Viewing entries tagged
prompt

sluice

i was born to chill you

lastingly

you’re good at this,

i think post-rinse

my own cold surge turns me tepid

as your nudity swirls for eternity—

contact quick lingers in my membrane;

the filth i came for—all parts out of my purview

the charge is long and clear at last

black suds

deep scents

mingling with your sliced hair

thick but fair unwanted parts

i am nothing but a puddle

set to drain


Ode to Brows

Detract ye from

Uneven tone

Oft picked oversized

Pores

Millenia of thin menthols

Amidst scores of

Hormonal pigmentation

Challenges

As you hug closer to

Obscure

Ink puddles under

Frequently squinting oceans

Of baby blue

Now arched, tinted, shapely

Dramatized, contained

Even when the forehead is paid

Not to move,

You’re emphasizing what the

Rest of the bitch

Face cannot do

a supermarket in taipei

i love eating white girl salads with wooden chopsticks dug from the back of my cutlery drawer

there was an asian woman consulting romaine hearts this evening (i didn’t need any; had halfa heart waiting at home [capers, black olives, questionable carrots, cumin and lime dressing on the side])

she fretted as she compared squatted tossed in turn for as long as it took me to turn my ear screeching cart round to debate why some apples cost more

then i remembered

i couldn’t read chinese


only the small four digit code stickers still familiar;

my high school job punching these aligned with scales, streaming back like the icy blast of the parking lot automatic door opening opening more than closing

cuz it was always christmas in america

and these were rich people

who the fuck still wants fruit in their stocking?—ask if the crab meat is real and quit moaning about what kind of plum i presumed


behave


i wanted to speak chinese

so we could become lovers

lost forever

each armed with one chopstick

poking produce

pinching sense

making small brown spots

monumental in our choosing

weighing centers against the wilt

calculating limp, limbs rooted into each

akimbo is japanese is it not?

and the fuji apples are from where?

the american imports last the least

i’ll take you on the bus to the bourgeoisie

24 hour joint

with stinky cheese


climb in my sheets

leave the spoiling for tomorrow


coven

late lunch & one last mission, the threads are ready for our braiding

no more fending off the wild dogs; we’ve reached our weekend covenstead


we sit in circle, cense our space, chakras opening, intentions set,

postures more mindful, all eyes gentle, eclectic witches ready to begin

vibrations roll before smoky voices, we take our turns


rented glass walls cannot contain impending soft sob

wails, we picnic beneath the kind of trees & muted stars

the taiwanese city won’t afford


lush tropics against the white panes, we from our countries and our continents

linking this tongue in a foreign scape to call & cradle

universal strengths


white pillows, storied crystals, black clothes & bodies brushed

grass beneath us, mats, decks, speakers, games,

potions portioned, glasses filled, testaments & sage


we took our borrowed broom, teetering along unknown outline rice paddies

we had thought we’d reach the ocean, but we’re all

one another needs


smudged and elevating, we initiated narratives

witnessing generational culminations

in crises pulling us taut


communal kitchen morning, red wax leftovers,

time lent for external give back

now cleansing work

concoctions and methods shared

the return nostalgic, ending in black capped

pressure & a soak


among our coven so it was, and is, and will be

it has become written—we reconvene this thursday

on a full moon’s eve