Log in

moose & espresso. what better heaven could exist? [entries|friends|calendar]

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

have conviction.

poetrrrry update: [16 Apr 2007|10:02am]


Pablo Lorenzo

*note, the speaker in this poem is not me (but i find it more effective to write it from first person)

was all hair and teeth
untied shoelaces
and he had a kindergarten crush
on kindergarten me
he spoke grandly
of how he won playground races
of the puppies he had
tiny brown black spots
he offered me the cutest
but my mother declined for me,
saying, “she’s allergic,”
which was code for
“she’s allergic to you”
because even then
at tender age 6
I was learning the value of holding
a cute but awkward boy
at arms’ length
for reasons culminating
in the excess of hair gel
globbed in his
shiny Hispanic hair:
            half Mexican,
            half Spanish
            but all wrong


Fear of Heights

My sister used to climb trees
when we were little
and the smallest branches
were the size of our arms
I would watch from down below
making sure that our parents
didn’t catch us –
            her, reaching for the birds’ nest
            me, doing nothing to stop her

Her favorite tree had smooth, flat leaves
and little black berry-seeds
that fell in droves, bouncing off of my head
as Lindsey shook the branches, giggling
I crushed them, one by one,
under the toes of my sneakers
spreading the pulp and skin
over the concrete
until that corner of the driveway
was more purple than gray
until my mother came out
and yelled at me for ruining my shoes

and Lindsey giggled more
pelting me with tree berries
still perched, like some bird,
high above my head



Heritage (wt)

silence is beautiful, my grandmother told me
in defense of the tight lipped ladies
in the murals of the temple

the commotion outside was deafening
it was a celebration day – lunar new year
firecracker strings burst
children screamed in fright, then laughed
at the drums and dragon dance

and I said I didn’t understand
but she didn’t hear me,
only nodded and smiled kindly
showing no teeth

on the drive home, I tried
to assume the beauty of silence
no radio, no conversation –
but my family,
            removed from notions of tradition,
only thought I was in a bad mood

4 have conviction.

revision of "Sunday Mornings at my Grandmother's House" [26 Feb 2007|09:52pm]

basically, i cut the first half of the poem, and that will be its own poem, to be revised soon. this poem is the second half of the original poem with some new material to clarify the issue of the pennies. does it work? i really need help on the end; the last line isn't working right now.


 My grandmother,
            in English that’s still broken after 30 years of speaking it,
            tells me and my cousins to eat in the family room,
and we go, sitting on the chairs and sofas covered in plastic.
The radio blares Vietnamese news,
and there is ornate mahogany wood everywhere–
            dragons and lions carved into the legs of tables,
            a Buddha statue in the corner –
there is one in every room,
            tiny shrines with red incense sticks
            and bowls of oranges that always smell so sweet.
This Buddha is young, thin
            with eyes that follow,
            watching our every move.

And in every room, pennies lie on the floor, tempting me:
            discarded from pockets and purses
            adding to the mystique of my traditional grandparents.
I always wonder about the coins:
            “Don’t touch! They’ll burn holes in you hands!”
            my cousins – wiser, older – warn
I ask my grandmother, but she’s too busy
            making sure everyone eats
So while the adults converse –
            in Vietnamese, sounding like shouting in garbled English –
I go from room to room under Buddha’s vigilant eyes
looking, counting, but never taking –
because I like my hands whole.

But once – just once
            my curiosity, greed
            get the best of me –
                        and my fingers pocket the shiniest penny
                        from the living room floor –
            I avoid meeting young Buddha’s eyes that day
Holding it in my pocket
I wait for it to burn a hole in my hand,
            marking me a thief –
                        I wait for the wrath of Buddha,
                        so young and patient in my eyes,
            his sharp eyes betraying that soft smile
I wait,
            all the while thinking
            that maybe this Buddha guy isn’t so mean
I stare – and the penny winks at me in the light,
            confirming my suspicion

2 have conviction.

i need help! on my poetry! bah [19 Feb 2007|11:55am]

i've been in such a prose-state-of-mind lately that my poems are coming out like prose.  (maybe i should just write a prose poem....) i wrote this for last week, but i'm going to workshop it this week. boo. my revelation (in diane's terminology, the revelation is the ending) doesn't really reveal much most of the time. and i need to fix it.

Dead Deer

If someone from my town
accidentally hit a deer
while driving down the road
they would pull over,
inspect the damage to the car
then drag the dead deer
into the trunk and go home –
and that deer meat would probably
be served for dinner
the following night

I told my roommate this
She was disgusted, and said,
“Poor deer! Why couldn't it
just die in peace!
That’s why the rest of the country
thinks Texas is ass-backwards.”
But she’d never been to Texas
and she didn’t know anything about Texas
so I changed the subject
I asked her how her Ag class was going
and she told me
that she had killed 28 chickens that week
(not by accident)
to study their insides
and that it was her favorite class of the semester


1 have conviction.

oldish but revised. [08 Feb 2007|01:06am]


9. Black

My hair blends into the night
showing up my face,
bright from the flash of a camera:
olive? tawny? just tanned?
I can’t tell

The eyes my mother gave me
and my father
and my grandparents –
almost almond shaped
black, just barely
like my hair –
my eyes resist red-eye
in all my pictures.
I’m just
lucky, I guess.

(Not raven
Not black as night
Not coal
Not even black, really)

My hair shows up charred in some lights
sometimes miscellaneous shades of red –
changing, always
as if my hair naturally reflects somehow
my changing perception
of where I fit in these generations
of black-haired, almond-eyed relatives


1 have conviction.

thinking [06 Feb 2007|12:08am]

i think that poetic revenge is only effective if the person against whom the revenge is sought actually reads the poems and makes comments. crazy. LOL. anyway. i'm having fun writing poems and fearing the wrath of the Great Diane. so, its all okay.

#8.  (no title yet)

My mother is a woman of routines
cornflakes with skim milk
a toasted bagel with cream cheese
three and a half miles on the treadmill
and if I call her from Michigan at 2:30 pm
            she will think it’s my sister
            asking if she can go to some cheap café after school with her friends
                        even though she doesn’t drink coffee or tea
                        and thinks her friends act too much like the seventeen year olds they are

While I was a fetus,
a stomach bulge inflating
my mother’s 5-foot-two, 90 pound frame
she drank apple juice every day
and I am convinced that’s why I can’t stomach the stuff
She watched “Another World” at 11 am
named me after a character
who only lasted two weeks
and listened to George Michael on the radio
holding her stomach, holding me
dancing slowly to “Careless Whisper”

Some mornings I get strange cravings for
corn flakes and skim milk
and the thought crosses my mind
that I might be pregnant
and the rest of the time
I think I am my mother

have conviction.

btw, ali, this is poem number 7 [31 Jan 2007|10:03pm]


My Last Name Is Hard to Pronounce

don’t worry, it confuses me, too,
how that set of letters
in that order,
can form such a simple-sounding name:

(a paradox of letters,
a potential identity gone astray)

my mother cringes every time
someone mispronounces our last name,
offering the correct pronunciation
as many times, and as often as necessary
and as her daughter,
I used to do the same
until I realized that I was making a fool of myself,
            my simplistic glossing of the letters
            a reflection of my own lack of touch
            with my heritage

contextual evidence – ethnic origin –
tell me
that there should be
accent marks and squiggles
above some of the letters
but those marks don’t mean anything to me,
and I can’t imagine
how people would then mispronounce it,
attempting to make all the letters heard
and accented in the right way – all at once

anticipating mispronunciation,
I occasionally tell people:
            “the N-G-U forms a W sound,”
but an English-speaker can’t resist
that blasted N, the out-of-place G –
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard
my name pronounced the way I tell people,
that is,
when I do correct people –
            which, after nearly 20 years
            of living with the name
            and the sometimes-humorous variations,
            is very seldom
            because though it grates on my ears
            when I hear all six letters enunciated individually,
            I can only repeat the correct way so many times
            and invariably, mustering a laugh at a botched attempt
            and saying “close enough”
            is much less taxing than trying to make someone
            get it right


1 have conviction.

four things [29 Jan 2007|09:01pm]

poem #6:

Women’s Bathroom, Second Floor, BPS

I was walking to the bathroom
this afternoon,
when I heard two ladies conversing
rather enthusiastically –
in the doorway of the women’s bathroom,
second floor, BPS 

I walked in, and entered a stall,
and as I did my business,
they did theirs –
“You taught 152 at LCC? Me too!
Anatomy should really be taught
the way we taught it at LCC –
none of this nonsense about function
before getting to the parts!”
The other woman responded
so quietly I couldn’t hear,
but I get the feeling she agreed.
And then I finished,
and found that they hadn’t:
they both still stood in the doorway
the louder one, with a wet paper towel
still in her hand,
and I wondered
whether the other lady had been
on her way in, or on her way out
when she became engaged in this conversation.

 :::::: :::::::

mock-magazine created for WRA 360: VIsual Rhetoric. My analysis is not wonderful, but that's because I got caught in the throes of page design (and the never-ending search for the perfect font)

:::::: :::::::

cover designs for FUCKING AIRPORTS: one and two (the only difference is in the color of the letters; there are more -- different --  designs in progress, but for now, this is all I have)

:::::: :::::::
the end

1 have conviction.

five, four [27 Jan 2007|02:02pm]

comments/title suggestions, anyone?


Sometimes, in conversation
I hear a strange semblance of an accent
floating between my teeth,
lingering on my tongue –
mid-west, or what I think it sounds like
and I want to wash it away
in the shower, or when I brush my teeth

These days, I’d rather
have a Texas accent
than anything else –
and I still laugh
about the fact that I had to travel to Italy
to get one in the first place



My father grew up with a machine gun in hand
patrolling the nighttime streets
with the other neighborhood boys
in his provincial town in Southern Vietnam,
protecting everyone from communism

My father is a nonviolent man
and has told that story but once –
it was more of an offhand remembrance
than one of his usual detailed, full-blown tales –
            thrown in haphazardly
            probably in defense of some characteristic
“Of course I’ve held a gun before
all of us did – machine guns, at night, in the streets –
            a protective measure”
But he shrinks from interrogation – “Did you ever fire it?”

I take after my father,
in the sense that we don’t share much with anyone
He and I both harbor a small arsenal of reliable stories
and stick to them loyally
but every once in a while, I catch him saying things
that I’ve never heard before,
and no matter how stealthily I try to bring it out,
            I never get to hear those things twice


3 have conviction.

3 of 100 [25 Jan 2007|12:41pm]

[written in class, not edited yet. will edit later, possibly]

#3 On Reading Middlesex

Strolling through the aisles of Half Price Books
the paperback spines reach out to my fingers,
which reach back and stroke the titles
looking for one to strike my interest
No New York Times bestsellers
never, ever Oprah's Book Club
Yellow with red letters, ORCB font
plain, no pictures, large, large words
One word titles are intriguing,
I usually look at the first few pages.
I often don't like titles that begin with "The".
I always judge a book by its cover,
though now, with re-releases and anniversary editions,
the covers mean less and less --
but I'd still rather hold in my hand
the sterile white and loopy handwriting
of Kundera in a British printing
than the obnoxious block letters
of the American one.

But the details, the plot are what I'm reading for;
a terrible title and awful cover can be redeemed
by insight, eloquence, or humor
It seems, though, that I have the uncanny ability
to find out the strange characters on the bookshelves:
hermaphrodites, transsexuals, transvestites,
serial killers, alcoholics, journalists,
terrorists --
leaving me shocked and appalled every time -- not delightfully so,
at least not at the initial discovery.
Am I engaged in a subconscious search for my true identity,
that I can only read about the identity searches of others?
Perhaps I am mistaken,
but books serve to deliver us from reality --
why then, are the pages all filled with "true" stories,
dramatized versions of "real life"?
The stories, more often than not, turn out on the upper end of mediocre --
predictable, pedestrian, prefabricated --
and I think, with the next book I read,
I want a more traditional character,
one hailing from the old standards, the classics --
one with some semblance of stereotypical normalcy.

1 have conviction.

100 poems for ali. !!! [18 Jan 2007|11:27pm]

ali. here is the second of the one hundred poems i promised that i'd give you to read/edit. or did I say 50? i can't remember. anyway, consider "sundays at my grandmother's house" the first. ha! (and i think my theme for the semester is being asian/coming to terms with asian culture, and the like. or at least that's my theme for the week).

(Two) Beef and Broccoli

I feel fake walking into Chinese restaurants
when the ladies, in their Oriental print outfits
look at me expectantly
            with my blackish hair and olive skin
            and almost-almond eyes
and then they look so jaded, disinterested
when I say in perfect English,
            “Table for two, please” –
as if I should, instead, have my father’s accent
            or my grandmother’s,
to sustain their friendliness—
that lisp and stutter, the inability to
distinctly pronounce j’s and z’s –
            and in my father’s case,
            the tendency to say “moo!” instead of “move!”
            when in a great hurry –
and all this despite the fact
that they’ve each spoken English
for over thirty years

And when those ladies in their outfits
lead me silently to a table in the corner,
I want to tell them to blame my father
for wanting to leave his home country behind
            at least for his daughters,
            because for him, that accent will never let him go

2 have conviction.

po-em [17 Jan 2007|09:58pm]

for the sake of conforming to the rest of my poetry class (at least the half of the class who read on tuesday): my new morning poem

            In the Cold:

the sun, pale as a ghost through the frost
                        peers down on me
                        from the other side of the double-paned glass

a ticking clock offends quiet sensibilities
            rhythmically waking aural receptors in the brain
electric light overhead – a naked bulb
            shatters the crusty film
            that creeps in every night between lids and lashes, top and bottom
                        ensuring the obscured vision of dreams

outdoors, the ice-burdened trees lean to me
            defying the gravity of their hampered limbs
            arching up toward the window

indoors, swaddled in blankets
            the movement of glacial giants awakening
            does not reach me
but I shiver anyway,
            my skin spelling out
                        in a rash of Braille dots
            the chill of waking up alone

6 have conviction.

sunday mornings at my grandmother's house [15 Jan 2007|05:00pm]

second draft -- mornings theme, taken from a seven-year-old perspective, present tense. any title suggestions? "Sunday Mornings at my Grandmother's House"?


We eat Pho on Sunday morning
in my grandmother’s house,
not eggs or bacon or toast –
skinny rice vermicelli noodles in beef broth
with greens sticking to the raw meat,
so thinly sliced, on top of it all.
My mother microwaves my meat for me,
offers me a fork. I decline,
picking out a pair of shiny black chopsticks
like everyone else has, instead --
every Sunday, I am eager to show off
what new chopsticks-skills
I have learned since the last Sunday.
And I am scolded, every Sunday,
for holding my chopsticks wrong,
for moving too many fingers –
I do as my grandmother shows me,
cradling one chopstick at the base of my thumb,
lightly gripping the other with the tips
of my thumb and pointer fingers.
It hurts, leaves red imprints in my hand,
and I wonder if this is punishment
for not being able to speak Vietnamese
as my cousins do.

I am instructed to sit in the family room,
with the plastic on the chairs and on the sofas,
the radio blaring Vietnamese news,
and all the ornate mahogany wood –
dragons and lions carved into the legs of tables,
an elaborate Buddha statue in the corner –
there is one in every room,
tiny shrines with red incense sticks
and bowls of oranges that always smell so sweet.
And in every room, are pennies on the floor:
discarded from pockets and purses
adding to the mystique of my always traditional grandparents.
I always wonder about the coins, but never ask,
supposing them to be part of
some important Buddhist ritual
that I would never understand.

At six I was mesmerized by the uniqueness of the penny
among the similarity of all the rest
At eight the value of the quarter is all I will consider.
But at seven, the shinier the coin the better – they are all
ready to be scooped up and hidden in pockets.
So I go from room to room
looking, counting, but never taking –
because I am instructed never to touch
my grandparents’ things, coins included.

And like an obedient Vietnamese granddaughter
I do what I am told.

1 have conviction.

AIRPORT poetry(!!!) [14 Jan 2007|03:14pm]

ali. we have to include airsickness bags in the airport poetry book. on the cover. or as the chapter dividers. something. look at this.
isn't it scary and wonderful? i forgot to collect the airsickness bags from my last two flights....but we definitely need them. (I found a website that sells them by the carton -- 1000 bags per carton -- if we want to include a bag in the back of each book...but that may get expensive, yes?)

3 have conviction.

mornings or beginngings [14 Jan 2007|02:07pm]

no title yet -- first draft of first poem for Diane's class, due Thursday. subject/theme is supposed to be mornings or beginnings or both, and I don't really feel like i have addressed either very well:

Sunday mornings, I wake to the racket
of my roommate – a nice girl most of the time,
but an angry rhinoceros when she wakes,
slamming drawers and knocking her chair into her desk,
shuffling papers madly, and plastic grocery bags, too,
generally making as much noise as possible,
while I and my boyfriend lay in bed
contemplating sleep and methods of silencing her

But finally as she settles into the morning
and the noise quiets, I roll onto my stomach
and lean my head over the edge of my shaky loft
(my roommate never ceases to test the limits
of its wooden stability) and open one eye to the floor
I can feel my boyfriend’s grip on my side
unconsciously tighten as I lean;
one of my legs is trapped beneath one of his –
our skin is sticky with moisture there

A penny on the floor glints in a bath of sunlight
I stare as I wake, blinking to organize my dreams
the penny winks as the sun moves,
and I am seven years old again
eating Pho on Sunday morning
in my grandmother’s house,
with the plastic on the stairs and on the sofas
and all the ornate mahogany wood –
dragons and lions carved into the legs of tables,
an elaborate Buddha statue in every room,
tiny shrines with red incense sticks and bowls of oranges
that always smelled so sweet
and in every room, pennies on the floor
discarded from pockets and purses
adding to the mystique of my always traditional grandparents

At six I was mesmerized by the uniqueness of the penny
among the similarity of all the rest
At eight the value of the quarter was all I considered
At seven, they were all shiny, they were all there
ready to be scooped up and hidden in pockets
so I went from room to room
looking, counting, but never taking –
because I was instructed never to touch
my grandparents’ things, coins included
and like an obedient Vietnamese granddaughter
I did what I was told


i am going to get rid of the first two stanzas, or else i will make them a separate poem from the last two. i think. we'll see.

2 have conviction.

poetry workshopping & reading! [20 Dec 2006|06:29pm]

[ mood | poetic ]

Friday, 3pm!
poetry workshopping and reading of each other's work and somesuch!
some starbucks somewhere or niki's house or something! partake in beverages & read!


have conviction.

[30 Nov 2006|01:54am]

hehe. so for poetry club. we decided to write quest poems. so here is mine. written in fifteen minutes. enjoy.

"What is your quest?"
he asks me once more
in a high squeaky voice
his beard to the floor
"My quest, good sir,
is simply this:"
and I take a deep breath
before extolling my list
"I search for love
a feeling that's pure
a touch of warmth
a look that's sure
a perfect smile
surrounded by pouty lips
gossamer hair
curvaceous hips
I've search for so long
looked far and wide
for the love of my life
to be my bride."
As I paused for air
the old man grinned
let loose a cackle
and my confidence thinned
"My brave Sir Knight
you may end your quest
For I am the beauty
who will pass your test."
With a snap of fingers
and a flick of wrist
the old man was covered
with a veil of mist
lights flashed and blinded
my bravery falling
when out stretched a hand
it's finger calling
my spirits rose
at the thought of my love
the lady that waited
behind this foggy glove
I followed the digit
expecting a beauty
I'd marry her swiftly
as was surely my duty
but standing before me
was the wrinkly old man
the details of his body
I'll spare if I can
"Sir Knight!" he said
his beard still hanging low
"Just what do you think
of your beauty quest now?"
the rage inside me
boiled to a froth
and my strength grew to that
of a mighty Visigoth
when the mist had cleared
I'm not sorry to say
the old man was motionless
dead where he lay
I bent down next to
his diminutive frame
I must admit
feeling shame
but on his putrid skin
like the curséd beard
and once again
my anger seared
so I took the trophy
with little haste
before finding another beauty
more to my taste

7 have conviction.

fiction for class, unfinished [15 Nov 2006|09:23pm]

Winter in Spring, an unfinished work of fiction. Aiming for 20 pages for my portfolio, due in December.
though this is fiction, I seem to have written people I know into it. don't look for yourself in it; i don't intend on any of the characters resembling anyone in particular, though it is ridiculously hard to write about Spring without writing about the people I know. 

the plot is going somewhere, I promise. I have an outline, and three principle characters whose stories will be told Winesburg, Ohio style. i only hope that i can finish what i am planning before i have to turn it in for portfolio, otherwise it will just be laurel's story and nothing else.

2 have conviction.

where the waitress looks concerned, but she never says a word: [13 Nov 2006|10:24am]

[ mood | achey ]

2 have conviction.

lovesick: [09 Nov 2006|05:13am]


i never thought i had so much to say, me, with my lower-case i’s and my

lowly opinion of myself;

i feel underestimated;

i feel exhausted and crushed under the weight of having to tell the truth to

people you are too chicken to speak with;

i feel the pull of caffeine, and even the pull of nicotine,

i feel the need for alcohol, i feel the sangrias aching at my heart


i could push you away and down into the gutters of my mind,

i could shove you into a coffin and nail it shut forever;


i feel abandoned, me in your city, projecting my loneliness

crying tears that should have stopped already,

cutting blood that should have clotted,

squeezing arteries for inspiration,

rubbing legs and holding hands with texas,



aching to go home,

dying for a home, for any home,

for you to let me back in yours ---


wondering all the ways this could have been different,


and watching stars above my head like traffic lights,

waiting for them to turn off or blink on so i may continue moving,

so i can grow ---


growing inside, growing, molting,



new hours and glories of days

at the wonders of my propensity to eat the human spirit like corn on the cob,

biting off juicy kernels, only to have them stuck in my teeth,

seeking nourishment where there is none to be found,


laying and lying with boys

who aren’t you,

saying your name

out loud,


habitually aching for your heart next to mine,

breaking, breaking, breaking habits and time and hearts,

being fired and whipped and hanging myself

    in a million different places

on the bare white walls of my todays,

painting my tomorrows black or gold or empty of promise, devoid demise decadent


closing gaps only to widen the one between you and me,

passive aggressive, jealous,


you have my full attention, do you finally believe me?

you had my entire heart, and you threw me away.


i feel like trash, sleazy, weeping diamonds for you,

    and trains of betrayal of which i’d gladly step in from of,

offer to stop for you, offer to ride,

    i’d give you a ride anywhere,

and you know,

and you take advantage of me by accident,


because you’re too timid

because you’re too weak

because you’re too chicken


to hurt me enough to heal me.


and you will joke in the future and often about how you should have

done something awful so that i wouldn’t want you back, but that

doesn’t work either, because when you choose to change overnight and

not confide in the person who depends on you the most and on whom you depend the most,


you can only hurt.

you can only hurt me as i write about our life together, and think about


all the awkward moments between myself and strangers that i’ve endured today at

my expense.


innocent enough questions the yield my brutally honest (maybe too honest) answer.

and that, my favorite letter -- X -- the one i make over my wrists with chalk, pressing

them hard against the keyboard until they burn.

poor strangers and their year and a half of disillusion. but i am right there with them!

i am disillusioned too!


and now i make my merry way up and down the realms of thought

on all the topics that you brought

such closure to for me before, and

still i lay here on the floor,

dumping thoughts into words, picking them up

to test them out, running them through my mind,

dragging these words across my skin,

repeating circles and mantras, and

dying to bleed just a little.


and two-page poems that sing our praises

and then quickly fade to nothing but razors

as my thoughts turn back to nothing more

than what i must have been before

you waltzed into room 615b

and saved me from my poetry ---


and delusions are not reasons

to upset myself with tomorrow’s hopes

and still in season, i can’t please you,

struggling down a long indecision

voting for biggest pleasure


oh! we charted the stormiest weather! and you calmed my seas,

patient, trusting, trustworthy,


and now nauseous i return to dreaming states,

screaming, crying, poundings fists,

writing more and more you see,

about how much you meant to me ----


useless trite dialog of screams

me and you and in between

no more citing all the things i might have done

that should have been more carefully spun,


no more blaming asinine rejections

of vaguest affections

 (still i count on all my stars

       of the day we looked at the moon and mars,

 all the times i’ve tried to take your hand

        only by myself to stand

while you talked with other people at the party,

        i learned to bite my lip and introduce myself

  in your absence, your tardy-


        does not offend when i think of all the measures to mend)

    and now expectations

 about foreign vacations are

   subdued and refused, returned,


and books and clothes and curtain rods,

 and all the pokes and all the prods

  and all the times i seeked your hand,

your guidance or your soft command


and trains and pages of dragging poetry



we shall be buried in the rocks of time

 of failed relationships and suicide,


waves crash into our memory, and drift us long out to sea.

no swimming back, can’t hold the line,


so i open my palm and let the breeze take its time.

the kiss doesn’t fly free from my palm to your lips anymore,

 i shut the door, i shut the door, i shut the door.

have conviction.

similar... [09 Nov 2006|04:35am]

[ mood | inspired, apparently. ]



it is so easy writing down the projection of feelings i

have for this incomprehensible city of theirs – not mine, but

theirs -- of the ghetto and the streets i walk everyday, and

the construction, like it’s thinking -- the city is thinking -- about

its emotional state, the city is contemplating itself, running itself

for governor or Senate; buying its houses and reselling, and

fixing itself up ----


 the city is fixing itself up, in a state of perpetual improvement,

with the groaning of buses at all motherfucking hours of the night

and sirens that never stop to contemplate the silence they destroy,

and drunk college kids, running through the rain, running to the art museum

up Spring Garden, across its expressway, into the traffic, across the


counting only even numbers and the graffiti spraypainted and buffed out

along live wire walls


  on live wire walls, the city spins with chapped, dry lips,

closing its people into stereotypical neighborhoods to

protect them from each other,

keeping the gayborhood away from the ghetto and

center city separate from old city;

naming its phallic bars appropriately, keeping its sleazy flashers chained at the forum,

with a mop. The city works to allocate, equivocate, acquiesce, knight its own; the city works hard.


  the city rides SEPTA to work every morning,

and the city is always late; how do we tell if this is

SEPTA or philadelphia at fault?

maybe the city really lives in new jersey like half of the people who work here;

maybe it rides PATCO in from Collingswood every morning for $2.15, then

gets off at 8th and market


  the city gets off on its endless marquee and its prominently displayed time

and its cira center with breast cancer ribbons illuminated in the windows at night,

moving, spelling out words, spelling out hope, spelling.

  it gets off on its old, dog-walking crowd through Rittenhouse and its secret

culture hiding between fifth and sixth streets; it hides the important glories between the

numbers; it hides the young between the old;


 the city smokes a joint with the young,

has a drink in the bars in old city with the fake,

fucks a lamp while bumping crystal meth until 6am, and then hides its face;

  the city, like our nation, doesn’t know how to be honest and so is disjointed;

the city walks down market street into and out of the ghetto until

it reaches city hall;

the city stops and stares in awe at the eerie green ben fraklin

and walks expertly down broad street,

     empty and begging for change

begging for change.


[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]