Rain on My Feet
July 2nd, 2008
Land has a way of stamping itself into memory,
working its way into psyche,
transforming itself into an emotion
manifesting as normal abnormalities in an organ,
sometimes an extra palpitation, a scar,
a drop of sweat that appears,
depending on time, place and mood.
Sometimes it’s my heart,
looking below at a blanket of sparkling lights
uneven terrain of my birth crib,
wooden houses testing faith
or mimicking the unequal societal balance,
that limits the middle class,
that’s Cali.
Sometimes it’s my skin,
stretching for countless flat miles
on hot, humid, melting asphalt road
that jumps free at night,
it doesn’t hold make up,
it doesn’t hold water on flooding roads
it just keeps the pot holes on the road
and the scratches of where I once been,
that’s Houston.
Sometimes it’s my eyes,
engrossed in detail and architecture
rebuilding images in detail
jumping from painting upon painting
upon rooms full of rows and columns
buttress that bend like majestic trees
inside churches that make me weep,
that’s Italy.
Sometimes it’s my vocal chords,
quiet when I eat, quiet when I watch
quiet in the evening sun setting on Hun roads
quiet inside temples of golden Buddha
loud when it sings to the elephants
and talks to the people
bargaining for gold that no one else notices
that’s Thailand.
Today it’s my feet,
the one that follows the sounds of the gushing stream
on uneven road in spring monsoons,
runs to the top of the temple
that blesses the rice fields below and roots beside
moves past the bonsai nursery,
sitting in the middle of a cricket symphony rice crop,
the clay tennis court beside cabbage fields and houses
and the elders that built it on the land they farm
keeping a quiet tradition and identity for the community,
running past the curtain of trees that limit the wind
to the garden of a thousand flowers where
a landfill use to be…
that‘s Korea.
I used to think that I should have asked for a different city,
Somewhere that pays more, closer to city, has more room,
I used to think that I was here to forget
and change all the regrets there were about me.
I use to think it was difficult to be quiet and alone.
Reality: Learning means you can’t forget,
on the border of the city and the country,
smiling at cloudy and moody mountain peaks,
on a border land that challenges space and time,
looking ahead, working inside with sounds and words
I’m exactly where I was meant to be.
Mountain Heat
May 26th, 2008
Living midpoint between the valley
and the peak of a mountain
means you’re still in the shadow of the giant
feeling tall on a troth;
It’s like standing on the plastic rim of a tupperware
disfigured with evaporating heat
waiting for the snow kissed winds to sweep
dropping heat and eyes to sleep
on this somnambulists hot night.
It’s one o’clock in the morning.
Waiting for the curtain’s to animate,
I hear my neighbor across the street.
Tonight, he has a soliloquy,
performed on the paved hot road
with quarreling cats and swindling rats,
Drunk and missing home, he says, drunk and missing home.
He’s a teacher too, but we’ve never met
first impressions should be coherent and content,
so I just listen.
Zucchini is in season, so I have five
Funny how this raw vegetables looks
on the palm of my hand:
reticent and protective,
porous, listless and dry–
Sometimes I think that sadness is a dried heart
if not too skinny with lost affection
too plump walled from affection
Like Zucchini, soak in hot water and right attention,
the core will get thick and heavy,
soft and present,
gliding aromatic wave of playfulness,
sweet and semi crunchy talkative invitation:
“Dance with me, dance with me!”
The wind is back,
The rats scurry off to the sewers,
Heat that revives is different from the heat that hangs
Cold that dries is different from the cold that sooths.
Curlyqued Tongue
April 29th, 2008
Suwadeekaaaa..
the bell clanged against spotless glass door
before the eye reached the salad bar
The girl at the registered sung hello
I had nothing but sandwiches for the week
her really brown skin, wide native cheekbones
Mongolian thick lips that no matter what she wore
she always had gold crown and silk trail–
princess and history keeper of a land I visited.
Energy
Sounds are like songs when spoken
a guiding set chosen by a community
signature accents, drags and intonations
chisels a country’s id
Pride
Say nothing and listen for abnormalities:
the hesitating “yes, but…so, ummmm”
is a stumbling Jesus walking out the door
every culture has a mid-thought meaningless word
Discipline
Listen again, this time to inner reaction
What’s consider beautiful or a gray line taboo?
Are you walking into line or waltzing hello?
When do shoulders catch the sun or hide in orange pashas?
Conservation
After hello, please and thank you,
the first word you learn to say is shaped by geography
the first sound is always ‘ma’
Imagine if water was your first word…
Language,
little mirrors of perfect imperfection
sound bites of who we are
and who we want to be
a sea we perpetually sail,
on turbulent tides and glassy white beaches
we’ll never reach.
One of my favorite photos from the Thailand set. Yes, I did take this photo! Yes, it has been months since my Thailand trip, but I was really missing having an elephant as a mode of transportation and having fresh coconut, papaya, pineapple and mango for breakfast.
add to del.icio.usPleated Geography
April 13th, 2008
I love the way the elders walk,
telling you their story
this one with a concave arch
bowing back
arms like a ballerina’s balanced en pointe
carrying baby,
or satchel filled of harvest fruit,
or just hands cupping air…pondering–
chastising running youth–
holding up community.
That one,
moves hips and shoulders parallelly
chest plate up and forward
hip bones make a figure eight walking
climbing stairs slowly, upright tension
little puffing sounds
with no barriers to explain
days before roads or osteoporotic pains
The last is spit fire:
tan brazen wrinkles matching yellow acid-eaten teeth,
pristine visor, gloves and climbing gear,
looking onto streets and garden rows
as his pick stabs trash and aerates cabbages
that the school buys.
He’s fire that opens pollen pods,
fire that burns excess,
nurturing seeds to grow.
Like geographical transformations,
skin wraps political and natural history:
this joint was the famine
that one was the flood
these were from migration, one mountain to the next,
They tell the story of the place they watch over
walk, clean and nurture,
living the word…community.
add to del.icio.us Rotten Meat
January 7th, 2008
She wanted so very much to please me, to show me she loved me. The food was hot on the table. The smell of garlic, onion and cumin was like incense. The fried dough was fresh, yellow with white speckles, sweet, and soft with lard. The smells were like a court of people twirling silk petty coats of laughter lingering in each centimeter of the room. Nothing could be wrong with the moment and I ate heartedly.
2 hours later I’m looking at the back-side of a hedge
bathing roots in a metallic bitter green substance
I’m trying hard not to let it trickle through my nose
a massive wave is kicking it’s way out
My head hurts
Chunks on the floor
Skin wanting to jump out of my body
A fever with icy hands and a burning esophagus
–It was green, how did you not know?–
Rotten meat,
trying so hard to please me
when the truth would have been easier
I’m sitting in the car,
Eleven o’clock end to a nice date
he tells me he’s married
–I thought you knew when I told you I had children–
Rotten meat smells so good when all the right things are added
–It’s complicated.–
Rotten meat lies so well when under duress
Rotten meat still makes me hurl.
The Pyramids at Midnight
January 1st, 2008
In transit, on the mid night train
with all the derelicts sober enough to beat last call.
The cars are full of soju induced erythemic faces
taunting the -10 winter malady
I’m looking around smiling–
at the polka dot brown socks with hot pink tennis lace
making eye contact with the only Asian who traded his long slick hair
for frizzy short spurs of electricity painfully hot ironed into style,
the arguing old folks with Cuban hats and gold watches
sucking his front teeth back in through a heated debate,
ignored by the open mouth drooling college guy
passed out and clutching on to his Gucci purse
while the 50 year old lady laughs at 18 year old drunk intrepidity
wrapping arm and professing, “I love you!”
It’s 13 till 12, on new years 2007
and somehow I’m expecting a streaker or an accidental Led Zep cut
blared on public speakers at the end of the line
List of my new year’s eve:
nails are done, hair is straightened
first time I fit into single digit sizes
cracking my neck into action,
plans for Angkor Wat are becoming a back room brawl
contest of wills and stare downs
back at home at the stroke of midnight
…it doesn’t match my necklace,
hmm, nice to hear my words,
contemplating diamonds and stories,
Waiting for “Ken” in a big white horse
is like an atheist telling the story of Jesus,
so now I logically weigh the Great Barrier Reef
against my girly whims:
The worst thing about writing your own story,
is that the only point of reference is you.
The best thing about writing your own story,
is that the possibilities endless,
the world boundless,
and your audience infinitely unique
