I am one of the modest folk mote,
walking lethargically in curvy circles,
shuffling my feet in a small English town,
pulling the charcoal wool over my bloodshot eyes.
And the difference between us is
I'd much rather keep it that way.
There's no point in fighting today.
I am a fashionable mannequin
with a limp wrist and a lazy hip,
lithping all my thtereotypth
for the unisex scientists to hear.
And the difference between us is
I'm high on life and sleeping pills.
My stability is Fed-Ex'd and I'm sitting still.
I am a starving artist.
My white knuckles show just how strongly these knockdowns can pull.
Even rolling thunder cannot knock down the establishment
of transparency and an elephant's memory.
The difference between us is:
you see the point in the stiff upper lip.
It's hard enough for me to maintain this grip.
And I'd much rather keep it that way.
There's no point in fighting today.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Ma, I'm Gay
I can't stand the restlessness any longer!
If I were wearing a 19th century hairdo,
it would look like a haystack by now!
It sickens me, how they avoid me.
It's because I'm not fabulous enough, girrrl.
I don't don't emanate ferocity like those glowing sequins...
I mean, seriously, if you're gonna
rob this country of its morals,
you must do it like a diva all the way through--
So you're not a flighty Nancy Boy.
A maricon.
That's not how your Dominican father raised you!
You were expected to ripen and rot as qucikly
as the ideals we so cautiously laid upon you,
and you look like you've basically entered adulthood,
that nice stage where you're your own mortified audience.
"He's a filthy motherfucker"
turns to
"I would make a horrid boyfriend,"
"I'm unique" becomes "I'm hideous,"
and your cuts for pain release
are now for your hatred at the flesh gawking lazily below you.
This, my child, is opening the doors to your heart.
Never thought it'd be such a pigsty, that's for sure.
When it reaches years of pretending not to have one,
it's bound to happen.
Done with freshman year at college,
and you've finally reached puberty!
If I were wearing a 19th century hairdo,
it would look like a haystack by now!
It sickens me, how they avoid me.
It's because I'm not fabulous enough, girrrl.
I don't don't emanate ferocity like those glowing sequins...
I mean, seriously, if you're gonna
rob this country of its morals,
you must do it like a diva all the way through--
So you're not a flighty Nancy Boy.
A maricon.
That's not how your Dominican father raised you!
You were expected to ripen and rot as qucikly
as the ideals we so cautiously laid upon you,
and you look like you've basically entered adulthood,
that nice stage where you're your own mortified audience.
"He's a filthy motherfucker"
turns to
"I would make a horrid boyfriend,"
"I'm unique" becomes "I'm hideous,"
and your cuts for pain release
are now for your hatred at the flesh gawking lazily below you.
This, my child, is opening the doors to your heart.
Never thought it'd be such a pigsty, that's for sure.
When it reaches years of pretending not to have one,
it's bound to happen.
Done with freshman year at college,
and you've finally reached puberty!
On Turning Nineteen
I can't wait to be 19,
the age where hipsters become hipsters
and your cosmopolitan side begins to
radiate from your body.
You begin saying things like "I've been there, man,"
and flaunting your newfound cynic realism
as if it were an accessory from the Velvet Underground's tour bus,
because anything is better than 18.
Anything towers over that collection of 365 salt grains
that consists of taking a dive in the real world,
with your feet meeting the Jaws of America.
I am turning 19.
Alas, the beginning of repression,
where it's no longer chic to tremble with honesty,
so you begin storing it and saving it
for the hibernation of your Alvy Singer neurosis.
Goodness gracious, that's in fashion.
It's not you in the mirror.
It's you that's become deformed
by the mask that was pushed onto your face,
or maybe it was you flew into it,
I can't remember at the moment.
Anyway...your blood has had its last curdle,
and the car crash could be so obvious--
the engine would zoom past all their noses--
without the lack of humanity for medication.
You don't know what exists, and you're cold fucking sober.
But damn, it makes a great poem.
the age where hipsters become hipsters
and your cosmopolitan side begins to
radiate from your body.
You begin saying things like "I've been there, man,"
and flaunting your newfound cynic realism
as if it were an accessory from the Velvet Underground's tour bus,
because anything is better than 18.
Anything towers over that collection of 365 salt grains
that consists of taking a dive in the real world,
with your feet meeting the Jaws of America.
I am turning 19.
Alas, the beginning of repression,
where it's no longer chic to tremble with honesty,
so you begin storing it and saving it
for the hibernation of your Alvy Singer neurosis.
Goodness gracious, that's in fashion.
It's not you in the mirror.
It's you that's become deformed
by the mask that was pushed onto your face,
or maybe it was you flew into it,
I can't remember at the moment.
Anyway...your blood has had its last curdle,
and the car crash could be so obvious--
the engine would zoom past all their noses--
without the lack of humanity for medication.
You don't know what exists, and you're cold fucking sober.
But damn, it makes a great poem.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Two short ones
I wrote these senior year in my English class for little assignments, and I actually liked the results.
One is a haiku:
The Day After Tomorrow
In desolate lands,
the jagged nails of branches
scathe the earth's ego
And ze other one is a tongue twister
Roar
Roses ride
'round the running romance
of resonance and rhythm,
reducing rulers
to a ripened rage.
One is a haiku:
The Day After Tomorrow
In desolate lands,
the jagged nails of branches
scathe the earth's ego
And ze other one is a tongue twister
Roar
Roses ride
'round the running romance
of resonance and rhythm,
reducing rulers
to a ripened rage.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Happy Train Caboose...or Writer's Block
The last drop of fuel
has vanquished within the fog
of vacuous steam,
and the words are asphyxiated
by the author's incompetence
before his toes even tap
upon the starting line.
It's even a hassle
scribing these simple words
without grinding my teeth,
headbutting defeat,
and fixing the channel
with which I once could
transform the bulging of veins
into the unraveling of stanzas.
With a pitter-patter here
and a tick and tock there,
the hourglass spins itself towards nausea
and still no denouement
from a muse that replaced burning passion
with a scalding charcoal mind.
How could I let them get to me?
How could I let them make mockery
and triviality of the art
held with the greatest sincerity,
leaving me a pigpen
of unanswered questions
tinged with urgent frustration?
Did I really just end this with a question?
has vanquished within the fog
of vacuous steam,
and the words are asphyxiated
by the author's incompetence
before his toes even tap
upon the starting line.
It's even a hassle
scribing these simple words
without grinding my teeth,
headbutting defeat,
and fixing the channel
with which I once could
transform the bulging of veins
into the unraveling of stanzas.
With a pitter-patter here
and a tick and tock there,
the hourglass spins itself towards nausea
and still no denouement
from a muse that replaced burning passion
with a scalding charcoal mind.
How could I let them get to me?
How could I let them make mockery
and triviality of the art
held with the greatest sincerity,
leaving me a pigpen
of unanswered questions
tinged with urgent frustration?
Did I really just end this with a question?
Friday, February 6, 2009
Strands in Space
I've been thinking about this one for a long time...well, there was a big space of time in which I didn't, but with my sister's 22nd birthday around the corner, I decided to finish it. In this poem, I am foreshadowing when we are both of old age and on the last leg of our lives, and we are both saying goodbye to each other for the last time (let the "awwww"s commence). So, here it is...
It was that wide screen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already rimming the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
It was that wide screen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already rimming the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Standardized Centralized Assessment Aptitude Test Quiz Exam
I wrote this one during my 12th grade AP exam a bit less than a year ago; almost forgot about it completely. Thought I'd post it here.
"My my, how scholastic!"
Thought the token poet
as he watched the other aspiring white-collar donning
skim through their standardized papers
and sharpen their No.2 pencils
as lazily as possible.
Meanwhile, he sat there, puzzled,
with a certain question constantly battering his mind:
"What the fuck is the point?"
Angelou and Dickinson were not born for concrete philosophy.
They did not form a flourishing union with the pen just to become
some mathematical code to be deciphered
by the future lawyers of America.
The art of writing...
Once again, the art of writing
Is exactly what it is:
An art!
It is meant to seep through the skin
and challenge its taker for more than 40 minutes on the dot;
meant to be more than just a crossword puzzle;
meant to be more than a just a chance for multiple choice questions
to pounce on their puberty-stricken prey
with inferences on tone, subject, and syllogisms in between
They are the speaker.
You are the audience.
That's the beginning of the journey,
and the end should never be the same
A few months later, token poet gets great news:
FAIL WITH FLYING COLORS.
"My my, how scholastic!"
Thought the token poet
as he watched the other aspiring white-collar donning
skim through their standardized papers
and sharpen their No.2 pencils
as lazily as possible.
Meanwhile, he sat there, puzzled,
with a certain question constantly battering his mind:
"What the fuck is the point?"
Angelou and Dickinson were not born for concrete philosophy.
They did not form a flourishing union with the pen just to become
some mathematical code to be deciphered
by the future lawyers of America.
The art of writing...
Once again, the art of writing
Is exactly what it is:
An art!
It is meant to seep through the skin
and challenge its taker for more than 40 minutes on the dot;
meant to be more than just a crossword puzzle;
meant to be more than a just a chance for multiple choice questions
to pounce on their puberty-stricken prey
with inferences on tone, subject, and syllogisms in between
They are the speaker.
You are the audience.
That's the beginning of the journey,
and the end should never be the same
A few months later, token poet gets great news:
FAIL WITH FLYING COLORS.
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