The roads here, like our crisscrossing emotions, have never been tamed.
20090430
20090429
20090428
20090427
afternoon
felt like august only
it was april. you shed
your clothes like
a good tease, one layer
at a time. summer
sweat on your skin.
all we had was time
to give each other,
these few hours
in a room full of
the sun's glare,
and nothing else
mattered.
it was april. you shed
your clothes like
a good tease, one layer
at a time. summer
sweat on your skin.
all we had was time
to give each other,
these few hours
in a room full of
the sun's glare,
and nothing else
mattered.
.these.bristly.legs.
These bristly mosquito legs, finally shaved free of your bloodsucking buzz, always around my ears.
20090425
.fans.aplenty.
All these fans, we're just pushing hot air around us. And you can hear the spinning coming from the ceilings, the windows, the whirlpool where your heart should be. You can hear the windmills making the wind, hoping to attract themselves a little chivalry.
All this hot air rushing around us, gushing out the windows, and hopefully taking with them the stale emotions, still lingering, like a flirtatious glance.
All this hot air rushing around us, gushing out the windows, and hopefully taking with them the stale emotions, still lingering, like a flirtatious glance.
20090424
.dr.light.needs.right.to.win.again.
20090423
.always.hungry.
If I could swallow the world, I would keep it in my gut. I would lock it all down, a collapsing star shaking off its last lights like iridescent sweat.
And then I would vomit it all back up, everything dissolved into unprocessed acidic bile. I will pick through the bits for small chunks of you, and I will read gastrointestinal fortunes as if they were tea leaves in your grandmother's cup.
I will consume my past with ravenous hypotheticals. I will loosen a notch of my nostalgic future, the belt of expectations that ties it all down.
And all the time, I am hungry. I am full. Unsatiated.
And then I would vomit it all back up, everything dissolved into unprocessed acidic bile. I will pick through the bits for small chunks of you, and I will read gastrointestinal fortunes as if they were tea leaves in your grandmother's cup.
I will consume my past with ravenous hypotheticals. I will loosen a notch of my nostalgic future, the belt of expectations that ties it all down.
And all the time, I am hungry. I am full. Unsatiated.
Your Room and Everything In It*
stay home today--I want you
in your most natural state.
and let me undo all the hard work
your clothes perform.
this can be a secret,
our chaos marked by
the unmade bed and a song
that keeps skipping.
when your mouth moves over me
my skin burns for you.
I wanted you closer, I
don't know how else to tell you.
*I kinda stole this title from Jon Chopan's piece, "This Room and Everything In It."
in your most natural state.
and let me undo all the hard work
your clothes perform.
this can be a secret,
our chaos marked by
the unmade bed and a song
that keeps skipping.
when your mouth moves over me
my skin burns for you.
I wanted you closer, I
don't know how else to tell you.
*I kinda stole this title from Jon Chopan's piece, "This Room and Everything In It."
20090422
.knight's.tour.
why do we purchase one-way tickets back home?
an errant knight's tour come back around
jumping over black and white squares
blending all together into familiar grey sidewalk slabs
an errant knight's tour come back around
jumping over black and white squares
blending all together into familiar grey sidewalk slabs
Remaining Separate from What One Loves Deeply*
Don't believe me
if I'm cold, far
as the moon from you.
I wanted your love
but I'd only ruin it.
*line from Louise Gluck's poem, "Telemachus' Guilt."
if I'm cold, far
as the moon from you.
I wanted your love
but I'd only ruin it.
*line from Louise Gluck's poem, "Telemachus' Guilt."
20090421
.topless.bridemaids.
One of these days, I will marry you, and we will ride your scooter into the sunset.
20090420
.constellations.
I used to see the stars all the time. Or at the very least, on a regular basis. And I don't just mean spotting a few every night; I'm talking about seeing all the stars. Every last pinprick hole in the night dome. As if we were all being suspended upside down in celestial sieve, waiting for bits of heaven to trickle in.
There was less light pollution over there. Light still remembered to say its goodbyes and disperse come evening, retiring for the night. Nowadays, it lingers around into the still hours of the night, like the smokey haze of teenage smokers. Your eyes can't really help but cough.
Alcohol was illegal, so most of the parents would distill their own wine in their closets at home. When it was finally ready, they would get all the families together and head for the dunes, the vast sandy skin that covered the Arabian peninsula. It was a great chance to try out their homebrews, which I understand were always rather foul. Some of the adults had simply snuck beers back in from Bahrain. We didn't really care. It was a great chance to get away from any remnants of life. The closest structure was a radio tower miles away.
And invariably, after the adults set up camp, the rest of teenagers would set off to establish our own sub-camp, usually a ten minute walk away, and generally over a dune. In our isolation, we were neither children or adults, and our self-imposed exile was maybe a stab at self-determination, punctuated by our brief return to the main camp for food and lighter fluid.
And that was really one of the other great things about being out in the desert: creating our own bonfire. We could get by without the rules of thumbs and the watchful eye of Smokey the Bear, because after all, we weren't going to burn down the desert, eh?
Our flames stabbed upwards, as if the light were trying to force itself back into the sky. And as fires burned after the sun sank beneath the sands, we would lie down on a blanket or towel, four of us astride, and stare upwards at the stars. I used to be able to point out far more constellations, even creating a few of our own.
Once in a while, someone would get up and feed the fire more palm fronds and newspapers, as if in the darkness of the extinguished sun, we were burning up the world, and everyone reportable in it, to keep ourselves warm.
There was less light pollution over there. Light still remembered to say its goodbyes and disperse come evening, retiring for the night. Nowadays, it lingers around into the still hours of the night, like the smokey haze of teenage smokers. Your eyes can't really help but cough.
Alcohol was illegal, so most of the parents would distill their own wine in their closets at home. When it was finally ready, they would get all the families together and head for the dunes, the vast sandy skin that covered the Arabian peninsula. It was a great chance to try out their homebrews, which I understand were always rather foul. Some of the adults had simply snuck beers back in from Bahrain. We didn't really care. It was a great chance to get away from any remnants of life. The closest structure was a radio tower miles away.
And invariably, after the adults set up camp, the rest of teenagers would set off to establish our own sub-camp, usually a ten minute walk away, and generally over a dune. In our isolation, we were neither children or adults, and our self-imposed exile was maybe a stab at self-determination, punctuated by our brief return to the main camp for food and lighter fluid.
And that was really one of the other great things about being out in the desert: creating our own bonfire. We could get by without the rules of thumbs and the watchful eye of Smokey the Bear, because after all, we weren't going to burn down the desert, eh?
Our flames stabbed upwards, as if the light were trying to force itself back into the sky. And as fires burned after the sun sank beneath the sands, we would lie down on a blanket or towel, four of us astride, and stare upwards at the stars. I used to be able to point out far more constellations, even creating a few of our own.
Once in a while, someone would get up and feed the fire more palm fronds and newspapers, as if in the darkness of the extinguished sun, we were burning up the world, and everyone reportable in it, to keep ourselves warm.
constellation love poem*
i trace you, freckle
to freckle, connect
each scar with my
fingertip.
my nightsky,
always above me.
*thank you, Mike's post, for the title
to freckle, connect
each scar with my
fingertip.
my nightsky,
always above me.
*thank you, Mike's post, for the title
20090419
.with.balls.
I spent a good part of my shift at work today ogling cyclocross bikes that I want to buy. One time, a coworker of mine gave an excellent description of what a cyclocross bike is: a road bike with balls. Maybe all those picky customers that demand fast, but comfortable, bikes that can be taken off the road had some effect on bike production after all.
In any case, it really would just be a matter of switching out tires: throw some slick 700 x 23s on those wheels instead of the knobby 32s and I've got myself a road bike, albeit a slightly heavier one, with a shifted-down gearing range.
Life should be so easy.
I could switch out some shoes and step outside.
I could win a race. I could be a me with some balls.
In any case, it really would just be a matter of switching out tires: throw some slick 700 x 23s on those wheels instead of the knobby 32s and I've got myself a road bike, albeit a slightly heavier one, with a shifted-down gearing range.
Life should be so easy.
I could switch out some shoes and step outside.
I could win a race. I could be a me with some balls.
the rain
the rain started slow. i kept the window
open, listening to the water hit
the sidewalk. sounded like
pebbles plinking down, manic.
we were fighting again
so all my bitterness
turned the rain into a prophesy.
look: this is why
we wouldn't last.
your love is a dark cloud.
and all that wind is just
me, howling.
it seemed better to leave you than
to stay long enough for you to disappoint me.
how could you not?
I could feel the rain,
it started in my bones.
open, listening to the water hit
the sidewalk. sounded like
pebbles plinking down, manic.
we were fighting again
so all my bitterness
turned the rain into a prophesy.
look: this is why
we wouldn't last.
your love is a dark cloud.
and all that wind is just
me, howling.
it seemed better to leave you than
to stay long enough for you to disappoint me.
how could you not?
I could feel the rain,
it started in my bones.
20090418
.diagonals.
With the bed
to myself, I
attempt to sleep on
one side of it
anyway,
contemplating whether
I tend to occupy
the left or right
side of the bed
more often
I wake up,
finding myself
sleeping at a diagonal,
bisecting the mattress
from corner to corner.
Filling your space and mine.
to myself, I
attempt to sleep on
one side of it
anyway,
contemplating whether
I tend to occupy
the left or right
side of the bed
more often
I wake up,
finding myself
sleeping at a diagonal,
bisecting the mattress
from corner to corner.
Filling your space and mine.
20090417
Calumet
I took the brick-paved road to Calumet
where the stone church always looks empty,
even in daylight, that lonely red door
like your starburnt eye.
Who keeps You company these days?
And is it enough?
I sat on the steps, deciding where to go
while the sun fell lower in the sky.
If I find you, I'll tell you
what I really think of this place
that feels like hollow ground
everywhere I am.
where the stone church always looks empty,
even in daylight, that lonely red door
like your starburnt eye.
Who keeps You company these days?
And is it enough?
I sat on the steps, deciding where to go
while the sun fell lower in the sky.
If I find you, I'll tell you
what I really think of this place
that feels like hollow ground
everywhere I am.
.the.great.golf.course.sham.
Going to a boarding school, I lived with relentless parietal rules, which, for the most part didn't bother me, since I wasn't getting any for most of the time. There were all sorts of tactics around it, and everyone knew them all. Some people just knew better than others which were legends, and what was strategm.
My friend Charlie and I spent an evening walking around the campus golf course, searching for couples in compromising positions. That was the sexual hot spot on campus, allegedly, the lover's lookout. Needless to say, we found no one. Was everyone perceptive enough, devious enough, to avoid detection? Were we not being thorough enough? Or was it all a ruse?
Most people, I think, ended up just breaking parietals, sneaking themselves up to dorm rooms and hoping for the best. And truth be told, the duty masters didn't really end up being all too investigative most of the time. I mean, maybe they saw it from our perspective, as an isolated population of teenagers living in dorms. Maybe they had sympathy. Maybe they realized how futile it would have been.
There were cases, of course, where the administration did have to crack down and lay down the law. It was generally once a year. The most vivid memory was my last year, in which a pair of students had secretly installed a webcam in a dorm-mate's room, and when said dorm-mate snuck his girlfriend upstairs, the hankypanky was captured on film. A fifth person ended up ratting out the two filmographers out of his "good conscience". We all suspected ulterior motives of furthering his house-political profile.
All parties were busted: the filmographers, and the lusty lovers. Lawyers were called in. Students were kicked out and reprimanded. Administrative emails from the Dean of Students most likely still linger in a few people's inboxes, gathering mildew, and decomposing into the ether of the internet. Nobody I know of ever saw the video.
I, myself, did have occasion, during a less than well-remembered relationship, to experiment with breaking parietals and doing afterdark explorations of campus. I had my fair share of close calls and times being caught red-handed. Nothing nearly as spectacular as any of the aforementioned scenarios, but a learning experience nonetheless. Perhaps one of the more important lessons learned by a majority of the student population there.
And you can imagine how bizarre it was to go to college, living on campus, and finding that for the most part, nobody really gave a shit what you did or where. Roommates being caught became the stuff of college comedy, commonly commanding it's own code of ettiquette. Did it demystify and deromanticize the entire experience of slinking around a dark campus? of sneaking around rooms with doors considerably less than 90 degrees ajar?
Don't ask me. I certainly wasn't getting any my freshman year.
But for a moment last night, I felt that old knowledge come back to me: the mental notes of which buildings were open late, how to sneak around dark hallways into even darker classrooms, how to lay low when we heard the sweeping of the janitor in the hallway outside, singing a song to herself.
My friend Charlie and I spent an evening walking around the campus golf course, searching for couples in compromising positions. That was the sexual hot spot on campus, allegedly, the lover's lookout. Needless to say, we found no one. Was everyone perceptive enough, devious enough, to avoid detection? Were we not being thorough enough? Or was it all a ruse?
Most people, I think, ended up just breaking parietals, sneaking themselves up to dorm rooms and hoping for the best. And truth be told, the duty masters didn't really end up being all too investigative most of the time. I mean, maybe they saw it from our perspective, as an isolated population of teenagers living in dorms. Maybe they had sympathy. Maybe they realized how futile it would have been.
There were cases, of course, where the administration did have to crack down and lay down the law. It was generally once a year. The most vivid memory was my last year, in which a pair of students had secretly installed a webcam in a dorm-mate's room, and when said dorm-mate snuck his girlfriend upstairs, the hankypanky was captured on film. A fifth person ended up ratting out the two filmographers out of his "good conscience". We all suspected ulterior motives of furthering his house-political profile.
All parties were busted: the filmographers, and the lusty lovers. Lawyers were called in. Students were kicked out and reprimanded. Administrative emails from the Dean of Students most likely still linger in a few people's inboxes, gathering mildew, and decomposing into the ether of the internet. Nobody I know of ever saw the video.
I, myself, did have occasion, during a less than well-remembered relationship, to experiment with breaking parietals and doing afterdark explorations of campus. I had my fair share of close calls and times being caught red-handed. Nothing nearly as spectacular as any of the aforementioned scenarios, but a learning experience nonetheless. Perhaps one of the more important lessons learned by a majority of the student population there.
And you can imagine how bizarre it was to go to college, living on campus, and finding that for the most part, nobody really gave a shit what you did or where. Roommates being caught became the stuff of college comedy, commonly commanding it's own code of ettiquette. Did it demystify and deromanticize the entire experience of slinking around a dark campus? of sneaking around rooms with doors considerably less than 90 degrees ajar?
Don't ask me. I certainly wasn't getting any my freshman year.
But for a moment last night, I felt that old knowledge come back to me: the mental notes of which buildings were open late, how to sneak around dark hallways into even darker classrooms, how to lay low when we heard the sweeping of the janitor in the hallway outside, singing a song to herself.
20090416
unfinished
rain pecks the window
like an angry bird. the fog
of breath on glass, the blinds pulled up
so the neighbors could see.
somewhere, a siren howls down the wet street.
i undress in daylight.
i pull you by the collar so
you know: this is all my heat
against you.
like an angry bird. the fog
of breath on glass, the blinds pulled up
so the neighbors could see.
somewhere, a siren howls down the wet street.
i undress in daylight.
i pull you by the collar so
you know: this is all my heat
against you.
.blue.room.
My mom put me on the swim team for 8 long years of my life, under the guidance of an Egyptian coach. And he surely knew his stuff, since we had heard some fluff that him and his wife had almost qualified for the Egyptian Olympics team in the past. Their children certainly were part dolphins, we wagered, slipping through the water all the way to the regionals, nationals, and junior olympics. The rest of us were jellyfish, littering the pools like plastic bags.
And what made it all the worse, was that the pool we practised in was a 50 meter pool, rather than the standard 25 meter one that we swam at the meets. The distances we swam were the same, but without that extra flip turn and push every 25 meters, we found ourselves in the middle of the pool.
I used to imagine what I'd do if I suddenly saw a shark materialize in the deep end, slowly swimming over from the diving end of the pool. Nevermind the chlorine content: this was the special shark, bred to punish boys that grabbed onto the lane dividers during the backstroke. And most of the time, I found that I wanted to sink down to the bottom of that pool and just sit on the bottom forever, shark or no shark. It was an empty and silent place.
And then I would hear my coach, yelling at the top of his lungs as we approached either side of the pool. Yelling at us to pull harder, swim faster. He had quite a voice on him, that Egyptian, and we could hear him 5 meters away and half underwater. In all likelihood, we probably did pull harder and swim faster as we approached him, if only so we could turn around and swim away from him sooner.
I haven't swam in a while now, having a brief stint with laps at the rec centre pool with a friend that was trying to get in shape. I tend to either feel that I'm just standing in water being cold, or that I feel compelled to swim all the laps that my body can't keep up with anymore. Nevertheless, I'd love to take that 11 kilometer bike ride out to the quarry this summer with some friends and maybe float around for a bit. Or maybe sneak into the Canterbury pool and hot tub late at night. There's no pressure to pull harder anymore, of course, but there's always that moment, after having jumped in, when I'm once again alone in that underwater room, stuck between a shark and an Egyptian.
And what made it all the worse, was that the pool we practised in was a 50 meter pool, rather than the standard 25 meter one that we swam at the meets. The distances we swam were the same, but without that extra flip turn and push every 25 meters, we found ourselves in the middle of the pool.
I used to imagine what I'd do if I suddenly saw a shark materialize in the deep end, slowly swimming over from the diving end of the pool. Nevermind the chlorine content: this was the special shark, bred to punish boys that grabbed onto the lane dividers during the backstroke. And most of the time, I found that I wanted to sink down to the bottom of that pool and just sit on the bottom forever, shark or no shark. It was an empty and silent place.
And then I would hear my coach, yelling at the top of his lungs as we approached either side of the pool. Yelling at us to pull harder, swim faster. He had quite a voice on him, that Egyptian, and we could hear him 5 meters away and half underwater. In all likelihood, we probably did pull harder and swim faster as we approached him, if only so we could turn around and swim away from him sooner.
I haven't swam in a while now, having a brief stint with laps at the rec centre pool with a friend that was trying to get in shape. I tend to either feel that I'm just standing in water being cold, or that I feel compelled to swim all the laps that my body can't keep up with anymore. Nevertheless, I'd love to take that 11 kilometer bike ride out to the quarry this summer with some friends and maybe float around for a bit. Or maybe sneak into the Canterbury pool and hot tub late at night. There's no pressure to pull harder anymore, of course, but there's always that moment, after having jumped in, when I'm once again alone in that underwater room, stuck between a shark and an Egyptian.
20090415
.by.the.side.of.the.pool.
boys will be boys.
growing up as one is what you'd expect:
dirt and grass and melted action figures,
ninja turtles and x-men grimacing
with blackened faces and cracked shells
it was a surprise we ever got new toys at all
nothing belongs
to little boys
everything is taken
growing up as one is what you'd expect:
dirt and grass and melted action figures,
ninja turtles and x-men grimacing
with blackened faces and cracked shells
it was a surprise we ever got new toys at all
nothing belongs
to little boys
everything is taken
Vigil
I waited by the window all day.
Streetlights came on, halos
full of moths. Even then
I stayed.
I see no reason to grieve--I've got
this grey world for that.
And if you come home
I'll have kept room for you
where my sadness should have been.
Streetlights came on, halos
full of moths. Even then
I stayed.
I see no reason to grieve--I've got
this grey world for that.
And if you come home
I'll have kept room for you
where my sadness should have been.
20090414
20090413
.chasing.street.lights.
wet roads
and slick tires
make stopping that much harder
but at
1:30
in the morning
there's not much reason to
and slick tires
make stopping that much harder
but at
1:30
in the morning
there's not much reason to
20090412
.death.under.the.lights.
and when you
are old enough, you
can play at those
old characters, one
tragic death after
another
when the director finally yells
"Cut!"
you'll sit up miraculously
healed, and pushing aside
hospital sheets, no longer
heavy like stones
are old enough, you
can play at those
old characters, one
tragic death after
another
when the director finally yells
"Cut!"
you'll sit up miraculously
healed, and pushing aside
hospital sheets, no longer
heavy like stones
meadow
the fog rising from the tall grass
is not like the cold breath of god.
and the morning sun behind it
is just yellow yolk. no
romance in how
it feathers the clouds above me.
but i do remember this:
if i love you is not enough then
nothing is.
is not like the cold breath of god.
and the morning sun behind it
is just yellow yolk. no
romance in how
it feathers the clouds above me.
but i do remember this:
if i love you is not enough then
nothing is.
20090411
.fingertips.
these days, i'm never sure whether my fingertips are black from dirty guitar strings, or bike grease
and whether a new hole will wear through my jeans in the knees or seat
whether my scabs will scar, like ghosts of an injury
the signs of usage creeping over my body
when i'm broken, i can be discarded
like an old chain holding onto its links
with broken fingers
and whether a new hole will wear through my jeans in the knees or seat
whether my scabs will scar, like ghosts of an injury
the signs of usage creeping over my body
when i'm broken, i can be discarded
like an old chain holding onto its links
with broken fingers
mansfield
not as entertaining as the name would imply, a field
of men. or a man's field
filled with what, tomato vines? and maybe
the men run barefoot through
the fruit. they make
paste.
of men. or a man's field
filled with what, tomato vines? and maybe
the men run barefoot through
the fruit. they make
paste.
20090410
.virtual.memory.
With regards to first shows always kind of sucking, I would like to say, Thank god for the computer.
April
I've spent all my money--is it
the end of the month yet? I never leave
the house anymore. All I need is the dust
caught in sunlight, morning
pouring through the blinds.
In the alley, a dog barks at a man
who yells to the trees.
What were we doing here anyway
other than getting by?
the end of the month yet? I never leave
the house anymore. All I need is the dust
caught in sunlight, morning
pouring through the blinds.
In the alley, a dog barks at a man
who yells to the trees.
What were we doing here anyway
other than getting by?
20090409
.ivy.over.brick.
Remember that time when you were feeling lonely and out of it? First year at grad school, I think it was, because we were all still around, rooted to the porch and doomed to be townies, but you were making something of yourself. We were pretty proud of you.
But you still called one of us every day, and talked about how you were stranded in assfuck nowhere, and we told you to be quiet, because you were living in downtown Montreal, and that was a hell of a lot more interesting than our one-road town. We missed you as much as you missed us.
So I hope you remember that tape we made for you that one time: the one where we played an old record of 80's one hit wonders in the living room. You know, all those bands that eschewed "The" and any more than one word for a name. And they must have known something, naming themselves after all sorts of geographical locations: Africa, Kansas, Boston. Hell, there was even Journey. You can't top the epicness of that era, and maybe that cheesiness is what made it so appropriate after we had our cheese and wine dinner without you.
And if you dig that tape up, I think we'd all like to listen to it when you come back for the holiday, because we were all too drunk to remember us gathered around the living room on rugs and chairs, squeezing cats and all of us singing at the top of our lungs to those brilliant retarded songs. We knew all the words, and every last sax solo, and lord knows our voices probably ended up drowning out the actual record.
Yeah, we should definitely listen to it when you come back, before newer technology creeps by us like ivy over brick. Before we lose the ability to hear ourselves at all.
But you still called one of us every day, and talked about how you were stranded in assfuck nowhere, and we told you to be quiet, because you were living in downtown Montreal, and that was a hell of a lot more interesting than our one-road town. We missed you as much as you missed us.
So I hope you remember that tape we made for you that one time: the one where we played an old record of 80's one hit wonders in the living room. You know, all those bands that eschewed "The" and any more than one word for a name. And they must have known something, naming themselves after all sorts of geographical locations: Africa, Kansas, Boston. Hell, there was even Journey. You can't top the epicness of that era, and maybe that cheesiness is what made it so appropriate after we had our cheese and wine dinner without you.
And if you dig that tape up, I think we'd all like to listen to it when you come back for the holiday, because we were all too drunk to remember us gathered around the living room on rugs and chairs, squeezing cats and all of us singing at the top of our lungs to those brilliant retarded songs. We knew all the words, and every last sax solo, and lord knows our voices probably ended up drowning out the actual record.
Yeah, we should definitely listen to it when you come back, before newer technology creeps by us like ivy over brick. Before we lose the ability to hear ourselves at all.
Scavenger
There is no other way to say it-- I'll
have to be quiet now.
How we lived like wolves, miserable
for each other, desperate.
Where does love go when finished?
Under the moonlight, half-starved--
you were enough for you.
I'll scavenge for your scent
on my pillow, I'll take
what I can get.
have to be quiet now.
How we lived like wolves, miserable
for each other, desperate.
Where does love go when finished?
Under the moonlight, half-starved--
you were enough for you.
I'll scavenge for your scent
on my pillow, I'll take
what I can get.
20090408
.backyard.treasure.
It seems silly to even talk about it, but I have the recurring story of how my uncle Thomas decided to go his grave early, following the death of my Aunt Tilda. It wasn't as if he had a death wish. No, no, he just had it up to here with life above the ground, as if the sun and stars were the hands of a clock ticking away without a snooze button.
Uncle Thomas had been a carpenter by trade, so he spent a month or so designing his coffin, embellishing it with the standard decor one saw in his living room. And in fact, there were several items that were from his living room: sawed off lamps, his small television, the hideous upholstery that Aunt Tilda had knitted one Easter.
There was a huge yard sale after Uncle Thomas had finished his coffin, wherein he sold the rest of the house and its belongings. Remember how I said one day I'll be able to carry everything I own on my back and move from town to town without a worry? he said to us. Well, it's like that, only I don't want to move anywhere anymore, so I'm just making my house as small as I can make it. Which, in the end, turned out to be the size of small camper. What the hell is this, Tom? A horse coffin? my dad joked. But in his voice, I noticed a roughness like the unsanded wood that Uncle Thomas had been working with. Nothing a few cans of beer wouldn't polish off over a barbecue.
And that was my Uncle Thomas's funeral: nothing more than a large family barbecue, with his friends showing up for the free hot dogs and beer. Us kids knew no better, and ran around poking each other with sticks and climbing trees like we always did, until Uncle Thomas shot off some fireworks to get our attention. Hear hear! Let's bow our heads! And nobody did, of course, but the parents and grown ups all went around and said a little phrase about their favourite memories of Uncle Thomas, which I suspect was just to humour him. My mom wanted nothing to do with it, though, and told him flat out that he was going to be back inside in a week to watch the Lakers game with some Cheetos.
So she wasn't even outside when my Uncle Thomas saluted and climbed into his giant coffin, which he referred to as his Viking longboat, which he had somehow lowered into a giant hole he had dug out in his backyard. My dad joked about the duck and cover drills from their childhood, and that his coffin looked more like a fallout shelter. Do you really want to do this Tom?
But my Uncle Thomas was dead already, so he didn't answer. He just climbed down into his coffin, and expected us to pile the dirt on after him. None of the grown ups wanted to do it, so us kids made a game of it, pretending we were pirates hiding treasure, or squirrels storing away food, or anti-paleontologists, protecting the sacred remains of the long lost dinosaurs.
Anyway, that was the last time we really saw my Uncle Thomas. We talked to him sometimes when we were in his backyard (it was part of a short cut to the creek) and stopped for a while, and one time, we even managed to slide a can of beer to him from above ground, but that hole has long since filled up with dirt.
After a while, we stopped hearing from him altogether. Maybe he finally died down there. Either way, he left the world and all of us long ago, and sometimes, I can't blame him. I think about looking for that treasure map once in a while, and digging my way out of this life.
Uncle Thomas had been a carpenter by trade, so he spent a month or so designing his coffin, embellishing it with the standard decor one saw in his living room. And in fact, there were several items that were from his living room: sawed off lamps, his small television, the hideous upholstery that Aunt Tilda had knitted one Easter.
There was a huge yard sale after Uncle Thomas had finished his coffin, wherein he sold the rest of the house and its belongings. Remember how I said one day I'll be able to carry everything I own on my back and move from town to town without a worry? he said to us. Well, it's like that, only I don't want to move anywhere anymore, so I'm just making my house as small as I can make it. Which, in the end, turned out to be the size of small camper. What the hell is this, Tom? A horse coffin? my dad joked. But in his voice, I noticed a roughness like the unsanded wood that Uncle Thomas had been working with. Nothing a few cans of beer wouldn't polish off over a barbecue.
And that was my Uncle Thomas's funeral: nothing more than a large family barbecue, with his friends showing up for the free hot dogs and beer. Us kids knew no better, and ran around poking each other with sticks and climbing trees like we always did, until Uncle Thomas shot off some fireworks to get our attention. Hear hear! Let's bow our heads! And nobody did, of course, but the parents and grown ups all went around and said a little phrase about their favourite memories of Uncle Thomas, which I suspect was just to humour him. My mom wanted nothing to do with it, though, and told him flat out that he was going to be back inside in a week to watch the Lakers game with some Cheetos.
So she wasn't even outside when my Uncle Thomas saluted and climbed into his giant coffin, which he referred to as his Viking longboat, which he had somehow lowered into a giant hole he had dug out in his backyard. My dad joked about the duck and cover drills from their childhood, and that his coffin looked more like a fallout shelter. Do you really want to do this Tom?
But my Uncle Thomas was dead already, so he didn't answer. He just climbed down into his coffin, and expected us to pile the dirt on after him. None of the grown ups wanted to do it, so us kids made a game of it, pretending we were pirates hiding treasure, or squirrels storing away food, or anti-paleontologists, protecting the sacred remains of the long lost dinosaurs.
Anyway, that was the last time we really saw my Uncle Thomas. We talked to him sometimes when we were in his backyard (it was part of a short cut to the creek) and stopped for a while, and one time, we even managed to slide a can of beer to him from above ground, but that hole has long since filled up with dirt.
After a while, we stopped hearing from him altogether. Maybe he finally died down there. Either way, he left the world and all of us long ago, and sometimes, I can't blame him. I think about looking for that treasure map once in a while, and digging my way out of this life.
The Evening I Nearly Forgot You
I turned off the light and listened to the dogs
downstairs, their chorus of yowls.
I was getting used to being alone, reacquainting
myself with the sounds the house makes
when you're not here. The furnace kicks on, angry.
The neighbor's heavy footsteps on the other side
of a too-thin wall. I wanted these sounds
for company. I wanted my loneliness
to fill me entirely, make me
another woman, someone you couldn't love
not even if you tried.
downstairs, their chorus of yowls.
I was getting used to being alone, reacquainting
myself with the sounds the house makes
when you're not here. The furnace kicks on, angry.
The neighbor's heavy footsteps on the other side
of a too-thin wall. I wanted these sounds
for company. I wanted my loneliness
to fill me entirely, make me
another woman, someone you couldn't love
not even if you tried.
20090407
.bristly.
I've been trying to learn a Thao song that involves hitting the strings with a toothbrush.
That is all.
That is all.
20090406
nothing good
I'm in one of those moods when I think everything I write has been crap & will always be crap. How to shake it, how to shake it?
.moped.
Music always seems to find you at the perfect time. Or is it that you happen to latch onto whatever it is that seeps into your earholes at that moment? Either way, it always feels a little bit like predestination, even for the most non-fatalistic cynic of us.
So the rejections start rolling in, and I realize that my escape to Canada is being delayed by at least a year: a year to replan, rescheme, and work my ass off in a graduate program to reapply for the Ph.D program.
Orchestrating the mad dash to figure out how I'm going to afford Chicago next year is Thao Nguyen's solo album, which I finally managed to get a hold of, and the last track, Moped, is definitely a winner!
So is the rest of the album of course.
And hey, whatever, Chicago, and the University of Chicago for that matter, are by no means terrible places to be.
A year to plan.
A year to scheme.
A year to crank out a thesis.
So the rejections start rolling in, and I realize that my escape to Canada is being delayed by at least a year: a year to replan, rescheme, and work my ass off in a graduate program to reapply for the Ph.D program.
Orchestrating the mad dash to figure out how I'm going to afford Chicago next year is Thao Nguyen's solo album, which I finally managed to get a hold of, and the last track, Moped, is definitely a winner!
So is the rest of the album of course.
And hey, whatever, Chicago, and the University of Chicago for that matter, are by no means terrible places to be.
A year to plan.
A year to scheme.
A year to crank out a thesis.
20090405
.a.flock.of.aprils.
Has it occurred to you to check those headlines from April Fool's? Double check? Suppose that among the batch, there were a real one, hiding like a wolf.
It is the story that managed to push itself out of the membrane of impossibility into reality.
The ultimate joke is in its sincerity.
Nothing's funnier than confessionals.
It is the story that managed to push itself out of the membrane of impossibility into reality.
The ultimate joke is in its sincerity.
Nothing's funnier than confessionals.
grooming
the children study you, the morning ritual
of putting on your face. notice
the flesh-tone flecks falling on your robe
when dabbing the nose. see
your British plainness subside to cat-eyed
valentine. they learn:
to lure a man means
claret lips.
of putting on your face. notice
the flesh-tone flecks falling on your robe
when dabbing the nose. see
your British plainness subside to cat-eyed
valentine. they learn:
to lure a man means
claret lips.
20090404
.before.semaphore.
Not everyone speaks semaphore, you know. And even fewer people knew and understood it before it was invented.
Two wooden crates set course, sailing off over the vast expanse of the Atlantic's belly, which always rumbles its malcontents deep below. Two buckets of hopeful eyes and restless hands arm in arm across the ocean blue. The year is something or other and two.
Five months to live as a small island, and the entire time, we were staring across the water at our brethren, sloshing ahead just further than we can throw our voices, which were plucked up by seagulls and whisked away to intricate migration patterns, weaving across the planet like lace.
Oh, we tried messages in bottles, but they had a habit of falling quite short of their intended targets. Come to think of it, we fancied afterwards that we had invented the whole notion of setting messages afloat in bottles.
And the one time my brother managed to fling his bottle clear across the gap and over the rail of our kindred ship, it crashed down not on the deck, but rather on the crown of the Gypsy's skull. By all means we were surprised it didn't knock him unconscious, but instead, we watched as he flew into a frenzy, setting countless exotic curses aflight on the wings of the gulls before he finally wagged the bottle in his hand and broke it against the rail and discarded the remains into the sea.
The last time we flung a bottle off our decks was not even to send message, believe it or not. Rather, the ship priest had been growing steadily more restless with each passing days, and had taken by the second week aboard to patrolling where he could, chastising everyone on their vices. As ship chaperone, he was notorious for scolding the children, interrupted intermittently only by his pauses to vomit over the side of the ship.
Halfway into our trip, when we crossed the line between departure and arrival, the priest finally went mad and poked holes in all the barrels of grog we had underneath. He was promptly chased out of the galleys by the furious cooks, but not before he had grabbed hold of one of the captain's private wine selections.
He emerged on the poop deck brandishing the bottle like a demon yelling at the top of his lungs about the sins of alcohol, which we inferred to mean the act of wielding a fine wine rather than sipping it over salted fish and biscuits. As the cook emerged behind him with a cleaver, his face as red as the wine in the priest's hands, the priest yelped and ran over to the side rail and flung the bottle as best as he could at the curious faces aboard our sister ship.
The bottle didn't make it even halfway, of course, and the priest was himself half over the side rail when he was gently bumped from behind by a young girl who had her doll taken away from her three days ago and flung over the side of the ship by the mad priest, who had then lashed her viciously for carrying pagan idols around so brazenly.
We looked at each other and remarked at how clumsy the priest was to have tripped over his robes as such.
After the whole incident, the captain ordered a meeting with the entire crew and passenger constituency of the ship and told us that was the end of flinging bottles overboard for whatever reason.
So for the second half of our voyage, as we drifted closer towards arrival, we simply sat on the deck with our legs passing through the side rail and stared across the gap towards our friends and family aboard their parallel journeys. We waved once in a while, and if the ships drifted close enough to each other, we could make out smiles.
We tried signing with our hands during those moments.
Julie had her baby? Oh my!
George secretly stockpiling salted herring? No!
The first mate was caught with Walter's wife? You don't say!
Julie's baby died and was thrown overboard? That's too bad.
But really, we had no idea, and those were only our best guesses at what was happening aboard their ship. I suspect that we were really just trying to understand our own ship's madness, in all its ribaldry and rancour, its miseries and majesties. We could only expect that they were experiencing it all the same, but we could never know.
So we just swung our legs, let the briny sea spray cool the space between our toes, and stared across the water at the other ship, or the horizon, or the stars; and should any of them drift close enough, we would smile and wave.
Two wooden crates set course, sailing off over the vast expanse of the Atlantic's belly, which always rumbles its malcontents deep below. Two buckets of hopeful eyes and restless hands arm in arm across the ocean blue. The year is something or other and two.
Five months to live as a small island, and the entire time, we were staring across the water at our brethren, sloshing ahead just further than we can throw our voices, which were plucked up by seagulls and whisked away to intricate migration patterns, weaving across the planet like lace.
Oh, we tried messages in bottles, but they had a habit of falling quite short of their intended targets. Come to think of it, we fancied afterwards that we had invented the whole notion of setting messages afloat in bottles.
And the one time my brother managed to fling his bottle clear across the gap and over the rail of our kindred ship, it crashed down not on the deck, but rather on the crown of the Gypsy's skull. By all means we were surprised it didn't knock him unconscious, but instead, we watched as he flew into a frenzy, setting countless exotic curses aflight on the wings of the gulls before he finally wagged the bottle in his hand and broke it against the rail and discarded the remains into the sea.
The last time we flung a bottle off our decks was not even to send message, believe it or not. Rather, the ship priest had been growing steadily more restless with each passing days, and had taken by the second week aboard to patrolling where he could, chastising everyone on their vices. As ship chaperone, he was notorious for scolding the children, interrupted intermittently only by his pauses to vomit over the side of the ship.
Halfway into our trip, when we crossed the line between departure and arrival, the priest finally went mad and poked holes in all the barrels of grog we had underneath. He was promptly chased out of the galleys by the furious cooks, but not before he had grabbed hold of one of the captain's private wine selections.
He emerged on the poop deck brandishing the bottle like a demon yelling at the top of his lungs about the sins of alcohol, which we inferred to mean the act of wielding a fine wine rather than sipping it over salted fish and biscuits. As the cook emerged behind him with a cleaver, his face as red as the wine in the priest's hands, the priest yelped and ran over to the side rail and flung the bottle as best as he could at the curious faces aboard our sister ship.
The bottle didn't make it even halfway, of course, and the priest was himself half over the side rail when he was gently bumped from behind by a young girl who had her doll taken away from her three days ago and flung over the side of the ship by the mad priest, who had then lashed her viciously for carrying pagan idols around so brazenly.
We looked at each other and remarked at how clumsy the priest was to have tripped over his robes as such.
After the whole incident, the captain ordered a meeting with the entire crew and passenger constituency of the ship and told us that was the end of flinging bottles overboard for whatever reason.
So for the second half of our voyage, as we drifted closer towards arrival, we simply sat on the deck with our legs passing through the side rail and stared across the gap towards our friends and family aboard their parallel journeys. We waved once in a while, and if the ships drifted close enough to each other, we could make out smiles.
We tried signing with our hands during those moments.
Julie had her baby? Oh my!
George secretly stockpiling salted herring? No!
The first mate was caught with Walter's wife? You don't say!
Julie's baby died and was thrown overboard? That's too bad.
But really, we had no idea, and those were only our best guesses at what was happening aboard their ship. I suspect that we were really just trying to understand our own ship's madness, in all its ribaldry and rancour, its miseries and majesties. We could only expect that they were experiencing it all the same, but we could never know.
So we just swung our legs, let the briny sea spray cool the space between our toes, and stared across the water at the other ship, or the horizon, or the stars; and should any of them drift close enough, we would smile and wave.
short histories
I.
What can I tell you about
the arbitrary lines between us?
We were in love
and then we were not:
Here is you and here is me.
But see in the road
how quickly the deer goes
from dead in one county
to dead in another.
II.
Southbound, you say,
We must be in bumfuck. Look
how all the stars are out.
Only trees and highway and now
the distance between us.
III.
Leaving you was a task like anything
else. I'd chart
your imperfections, I'd navigate
my narrow heart.
What can I tell you about
the arbitrary lines between us?
We were in love
and then we were not:
Here is you and here is me.
But see in the road
how quickly the deer goes
from dead in one county
to dead in another.
II.
Southbound, you say,
We must be in bumfuck. Look
how all the stars are out.
Only trees and highway and now
the distance between us.
III.
Leaving you was a task like anything
else. I'd chart
your imperfections, I'd navigate
my narrow heart.
20090403
.chance.of.puddles.
umbrella in hand
crispy new rain jacket
(doubles as a windbreaker)
full fenders on
your bike - not
to be used, of course,
with the umbrella
concomitantly
and the rain never came
although the wind
wooshed on by
you, doubtless,
felt a little stupid in
your unweathered armour
your pale skin
aching for a little sun
but you let them
stare out from the corners
of their fashionably
racoon-painted eyes,
sloshing and splashing
through the criticism
with your galoshes
you are ready
to take on the world
crispy new rain jacket
(doubles as a windbreaker)
full fenders on
your bike - not
to be used, of course,
with the umbrella
concomitantly
and the rain never came
although the wind
wooshed on by
you, doubtless,
felt a little stupid in
your unweathered armour
your pale skin
aching for a little sun
but you let them
stare out from the corners
of their fashionably
racoon-painted eyes,
sloshing and splashing
through the criticism
with your galoshes
you are ready
to take on the world
20090402
.old.world.arumble.
If we should lose power tonight, remember the storm overhead. The ancient gods of old worlds and dilapidated peoples rumbling overhead in thunderous discontent. And hey, who wouldn't be? Forgotten and tamed by science, in all your enormous entirety.
It must feel like being a genie,
crammed back inside the
lantern of neglect
granting not
wishes, but shallow skin
deep warmth, enough
to smoothen goosebumps
So if the power goes out tonight, perhaps the sky will once again be visible, and we can pay heed to the cantankerous chatterboxes overhead, nostalgic for the old days,
when the world
and all that is in it
was still huge,
stretching beyond our trusted horizons.
It must feel like being a genie,
crammed back inside the
lantern of neglect
granting not
wishes, but shallow skin
deep warmth, enough
to smoothen goosebumps
So if the power goes out tonight, perhaps the sky will once again be visible, and we can pay heed to the cantankerous chatterboxes overhead, nostalgic for the old days,
when the world
and all that is in it
was still huge,
stretching beyond our trusted horizons.
promise
i can see myself anytime, but you
are another thing altogether.
when you left on business, extravagant
China, then Germany, then anywhere
that wasn't home, i thought
i'd never see you again, that
those cut-glass eyes
had seen something better.
are another thing altogether.
when you left on business, extravagant
China, then Germany, then anywhere
that wasn't home, i thought
i'd never see you again, that
those cut-glass eyes
had seen something better.
20090401
heavy boots
when you kiss me on the cheek
again when you
said you wouldn't
remember this:
the room as it seemed
to move around you
the lightburst before
the bulb blew out
and us
alone, lonely together
in the dark
and all your heat
surrounding me.
again when you
said you wouldn't
remember this:
the room as it seemed
to move around you
the lightburst before
the bulb blew out
and us
alone, lonely together
in the dark
and all your heat
surrounding me.
.skink.
I bought a new light today for my bike: a front one. My old one was being rather dim and dim-witted - or should I say watted? And out of frustration, I commented, perhaps a little too loudly a day or two ago that I planned on replacing it with a bigger, brighter light.
I suspect it heard me and began to behave itself.
Alas, I bought a new light today.
Maybe in time I'll be able to buy a bigger, brighter back light to match it (no doubt my current back light is having tinges of ominous fortunes), but for now, at least oncoming traffic will see me, flying towards them, screaming into their eyes, Hey, I belong here too.
I suspect it heard me and began to behave itself.
Alas, I bought a new light today.
Maybe in time I'll be able to buy a bigger, brighter back light to match it (no doubt my current back light is having tinges of ominous fortunes), but for now, at least oncoming traffic will see me, flying towards them, screaming into their eyes, Hey, I belong here too.
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