Fading

Your lips touch my wrist

and leave a tingle trail

up to my lips.

Butterflies spring forth, pale

skin next to mine shifts

with each breath.

 

Angel kissed cheeks

seem to glow in the dark.

 

But his light burns brightest

when his anger shines

and burns, the slightest

tremor rides my spine.

 

With every word, I counter

with two.

With every scream, I answer

with mute.

 

The object of his ire

soon evaporates like water,

leaving him wordless. Tired.

Nothing conveys what really matters

better than a simple silence

after a hurricane.

Warning

Your eyes crinkle like candy wrappers

whenever you smile.

Bright blue shines through soulful windows,

a line of wheat colored lashes stutter.

Candy apple lips curve in a half diamond.

 

Tattoos mark your exterior,

but I’ve marked your organs

burned my way through your veins

until I reached the epicenter of your essence.

My love is simply muscle memory.

 

Your breath is my favorite song,

your heartbeat–the best lullaby.

But don’t be fooled by pretty words,

I’m not like other girls.

My love is like a natural disaster,

it’s addictive, has you swinging from rafters.

 

My wrath is like a tsunami,

I forgive, but don’t forget easy

and if I’ve been wronged, I’ll tear you apart,

carve myself out of your heart

and no gold or honey could ever

stick you back together.

Right to Write

The orangutan leads bleating sheep

to a cliff lip that stretches

over ignorant oblivion.

He scratches to pretend

he knows what flea bites

fee like, but we know he sleeps

on a cloud of Cleveland’s and Madison’s,

though he doesn’t know who they were, only

that he is better than them.

 

He shouts fake news with a sneer,

forcing all the sheep to hear

solid stupidity in their ears.

It rings like a jackhammer,

relief is not imminent,

and neither is salvation.

If he wants to know what persecution

feels like, he should just speak

in front of a mirror.

 

For he sees color as danger,

all colors represent something

he cannot understand.

He is a blank slate of petrified,

screaming to anyone who will hear

of the great old days

while whispering

of the k

k

k.

 

He screams fake news,

but the news answers him

with scandals

and body counts.

His numbers do not add up

when held up against the saving light

of an informed reality.

 

The orangutan would remove

our right to write,

our right to live,

our right to fabricated happiness.

The sheep will bleat,

and the crows will cackle.

Wish for Wilderness

Creaking crackling metal

runs over clacking tracks.

Lights flashes

through windows

and a voice

announces your arrival.

 

Arrival isn’t steady solid being,

it’s a temporary state

as easy to strip away

as taking a single small step.

Arrival morphs into leaving

much too easily.

 

Give me a moonful serenade,

crickets and frogs competing

with silence.

The shadows of tree branches

my only friends.

The light from fireflies

enough to read by.

 

Whispering rivers my religion

as grass bends and sways

to whistling winds.

 

Give me freedom to dream,

and sleep, and love

something wholly other

than you, or me, or them.

 

Give me silence and deafening sound,

give me hope that no one is around

to steal what shouldn’t be possessed.

 

 

Dim Sum

Weathered faces beam across the table

as steam rises from bamboo baskets

which hold the treasures of Ha Gao,

Ha Churn, and that weird gray stuff

that looks like cut up brains.

(It’s actually cow intestines.)

 

Tea spills over cups as liquor

rides a rush through myveins.

They laugh at the dropped food

from shaky chopsticks,

they laugh at the As

that should have been A plusses.

 

Peanuts dipped in sesame sauce

is redundant, like dipping my black curly hair

into my chinky eyes.

They are made of the same damn thing.

 

Full blooded cousins tell me I don’t belong,

I never have, with my lack of an accent,

my lack of demurring, my lack

my lack

my lack

my lack.

I’ll tell you what I fucking lack.

That “oh whatever you want to do,

is fine, honey” that springs

to their lips as soon as

confrontation hits.

 

That “I’m really good at math

but I can’t pronounce my R’s,

ha ha ha”

 

That hate for the mutts,

of those people who had the balls

to escape from the misogynistic culture

by marrying into another, slightly less

shitty culture.

 

That Asian culture,

where a man brings home the bacon

and the women tries everything

available to her to stay

stupid

and

pretty.

 

I’ll take my curly off jet black hair,

my big tits and my handful ass,

my lack of accent and lack of self-hate,

my light wood eyes…

I’ll stay pretty,

but I won’t be stupid.

Garbage

His glare is pronounced

under prominent brows.

They arch like cats

as they stretch their backs.

The hair on my neck points

towards Polaris.

 

What have I done,

that was so very wrong?

 

Cotton dyed plaid bunches

around flabby biceps

as he pictures bending and breaking

a neck, an arm, a leg, a finger.

Since the moment I was born,

disposable garbage.

 

But garbage can’t earn a diploma,

garbage can’t tell you you’re wrong,

garbage can’t have a mind of it’s own,

a will that doesn’t bend to your fists

or your words

or your hate.

 

But garbage can fight back,

can’t I, Daddy?

Self?

What am I?
Just a silly sad girl.
No matter how I try,
life slaps me and I swirl.

Just a silly sad girl
full of bruises and scrapes,
life slaps me and I swirl
into the open arms of an ape.

Full of bruises and scrapes,
I waltz like a twister
into the open arms of an ape.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”

I waltz like a twister,
holding you in no regard.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”
I am my own guard.

Holding you in no regard,
no matter how I try…
I am my own guard.
What am I?

Ars Poetica

Somedays I can’t speak.
The words shrivel up in my throat
and my lips shut tight.
But they are there.
Racing through my synapses,
playing tag behind my eyes.

I see letters, jumbled and
heart wrenchingly lonely.
They need to be solid,
not just volleyed breaths.
But am I solid?
Am I worth more than a glance?

Thoughts are beautiful,
but I’m not.
Words can sing,
I sound like a drowning cat.
Letters fly and tumble like acrobats.
I’d rather not.

But there’s no denying
that sense of peace that
your fingers register,
and it travels to your brain,
as your eyes fasten their sights
on the tip of lead touching paper.

The scritch-scratch of loops
and cursives on something pristine.
The way the wind rustles and
crinkles a leaflet.
I won’t stop indulging
in my favorite vice.

Enchanted

Fairies buzz around your head,

lifting locks of silver and threading them to gold.

Fairies dance about your crown,

admiring themselves in your pair of cobalts.

The nymphs are singing

from under the floor;

a song of restless seduction.

The water is steep and you

have many miles to go,

before you sleep;

before you sleep.

 

You’ve walked in the woods

during a snowy evening.

Lights pass through trees;

a makeshift kaleidoscope of perspective.

There are those who have never seen light

but we don’t talk about them anymore

they live under floorboards and cellar doors

just the sight of those

yellow eyes gleaming in the absence of light

can send shivers down your spine.

 

There is no your kind,

or his kind

or Her Kind.

 

“Illegals” is not a noun.

 

There is our kind

and we have always been

right

here.

Oranges

My yellow, bruised rinds

are peeled and opened.

Displayed like a flower,

if one cares to look.

Past the bruises and crescent moons

of those who touched but didn’t care

to split me open, work me out.

Reveal the sweetness that was covered by tough skin

and a tangy stare.

 

Sweet fruit revealed to patience.

A taste that will never flee your mouth.

A scent that can drive you mad,

but only if you let it.

You mistook my bruises for rot.

They’re not.

They were made by people like you.

 

People who have learned to judge by feel.

Picking us up and holding us in the light.

Examining every flaw, picking you apart

just to see you shrivel

and shrink.

 

Don’t.

 

You are more than your exterior.

Beneath your bumpy skin, your cold shell,

lies the most addictive drug they haven’t learned

to taste yet.