It has grown commonplace.
It has grown hushed, muted sadness through
cassette tapes you refuse to toss.
It seems, you have run out of time, minutes move
quicker than quiet seconds arise and it makes less than
any sense. Refrains discharge emotions, clinging
to your troubled mourning like static on Egyptian
cotton. You force the sounds of nostalgia to
ring through ear drums exempt from infancy's misery;
Daddy does not love you, and Kenny G’s saxophone abates
in easing familial throbbing.
You recite the number mother wrote in your lunchbox
with a grape-scented marker: 818 882-2550, and
realize the line’s been disconnected since 1989.
Perhaps it is time to bury the truth, stopping the
harsh beats. You have ridden your tricycle down
Sunnybrae knoll, and your parents are farther
away than they appear.
Elementary discomfort will remain adhered, as nothing can
unwind twisted cassette threads to labor in ministering
selfless tears the same.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Heavy
Through restricted airways, my battered rib
incarcerated and asked to remain silent,
finds shelter from a lessened heartbeat; my
maltreated bio-rhythm shying away.
Smelling of sun-melted rind, his blue-collar
blistered fingers strike tar-hued tangled
strands, once heavily lying upon my infantile
shoulders, in a piercing exposé of locked
retention; saying farewell requesting
forgiveness, despite any auspicious guarantee.
Hands I want to hold, boyish scars I hope to settle,
I have bled for years and Yesterday’s
child forfeits any such win. Chinese Jump
rope left me the undefeated champion with
love, 1989. I bleed as the flow of crimson swells
up dead on arrival, in inoculating my uncluttered
remembrance from paternal semblance.
It’s the heaviest winds that hit the fucking
hardest.
incarcerated and asked to remain silent,
finds shelter from a lessened heartbeat; my
maltreated bio-rhythm shying away.
Smelling of sun-melted rind, his blue-collar
blistered fingers strike tar-hued tangled
strands, once heavily lying upon my infantile
shoulders, in a piercing exposé of locked
retention; saying farewell requesting
forgiveness, despite any auspicious guarantee.
Hands I want to hold, boyish scars I hope to settle,
I have bled for years and Yesterday’s
child forfeits any such win. Chinese Jump
rope left me the undefeated champion with
love, 1989. I bleed as the flow of crimson swells
up dead on arrival, in inoculating my uncluttered
remembrance from paternal semblance.
It’s the heaviest winds that hit the fucking
hardest.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
My Mother's Sister
I’ve studied Sylvia and Anne, beyond
the grave. I’ve studied you in the flesh, in my
dreams, and in bottles of medication flushed
down grandma’s toilet. I saw you speak to god that
day from the sidelines in my Barbie nightgown and
miss-angled bangs, as the freckled paramedic, your Happy
Days crush Richie Cunningham, took you away.
Half past ten waiting within the walls of uncertain
death, I lay upright bound in Khaleh Farideh’s worried
emotion. As she stroked aside kinky black tendrils, a saintly
vision in white struck my sight. Your hospital gown smelling of
your peculiar psychosis, your I.V dripping morphine to bore
stiff the emotions of a widowed mind, twenty-one years and
counting. You gave me a bag of rainbow-sprinkled cookies, a pencil
topped with a heart eraser, and a hug. You leaned in whispering,
I‘ll never die. These voices won’t allow me to.
The strollers in shoes not your own, arbitrate knowing
nothing. You know the transparent truth, exactly as you
imagine it. An esteemed doctor falling casualty to
domestic abuse. Trading retention with you, if it insured the
dictator of your marital incarceration death, would require
no second opinion.
Sylvia and Anne would harmonize; thoughts pertaining to you
are bullet-proof, calling to comprehension your liberal
undertakings clearly vaccinated from any assassination of
the anti-mediocre contemplations that your man-trampled
illness inspired.
the grave. I’ve studied you in the flesh, in my
dreams, and in bottles of medication flushed
down grandma’s toilet. I saw you speak to god that
day from the sidelines in my Barbie nightgown and
miss-angled bangs, as the freckled paramedic, your Happy
Days crush Richie Cunningham, took you away.
Half past ten waiting within the walls of uncertain
death, I lay upright bound in Khaleh Farideh’s worried
emotion. As she stroked aside kinky black tendrils, a saintly
vision in white struck my sight. Your hospital gown smelling of
your peculiar psychosis, your I.V dripping morphine to bore
stiff the emotions of a widowed mind, twenty-one years and
counting. You gave me a bag of rainbow-sprinkled cookies, a pencil
topped with a heart eraser, and a hug. You leaned in whispering,
I‘ll never die. These voices won’t allow me to.
The strollers in shoes not your own, arbitrate knowing
nothing. You know the transparent truth, exactly as you
imagine it. An esteemed doctor falling casualty to
domestic abuse. Trading retention with you, if it insured the
dictator of your marital incarceration death, would require
no second opinion.
Sylvia and Anne would harmonize; thoughts pertaining to you
are bullet-proof, calling to comprehension your liberal
undertakings clearly vaccinated from any assassination of
the anti-mediocre contemplations that your man-trampled
illness inspired.
A Cheap WIsh
Recreating pubescent approaches to each cautious,
inexperienced footstep I once took miscarries in
replication:
I will never embark on another Egg
Drop soup, father-daughter date night while
mother is away.
There’s no need to hide razors in
the daylight of sixth grade anymore, all to
carelessly knick my knees shaving in the dark
stillness of early mornings.
Greeting Mr. Shannon with a Merry Christmas
from across the hopscotch encrusted pavement
died along with him.
Running to mother after school let out on
May 18, 1999 to tear into the childproof-
like plastic casing before savoring the newest
tracks from the boys of Backstreet, can’t make
for quite the love-struck ride home.
My mother’s mother can’t be conned for cash and a
ride to the mall while my soon-to-be dissociated paternities
run away to Cancun to rekindle what was never there.
Cinnamon smelling sparkling lip-gloss and a pair of Air
Jordans later; I will still be unpopular.
The portraits of memories past, the ones that Picasso
paints each time my lashes meet one another, belonging
to the unripe youth I once was, can never be duplicated, though the
weeping ensnared by the windowpane closing off my mortal
atmosphere is often imitated.
My father takes no one other than his wife
on dates while my shins still tussle with bleeding.
My mother is away for good, while Mr. Shannon and
her mother are off waltzing in heaven. The music lacks
the aura it once imparted, as my lip-gloss has dried out and
the Goodwill representative found my Jordans a home
where finding popularity is less important than keeping
your feet warm.
Transcripts are made, actions turn into past decisions, and weeks
turn into years. I survived the decade tormented by teenage
anguish only to drive blindfolded into the period of adulthood
aches.
One moment is all I ask of a wish that cannot be bought. The
cheapest wish of them all.
inexperienced footstep I once took miscarries in
replication:
I will never embark on another Egg
Drop soup, father-daughter date night while
mother is away.
There’s no need to hide razors in
the daylight of sixth grade anymore, all to
carelessly knick my knees shaving in the dark
stillness of early mornings.
Greeting Mr. Shannon with a Merry Christmas
from across the hopscotch encrusted pavement
died along with him.
Running to mother after school let out on
May 18, 1999 to tear into the childproof-
like plastic casing before savoring the newest
tracks from the boys of Backstreet, can’t make
for quite the love-struck ride home.
My mother’s mother can’t be conned for cash and a
ride to the mall while my soon-to-be dissociated paternities
run away to Cancun to rekindle what was never there.
Cinnamon smelling sparkling lip-gloss and a pair of Air
Jordans later; I will still be unpopular.
The portraits of memories past, the ones that Picasso
paints each time my lashes meet one another, belonging
to the unripe youth I once was, can never be duplicated, though the
weeping ensnared by the windowpane closing off my mortal
atmosphere is often imitated.
My father takes no one other than his wife
on dates while my shins still tussle with bleeding.
My mother is away for good, while Mr. Shannon and
her mother are off waltzing in heaven. The music lacks
the aura it once imparted, as my lip-gloss has dried out and
the Goodwill representative found my Jordans a home
where finding popularity is less important than keeping
your feet warm.
Transcripts are made, actions turn into past decisions, and weeks
turn into years. I survived the decade tormented by teenage
anguish only to drive blindfolded into the period of adulthood
aches.
One moment is all I ask of a wish that cannot be bought. The
cheapest wish of them all.
Fame: Your Five Minutes Are Up
Like Wall Street tickertape across social
network lines, Lady Gaga has been pronounced
dead. Kim Kardashian has succumbed to twittering
no more, and Justin Timberlake halts in bringing sexy
back by means of high speed.
Buying their blogging-savvy, celebrity exploits back by
humbly donating to end AIDS and World Hunger is the civic
duty of Gaga’s petite freaks, Kim’s Botox-anticipating juvenile
dreamers, and Justin’s affection-stoned, training bra
donning devotees. Superstars of the new millennium pose
exquisitely potent for off beam reasons.
Will there ever be another Lucille Ball to advocate against
the mischievous sprite of the crippler, infantile paralysis, in shades
of salt and pepper emanating through a box paired with frozen
dinners of 1954? Another Farrokh Bulsara, 8-track’s epic flamboyance,
clad in a Zoroastrian silvery bodysuit whose vocal marvel, pit-bull-like
tenacity against AIDS was fatally claimed, as front-page news found itself
flung on many lawns by teenage paperboys across continents in
1991? Or another Cynthia Nixon, a woman frolicking the
city with sexual advances through reels directed in Abu Dhabi, battling
tears being wept over the sapping curse on a woman’s secure
sensuality on the real?
To the community of opulent waste:
your empty wallets via bouncing checkbooks deserve restless
dark, even if for a second. Monetarily aiding in killing off rates of
Famine and AIDS, ascends in adequate importance than reviving
access to tweets about the Chanel satchel, a Kardashian snagged
during her Rodeo Drive shopping spree,
And the advocating voice writing this rational requiem
for fame’s number being up concurs, wishing these deaths were
more than just figurative.
network lines, Lady Gaga has been pronounced
dead. Kim Kardashian has succumbed to twittering
no more, and Justin Timberlake halts in bringing sexy
back by means of high speed.
Buying their blogging-savvy, celebrity exploits back by
humbly donating to end AIDS and World Hunger is the civic
duty of Gaga’s petite freaks, Kim’s Botox-anticipating juvenile
dreamers, and Justin’s affection-stoned, training bra
donning devotees. Superstars of the new millennium pose
exquisitely potent for off beam reasons.
Will there ever be another Lucille Ball to advocate against
the mischievous sprite of the crippler, infantile paralysis, in shades
of salt and pepper emanating through a box paired with frozen
dinners of 1954? Another Farrokh Bulsara, 8-track’s epic flamboyance,
clad in a Zoroastrian silvery bodysuit whose vocal marvel, pit-bull-like
tenacity against AIDS was fatally claimed, as front-page news found itself
flung on many lawns by teenage paperboys across continents in
1991? Or another Cynthia Nixon, a woman frolicking the
city with sexual advances through reels directed in Abu Dhabi, battling
tears being wept over the sapping curse on a woman’s secure
sensuality on the real?
To the community of opulent waste:
your empty wallets via bouncing checkbooks deserve restless
dark, even if for a second. Monetarily aiding in killing off rates of
Famine and AIDS, ascends in adequate importance than reviving
access to tweets about the Chanel satchel, a Kardashian snagged
during her Rodeo Drive shopping spree,
And the advocating voice writing this rational requiem
for fame’s number being up concurs, wishing these deaths were
more than just figurative.
Rite of Passage: I Am Not Welcomed
I ran home that day, raped myself of all
cutting-edge fashion, and sat immobile in
that hallway; it knew every slit of brine fallen
from my ostracized eyes, and was habituated to
scenes of my conscience in shame. The chemistry of my
contemplation, latent. The contour of my alliance
with poetry was disclosed through the windowpane; as I
shut human ambiance off, the production of salt stung from
lurid to lax.
Braless and alone; the moldy recess with the built-in rickety
heater kept my fur cavities lying down, while the mixture
of Jolene’s peroxide burnt the stigma of dark away. Figuratively,
there lounged not a terrorist bone in my Iranian form, I vocalized
White bitches must die, as my American citizenship became
ethnically perturbed.
Stirring my electrolysis-sparked skin an era later, while the
silence of sunset never thinks twice, is an impression of
partiality further abysmal than my fledgling madness; consumerism
targets the cultured. Beauty is Pain, a colonizer’s creed pursuing
me, an American inhabited by none other than her own.
cutting-edge fashion, and sat immobile in
that hallway; it knew every slit of brine fallen
from my ostracized eyes, and was habituated to
scenes of my conscience in shame. The chemistry of my
contemplation, latent. The contour of my alliance
with poetry was disclosed through the windowpane; as I
shut human ambiance off, the production of salt stung from
lurid to lax.
Braless and alone; the moldy recess with the built-in rickety
heater kept my fur cavities lying down, while the mixture
of Jolene’s peroxide burnt the stigma of dark away. Figuratively,
there lounged not a terrorist bone in my Iranian form, I vocalized
White bitches must die, as my American citizenship became
ethnically perturbed.
Stirring my electrolysis-sparked skin an era later, while the
silence of sunset never thinks twice, is an impression of
partiality further abysmal than my fledgling madness; consumerism
targets the cultured. Beauty is Pain, a colonizer’s creed pursuing
me, an American inhabited by none other than her own.
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