Viewing entries in
displacement

wet behind the ears

living very far away and having resigned herself to certain attributes

of my personality—which are mostly blamed on the poor

conditions of the countries I choose to live in

and/or my father’s side of the family’s genetic

predispositions, she finally instructs over the not so

small phone placed under the only plant

i can really keep alive—bamboo,

if you were wondering: “get it while you can…

your figure,

your brains,

your secretions,

—they all leave you.”

my mother advises, and the support becomes bakhtinian

grotesque in that instant.

i would like to bring this up to the poet women

whom i plan, cackle, dream, and dine with.

instead we like

to talk about how long we can last

until wet

or dry shampoo is in order.

 

whom are we challenging?

catch up

i find swing sets

it’s a thing i've always loved because it’s easy to control

but it’s fake freedom with chains and steel at the root, and the grip must be tight,

and your heels must eventually dig a bit, less graceful than perhaps you envision,

and so I make a scene each time

 

and seats outside

with women i have loved and love me back

become swing sets sought after behind more steel in less locations over longer stretches of time

 

the distance and time are measurements i prefer not;

those have been cliche since before we had grey hairs,

since before we had comments on the grey hairs,

since before we even knew what they would really fucking feel like in our hands.

 

the heights we look up to together became larger than our own;

we know we cannot feed each other’s wishes,

so we can crane our necks to see specks of people,

and we can tell each other all the disgusting layers of insecurity we accept;

we wash it down on collapsible tables because despite grey hairs, we still don’t call ahead for reservations

 

we speak of polyamory and jealousy and unwanted attention from wanted wells,

we speak of visas and how much power we have to get them,

we speak of our empty wombs and how much power we will need to maintain,

to keep them so—

 

some call us brave,

because we aren’t little specks with velocity and neck breaks,

we are here

and we are close

but we don’t hug anywhere near enough

and the fancy bathtub in the morning was impossible to use.

 

I want my swing set back

and it makes me break my spine to let out loud cries

on a tarmac

as warm water still spills on never been used white lies.

the caravel hotel

found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,

 

printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter

 

but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,

 

thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.

 

you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.

taipei: a haibun

heavy, filthied silver and red panes run perpendicular to the slabs of city cement. christmas striped paths to lead the denizens in walking safely, always to the side. swaying gently above, but not against these rectangles of man-made stability and direction, are innumerable trailing droplets of lush green life. vines infinitely smaller than the once clear pipes terminating in never been white buckets, each lain in moldy snaking rows: clogging the bronchial tubes of the city, leaving her diurnally begging for clarity. greyscale gestates with the summer heat, swelling the corrugated passageways with hand-sewn nylon attempts at protection, the rhythmic ballooning and contracting, dampened unskilled hands running up and down, the sweat of the uninitiated streaming quicker.

wishing winds to whisper balance

each palpation assumes

a clean rinse

morning muriel, mother, et al.

dante has been resurrected to mean the same truths in my living room — the hellish blister

developing on tongue tip worrying me much —  a small red spoon — the sound of the screeching

cat in the alleyway i lament i ever fell for as a view made me know its name — ginger

boiled in large paper cups could’ve caused my wound – i always forget to be green

 

mosquitos buzz as my mother watches me swat — ‘why are you even still awake?’

i say to it — in the morning there are the wash sounds — the swish and smack

sounds — the frailty of the outdoor sinks — the reminder my underwear has soaked

far too long — the thought that the white mold is better than the black — and clap!

 

mother puts me down on her crimson sofa arm — screams for her not so puppy-pet —

i glance out to a photograph — questioning myself — in high school — it's far too high

up — noting forgetfulness of what walls are made of at that address — peripherally i have found

in The Life of Poetry — moving on from dante, in the next corner it is writ:

         A poem is an imaginary work, living in time, indicated in lan-

guage. It is and it expresses; it allows us to express.                    

                                                                                                         169