and the state of exception which by becoming a rule grants the Good life (Agamben). Confidence is a desirable movement, for stagnancy represents failure, which deserves condemnation. It is the vehicle for progress, but if we get our confidence from the wrong source, we progress in the wrong direction. While existence is multidimensional, life is a bidirectional status. Thus if we do not progress towards life, we progress towards death.

from the dead

Two days under the sun, and I thought
the air was beginning to smell like bee spit
And the clouds were somehow
Lactating

I feel so raw, I thought under the sun,
so flawed. those were
My fishermen days

When men hung Jesus on a wooden frame
On a whitewashed wall
Whose gaze is fixed on a corner, eyes
Bleary

Oily Saint Mary, Moses!
Jerichos, echoes, my voice in a tomb.
How fleeting is life
How hungry the womb, I am
Numb, numb, numb.

One day, the Son of God appeared
His hair is white as wool, eyes of
Fire

And called out my name.

Today

Let Today be
Where I am, where I stand
In relation to eternity

Life is really One
day long
From wake to sleep
To right the wrong
From weak to strong, my soul

To keep
To hear Your Voice
And never let our hearts to harden
Or forget as in the rebellion

For we have yet
To rise and set, the call
For One day
You called Today.

Perfect in weakness

Symptoms of Post-traumatic
Reiterate in spastic motions, caught caught
Stuck
In a Caricature of myself. self
Nose, Trunk (Puncture, punch)
Punk, get out of my head!

Said the Artist's ghost from the dead
Get out of your mind.
Said the Shrink sh shSHhhhhh
(Everyone is watching) Shut your face.
Eyes, mouth is watering, brow

Everyone is faltering, now

Cheek, bones, rising in place
Contort tort torting (don't you frown)
Broke Broke

Broken and contrite basket case
Heart is sore and spirit poor
I am, finally

And, and, and
Finally and Complete(ly) before
You.

Land of ice

fold your heart

and fly my hair waves

of breaking continents of sound

breaking tunnels of echoing

glass

the melting mountains sing to me

wanting to swallow me

slice me, silently

rising with the fog, dripping

sweet sirens, soothing

bare, mellow. salmon, sorrow.

you sigh alone

you know if i’m at home

you sighed so silent

oh alone

you saw me fall down

like snow.

Lullaby of the South

I shattered the cradle at the crack of dawn

Crawled out to view the lake

Momma won’t come back, she’s long gone

With an empty bottle and a bellyache

Sleep, my brown baby, succumb to the beat

The moonlit drumming, the hopes of the villagers

Are as dusty as their bare feet

The silhouette of banana stalks

Stamps the bleeding weeping sky, the heat

Plucks beads of sweat from your cheeks

But I

Will remember to shatter the violence

That swallows your dreams in the night

Will scatter these seeds in the silence

That will burgeon into

Hush, sweet baby, this lush Branch

That will fight your fight

That will comfort you in the night.

World and I

Generations are enslaved by the prince of this age
Gaping wounds that are paved with a subtle rage.
I read this era like a tragic novel
I read chaos, grief and despair on every page.
Voices of an invisible chorus shrill to the chagrin
Each note stumbles over the last like an unpardoned sin
I hear their tears echo through a shell
I hear their bitterness swell and laughter wear thin
Like these garments of flesh, and its desires within.
I ask myself, where does life end and death begin?

Bubble

Anatomizing a translucent paradigm
Do scholars and pupils delight such fervor
Pontificating their esoteric opinions
In pungent wrinkles and salient murmurs

another simple song on my cheap guitar

He's calling, exhaling like the waterfalls
The rippling, rushing
is lovely, and loving

I hit the pavement running
Turn around to see if you're coming,
Let's go
Let go of

This world rains worries like ash
A whirling decadence
Burning to the ground
Swelling with the dead

I wanna hear the sound of His voice
I wanna fly to the sound of His voice
Let's fly to His voice
instead

The Dead Church is Deadly, the Deadly Nurse is Dying

Sitting in the pew, 'hush hush'
the holy suit at the pulpit speaks
Disclosed to him, the voice of God
We writhe on our chilly seats

'OH! The LORD!' sweating, flushed
I observe beads of eulogy glisten
upon his fervent brow
Oh, the burden of piety, 'listen!'

For God-fearing, knee-bending
uprighteous-delightless folk
I slap my lethargy silly
they roar at a mediocre joke

Reverence is a sea of bobbing heads
Spirit, a blister bloating with politesse,
We gather in your Holy name
How dare we otherwise suggest!

A vagabond enters our rheumatic midst,
For he's heard the Name before,
He's exhausted every possible route
Opened all but one small door

A humble door with a disfigured knob that welcomes all seekers, but rather
We hide it behind an elegant door, behind yet another, and another

Hallways are full, chambers sealed by
Curtains that separate sinner and slaughter.
The vagaond approaches a barren altar
Hoping to find a drop of cool water

Licking his cracked lips, blinking
Sinking in the quicksand of neglect
Beneath his blistered, bleeding feet
While we are too busy feigning perfect

He croaks his trembling request
In a peculiar dialect that was once our own
Words that bleed like the dying beast
With a dying breath he breathes alone

(another to be continued...)

Cliché

Secretly I wish I had never known you
Secretly it hurts to remember
The laughter we shared
That chapter of the frayed moments
Where we clung to each other
For dear life.

This is a bitter tear, a burden
so dreadfully sore.

This is a cliche, I write for you
Because there are no other ways
to express it anymore.

(04Apr.2006)

Figurine friends

They smile in effervescent bubble
Talk, laugh like peals of tinkle
Metal but melted
Hallow, hollow, a halo of curious
illuminate expression
Tracing dialect fiber aroud their
Plastic waists.
Plastic faces whose cheeks I love
They glare, pose peaceful concrete
rosy complexion

Haiku from my childhood

Drinking the winter
It shatters my tongue and tastes
Like bittersweet wine

Unwanted territory

Hey friend, I don't feel safe in this heat
With you in this mineral valley
of misnomers and gnomes.
They tickle my feet with a gritty beat
Smelting grins between magma stones;

They craft a whiskered nest, in which
my contiguous skin receives no rest,
Plucking empty whispers from the blue,
Aching for this heart to arrest.
Sorry, I never want this home with you.

So few, the euphonious strings to resonate
Extracting from marrow a salty residue.
I'd rather otalgic to flattery, for vain
Within me boils to a viscous hate
Imbued with the obligatory migraine.

Your pox and sores putrify my puerile wall
(I like a hyperbole, you understand),
To illustrate the futility of it all.
You're not the culprit like I am, a fool
But sorry, so sorry, I just don't give a damn
about you.

The perks of Berkeley

minutia and matter
and rhetorical chatter
ignited, amazed
in a cerebral haze

riddled with pithy
sayings and craving stage
scramble to establish the next leading
phrase; your spray of excitement
lands on my face

I surf the deluded mood
sailing sea sharp to see flat
on a silver contrabass
I'm a shining tune whizzing through a shiny tube
on a mission
with paper mache paste
pinched alleyway by the name of Haste

Home is a soothing room
blur and ebonics
emits from muted laptop speaker hives

Here I'm an arabian dancer
radioactive like cancer canoe riding
on crimson tide
with ninja knives like romancer

We light incense
smoke tendrils to
fill my dream eyes at night

the porch invites a discussion of
an apricot moon who wears
fog like a plume
like the elites

chambers below us echo
the raucous buffoons
who bark and guffaw
across our dimly lit street

as I lay there and wonder
if they ever get sleep.

Cesarean moonchild

As far as i could remember, the purpose of my existence was to win a prize. The nature of this prize is still a mystery to me, although my parents have always had a clear view of it, it involves success and conformity. I was to succeed, and succeed successfully, within the confines of our cultural values down to the color of my hair, my tolerance to hot food, my posture. Before I was even alive my life was mapped out in painstaking precision, and it crushed my will while I lay stoic in the womb.

Apparently I developed a suicidal tendency before I was born because the doctors had to cut my out of my mother's gut and untangle me from my umbilical noose. My parents would lay in bed at night and quietly rage at the misfortune of their marriage, murmuring hollow agreements about my future. I felt my mother's desires like a hot iron against my back, whispering hungry secrets into my fetal brain,

"You will be such a wonderful daughter, I will raise you like a flower, soft and yielding. You are my beautiful obedient, braided child. Perhaps you will go to medical school, but if that is too difficult I am willing to compromise because I love you so. So and so and everyone will know you are mine, and you won't be like those others that flock with the gossipers and toss their hair at the boys. No, you'll be my porcelain daughter and I will raise you as such. Maybe you can take over my dream to be an artist, and everyone will marvel at your ingenuity. They will see."

Even as I floated innocuously about her maternal cavern, I was confused at her dialogue. I felt that she wasn't talking to me, but rather at one of the unfertilized eggs in her ovaries. Whatever it was that summoned such fervent motherly love, I wanted it badly and convinced myself that I would go through great lengths to earn it. My prospective life spanned out in front of me like a distant pool of water, waiting to be perfectly pierced with a perfect dive 400 meters up. Mother, I don't want to jump. Please mother let me stay on this platform, the music is lovely and from what I can fathom these emotions are truly exquisite. But I'm afriad of the fear you so innocently deny. What if i lose my balance in the air or my head explodes from the impact of water or pressure underneath? I heard that you can lose an eardrum if you hit the water at the wrong angle, and then I really will go about my entire life losing balance. Balance is important, you know, because it helps coordination and mobilitiy, it's a talent, really. And with it comes grace and sanity. And stability like electrons and photons in the elements that my body is formed with. I was there for a split microsecond, like a blue flicker and then I became a billion atoms, multiplying like my soul was in a hurry to manifest into this motal realm, and through the whole process I remember feeling such overwhelming purpose in every animated atom...and balance. The molecules were in deliberate accord every chemical interaction. You wanna know something funny mom? I thought I was going to turn into fire, like the consuming, breathing Father, and it wasn't until my head formed that I grasped this dimension in my being. I am water, like the Spirit! I am a human, female, sojourner, a creature of space, time, will, faith in a perishable container.

So you see,
I have this one chance
and it's my life,
so couldn't you let me stay
here for a little while longer?

Happy 5th

Absolute means terror inviting discreetly but certainly frightening
nonetheless though power cannot exceed that whose value in writing
With ink stains on flattened tree threads though indirectly blighting
the very ground we once stood so harmoniously united

this ground upon which we built these epochal titans and towers
from trillions of units which served its massive corporate powers
Invincible, with freedom and justice for All who compromises ours
for theirs, in a blind anarchic allegiance to the wages for hours

and hours upon hours they plotted revenge for pain couldn't deny
as their loyalty and our Goddess crashed waves rocks ships gone awry
as their dignity we robbed through a game of demand and supply
The Game winking malice to her subjects' torturous cries

Cries like the black crows filled the blood-sweet sky...

one man's fantasy is another man's reality

Somehow, in the middle of the fairy tale
When the noble knights were riding up to
a dame singing with a nightingale
The dragon split open and shattered waterfalls
The castle guards catapaulted over
the molding castle walls
The moat dried up along with its fishes
in the bed
Our stealthy narrator got an aneurysm and
fell down dead
Then when all the green midgets and
chipmunks and hairy-ass gnomes
clocked out and headed back to
their low-income homes
The silver-striped gold-feather-winged
magical unicorn
Got shot by a hunter lit up on coke and PCP,
who eventually stumbled back to his computer
filled with internet pixie porn.
Despite investigative efforts by Dateline NBC,
which still makes him deucedly nervous,
He continued until he got caught and issued
A century of community service

(another to be continued...)

&ersand

punctuated by comma
my plural sighs
effulge this comma this
crystalline concept
colon the salt of destiny,
whose
my stagnant skies
attempt to condense (parenthesis)
but quote
I am but a wandering mind
end quote

hoping is breathing end
keep comma
on comma
hoping period.

Collateral damage

is pretty crappy.
Trigger happy,
What a trippy thought
I'm a hippie, caught
Up in the moment
Swimming against the current
without much thought
without her pot.

They

Drugs were my comfort
because she salted my wounds
Strange men were my counsel
because he squandered my dignity and worth.

Slandered, threatened, demonized
Yet neither feel the need to listen or sympathize.
Except to criticize
Something that is a by-product of their ignorance.

My voice ripped out of my throat, and my right to exist as myself.
Locked into a prison of ideologies and condemnation
Planting fear and shame into my daily walk
An enemy, beasts and demons created within me,
Nurtured by Their self-denial
Self-righteous
Self-hatred was my home, Suicide my prayer

In this ideo-fuckin-logical lair
To my left, Punishment
To my right, Failure
Above me was Damnation
Below me all Hell

broke loose to set the shit free that hit the fan-
fare that cost me a life worth living for-
feit
everything

They pretend that this struggle is a figment of my imagination
A sitcom goof, a casual stumble
Slip of the mouth, by mere folly
Slip of the mental process
to process and filter
what they wanted me to hear

But

Negligent manslaughter is a crime too
In the process of Their effort to hide their own weaknesses
Exploiting me for mine

Filia

Sisterly, orderly
Inferiorities hover
over and over
through former endeavors
From only to never
It's clever, you're clever.

Fatherly, motherly
wondering somberly,
Hoping and wander
from moment to moment
Such wonder, such awfully
Sorrowful hunger.

for

A scuba Diver on the ocean floor

I was replaying my faceless past like a
recurring nightmare in fast
Forward the pauses catch a fish that swells with
the oceanful expression of agony on my face.

these persisent
Sisters are sirens with silver scars
And mercury tears.
to sing to
No moon, sweet music
My brown yarn baby doll, lips
Lips
Over my soft eyelids, folding

There are still life Van Goghs in my
memory aquarium
like koi fishes swimming in a carafe
in a knot

But yet I have not my submarine home
twisting faces on a piano scale
And a wooden skeleton of family portraits
Rattle nervously on a bruised wall

Sketch, tetch, wretched
sketching skeletons in my head.
Emaciated, faces
tracing laces through the threads.

When Granola met Yogurt

When Granola met Yogurt, she tossed her strawberry hair
Fireworks lit the dawn sky and passion filled the air
Granola suddenly turned sheepish, his insides felt queasy
His awkward oatmeal clumps made Yogurt quite uneasy

They spent all morning together and hung out again at noon
They even stole some time after the arrival of the moon
Together were these two, through sunny or rainy days, or foggy
Yogurt found Granola charming even when he turned soggy

Granola fell in love with Yogurt's silky, voluptuous flavor
Unlike the others who were sugary but not quite something to savor
He'd never before met a dairy as cultured or naturally sweet
Lying in the glass, Yogurt snuggled against his chiseled wheat

She whispered in his ear, "Will you love me until the day I run out?"
He serenaded, "To you, my dulcet treat, I will stay forever devout
My love for you is like Cereal for his Milk, Lentil Soup for his Spoon."
She replied, "Good, my expiration date isn't until the fifth of June."

The time came for Yogurt's leave; she finally expired
To the place all Yogurts go, leaving Granola stale and tired
And Granola stood alone on the dusty shelf long after Yogurt died
Waiting for the day he could once again be by her side.

The Epic Saga of the downfall of Body

Tone it down, Eyes tells Brain,
The glare is my despair.
Are you satisfied? Heart inquires Brain.
Brain sniffs as if without a care.

I don't mean to intrude, Ear remarks
But my drums are beginning to decay...
Do you think you can send Arm and Hand
To deliver some house or reggae?

But all Brain delivers is a scowl to Mouth,
Rigidly engaged in his duties
And the impish private parts below
Send him images of fleshly nudies

We want food! chants Tongue and Stomach,
fiddling in their slippery places.
We want love, whispers Heart timidly,
painting her hopeless faces.

Brain sits tightly in his brittle skull
Ignoring his deprived subordinate members,
Slowly their voices dwindle away
Soon their pleas Brain hardly remembers

Now that all you organs, scoffs Brain
Have finally begun to cease,
I can employ Will and Mind
In this rare moment of bodily peace

He then proceeds to withdraw ideas
From his account with Memory Bank
Brain gets busy with his work, oblivious
To his dimishing think tank

Then neuron synapses begins to misfire
Inside his medulla oblongata
As the blood thinly flows to his cerebrum
He begins to lose acumen and dogmata

Suddenly Eyes collapse from the strain.
Stomach gathers all of Digestive System
To protest against Brain with violent riots,
Proclaiming never again to assist him

Lungs takes a blow from this Organ Failure
Causing panic in Brain to throb
Are you there Heart, can you feel this?
He moans out softly with a sob.

[to be continued...]

Nig h/tma (in r.ea tri p

Protruding purple eyeballs of fecal
Masks jeering
Mocking fear.killme i scream,
drip, chin, fold, tuck

Chanting my ancestral name.drip
to beckon the death of light into me and
fill my consciousness with.drip
.killme.Suspicions.drip
All is against me.blood

To beckon.killme.the death of light into me.killme. and fill.killme.my consciousness
with sus.killme.picions
Echoechoechoecho Alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll.killkillkilldie.
is against me.drip

Flashbacks to bad mushtrips.killme. of
Eons of history stuck(red,drip)
in an endless.killeatmyheart. loop
of 5 (lickdrip)
minutes 42042042Zero hours
is the frame of the loop.isitoveryet?drip
Loop
(overyet?)?

Ah, it's you again.

Palm lines trace footsteps in my
desert Hands that are wrinkles of
Yesteryear's anxiety grips my Slumber

Mute without Breathing normally
formally known as Comfort...
Baked goods, aka Mother
(faker) aka Mirror

Smiles back through the
window pain when i frown
lines travel down the corners of my
mouth opens to draw words from the
Well, I guess we all feel the same

Extinct

Floated iridescent water bubbles
That scent the room with euphonic
Heartbeats
Dripping upon the glare of Forgotten
I've forgotten

The seven plagues of woe
That veiled the frivolous sun
Until meltdown in the Nuclear sky
Pierced through the dragon's Eye

A magnificent swoop into the ebbing
Horizon,
That maroon slice
Percolating through the ragged cleft
of Canyon cliffs to the deserted valley

Where the droplets digress
Contort and effervesce
in a miasma of
Ecliptic repose

And meanwhile I will figure skate
on the frozen ocean Cusp
And taste its ruby wine mirage
In a crystal serenity From dawn
Until Dusk

Decree Nisi

plenty the time abides in youth and flight
her obsolescent entity reveals its human blight
in a composition he will never comprehend,
With every another

try as he might, this libertine trend
disguised as a knight, designed to offend
with never such matters so strikingly trite,
She comes to discover.

and boorish these steps, and foolish this spite
the masquerade they dance in the lucid moonlight, she
laments. to no bitter end, for the loss of a best friend,
Her former lover.

Through the artist's eyes

Walking on the pavement would
arouse my soul
breathe me, open me
to the universal edge of vitality

The asphalt oppressor, as one could
believe it to be
concrete, defeat
of the living foliage underneath

Is unfortunate

As sitting inside a room does
not confine one
but meditate, illuminate
the inner ambience to imagine and create

For wingful freedom in thought
and belief
allow us to surely avow
The beauty that lies in serenity profound

If we could just finally perceive
that those which
oppress, may as well bless
As cement and walls are our canvasses

Our very license
to bleed and express