angst driven insecure
a country in puberty
a country at war
wet dreams
cotton mouth
blood thirsty
oily hair
fast cars
movie stars
earn 20 mill…
to instill fear
she and i never spoke. we were in relationships we shouldn’t have been in. we were sorcerers who had stored their charms in unmarked boxes because they had made our partners uncomfortable. every day, we reported to work early in order to rest our waking eyes on last nights dream. i had resorted to sleeping with my back to my partner. the ball i slept curled in became the question mark i now placed within all prior commitments. this was no teenage crush. it was an adulthood rite. she was what love had grown up to be: unspoken, yet shared between us.
on that glorious day, i stood before my cubicle shuffling papers like a card reader with an oversized deck. the one on top read, “invoice”, as something within told me to turn around. she walked the aisle towards me perhaps on the same undisclosed mission that now leads me towards her, only neither of us was confident enough to slow our pace as we approached the other. we brushed shoulders moments before the first explosion. we, both, stopped, turned back and stared at each other as if shocked that the outside world might bring to life our inner workings.
here is our first touch
and here is this trembling building
hold the two in your hands
and tell me what you come up with
everyone running to windows to see what has happened, as smiles slowly rise on our faces like the time between 6:24 and 6:39 over the skyline. we are not panicked, only awed at how a fluttering stomach can predict the short life span of a social butterfly. love has become a fiery place. but we are living in an old testament where there is a faith that does not burn, that turns kings into believers.
i believe that those were my exact thoughts before extending my hand, just as she did hers. and as we walked into the grasp of the other, a second explosion. we smiled, knowingly, like scientists witnessing the primordial origins of chemistry. and down that burning aisle where glass had been strewn like rice we decided to jump the broom, walking off into the will of the divine wind {<jap. equiv. to kami=divine + kaze=wind}.
she held my hand
leaving three fingers
in my grasp
like gripping a symbol
from the i ching
which i’m not sure
i’ve ever grasped
o my friends,
the greatest americans
have not been born yet
they are waiting patiently
for the past
to die
please
give
blood
those crumbled tablets
were to share a story
with a burning Bush
where is that voice from nowhere
to remind us
that the holy ground
we walk on
purified by native blood
has rooted trees
whose fallen leaves
now color code
a sacred list of demands?
who among us can give translation
of autumn hues to morning news?
the anchor man
thrown overboard
has simply rooted us
in history’s repeating cycle
a nation in its saturn years
that won’t acknowledge karma
where is that voice
from nowhere?
the one your prophets spoke of?
there are voices from fear
disconnected from their diaphragms
dangling from coffee covered teeth
that spill into our laps
and burn our privates
there are voices
from the sides of necks
some already noosed
dangling participles
pronouns running
for sentence
serving life
in corner offices
and ghetto corners
their voices are the same:
dead to themselves
numb to the possibility
of truth existing beyond
that which they can palm
in the bleeding hole
of their hands,
period.
there are voices of elders
who seem to do no more
than damn us
to our childish ways
for in many households
wisdom
no longer comes with age
so where is that voice from nowhere?
that burning bush?
that passing dove?
I hear voices of generals
calling for ammunition
voices of presidents
calling for arms
voices of women
calling for help
but where is that voice
from nowhere?
that God of abraham?
those crying rocks?
can he be heard over the gunfire
the whizz of passing missles
the crash of buildings
the cries of children
the crack of bones
the shriek of sirens?
or is that his mighty voice?
your angry god
craving the sacrifice
of a virgin generation’s
son degenerate
your holy books:
written in red ink
on burning sands
(…branded into necks, whipped into backs, forced inside of vaginas and anuses, crammed into mouths, rubbed into open sores…)
your prayers
between rounds
do no more
than fasten the fate
of your children
to the hammered truth
of your trigger
a truth that mushrooms
its darkened cloud
over the rest of us
so that we too
bear witness
to the short-lived fate
of a civilization
that worships
a male god
your weapons
are phallic
all of them
the dummy
that sits on your lap
is no longer
a worthwhile spectacle
his shrunken pale face
leaves little room
for imagination
we have spotted
your moving lips
and have pinned the voice
to its proper source
it is a source of madness
a source of hunger for power
a source of weakness
we are exiting your colosseum
and encircling your box office
demanding our families back
our rituals back
our cultures back
our language back
and our gods
so that we may return them
to their proper source
the source of life
the source of creation
the womb of the Great Mother
we will cut through
the barbed wire hangers and chastity belts
we will climb in
and incubate our spirits
through the winter
we will wait through the degenerate course
of your repeated history
we will wait for the past to die
pools of blood
are not recreational
even lifeguards drown
when the undertow breaks bread with the under belly
demons disguised as sharks
have not put enough thought
into their costumes
a wiseman stays ashore
when pointed fins
read like italian subtitles
the end is near (…)
the beginning
in the beginning her tears were the long awaited rains of a parched somali village. red dusted children danced shadows in the new found mounds of mascara that eclipsed her face, reflected in the smogged glass of carlos’ east street bodega. learning to love, SHE had forgotten to cry. seldom hearing the
distant thunder in her lover’s ambivalent sighs. HE was not honest. SHE was not sure. a great grandfather had sacrificed the family’s clarity for gold in the late eighteen hundreds. nonetheless, SHE had allowed him to mispronounce her name, which had eventually led to her misinterpreting her own
dreams. and, later, doubting them. but the night was young….
…as a child, she played for hours with children never bothering to learn their names. they forged
friendships and charters to nations that still
stand.
she is president
of a sliding board
her citizens surrender to the exuberance of
falling
knowing they will land
on their feet
…her uncle would swallow pictures of God
to be sure that God was inside of him
they institutionalized his stomach lining
’til he choked on his own belief system
the truth was in his vomit
she is within us
cut to
a world of dreams
fluid and unremembered
a multitude of tongues
women adorned
bracelets beaded
with possible conclusions
to stories
that will never end
our maned character sits in a long dark brown leather chair that is contoured to fit his entire body (an antique chair, perhaps, from one of old china’s opium dens). in his lap is a book made of blue and brown strips of fabric. definitely handmade. the pages are yellow, grainy and uneven. as if each page were torn to fit as opposed to cut. the book is bound by thin hemp strings. from over his right shoulder, we read as he writes:
he looks up from his book and spots a shadow approaching his door. he writes:
he drops his pen and then picks it up and quickly scribbles, as we hear a soft knock on the door:
Journalist: What are you working on?
Maned Character: An attack of the subconscious.
J: Why?
MC: Because it’s eating us alive.
J: How would you characterize the subconscious of America, in particular, the youth of America?
MC: As characterized. We are acting out the parts of age old scripts.
J: Is there any way past that?
MC: No.
J: Then wouldn’t that render your work useless?
MC: No.
J: Why not?
MC: There’s always room for improvisation.
J: You mean, then, that we cannot help but act out our parts because “it is written,” but we can still find space to riff on what isn’t written.
MC: Exactly. This is an appeal to the unwritten histories of the future.
J: Aren’t you, then, doing the universe or humanity or the future some sort of disservice by writing it down.
MC: Not really. Even with literacy rates going up, people don’t read as much as they did in the past, or rather the written word doesn’t carry as much weight. Or, at least, newly written words don’t. We’re still living out
an old testament. What i’m doing is sort of a lyrical hacking. i’m figuring a way to fool the database into thinking that this book is older than it is. i’ve sampled elements of the code and dated aspects of the language. Sort of like post dating a check, but in reverse. Thus, the signals and symbols being sent to the database are old yet they register in a different way. And when the individual reading a passage decides to quit and then is asked by the database whether or not they would like to save the changes made to the document, i am hoping that they will mechanically click “yes”.
J: And what if people don’t read it?
MC: It will already be bound.
J: Bound?
MC: Yes, a book is always bound. And written word is often bound…to happen. It increases its likelihood. But really, as long as MTV markets it right, it should reach a lot of people. It’s carefully designed for the short attention span.
J: Would you characterize yourself as different?
MC: Well, it’s also written this way because my attention span is pretty short.
behold, a story untold
I HAVE SEEN THE MOON
IN A SUN DRESS
the ocean
beneath her
rippling in laughter
at the sight
of a lone man
who learned to walk on water
for a glimpse
of his truth
in her crater
i have found the library
where all the dreams deferred
were stored
catalogues of cultures
indexed by communal disappearance
mayans are metaphors
for astral doors
left cracked
by children afraid
to sleep in utter darkness
i am unafraid to utter
darkness
i speak a shadowed truth
like a newborn
wrapped in a blanket
tucked tight enough
to resemble
its mother’s celestial cave
i am handing this child
to you
the godparent
of a foreshadowing
soon to be revealed
when you remove
the plastic seal
come see
how death is a myth
there are no deceased
only deceived
death only awaits
those who believed
i surrendered
my beliefs
and found myself
at the tree of life
injecting my story
into the veins
of leaves
only to find that stories
like forests
are subject to seasons
i am the deads latest experiment
a midwife birthing afterlife
the unborn are fully present
we have disguised ourselves
from ourselves
so that our daily thoughts
may not sabotage
our spirits’
ascendance
thrice immersed
into the wordly
we are
self-forgotten
for our own benefit
i am forced
to disassemble
to fit into your monitor
i hand you my spirit
as i walk through
customs
i am to be reassembled
after the final check point
sorcery of self:
a phrase i coined
and now surrender to you
it’s as if i’ve swallowed
an interior decorator
i like my heart where it is
i cannot make
your past disappear
only rabbits, my love,
only rabbits
depleted memory banks
have grounded our emotional economy
we have been forced
to create a new currency
one that will truly allow us
to love our neighbors
for reasons beyond guilt and pity
i have offered myself
to the inkwell of the wordsmith
that i might be shaped
into new terms of being
only through new words
might new worlds
be calle
d
into order
i stretch my body
into your symbols of statehood
i am a citizen
casting my vote
and net
in the same breath
i dare not keep what i reap
i am only fishing
for momentary companionship
i have committed myself
to adultery
i will only sleep
with GOD’s wife
our affair
is no secret
he gets his thrills
from watching us
i cannot tear myself
from her eyes
i am, indeed,
her pupil
and no longer fear
the unseen
teach me
thy ways
o lord
steady my hands
upon your breasts
and guide me
to your altar
swallow me whole
so that i may
be born
again
a great one has said
that poets are midwives
to reality
yet these words
catch me
when i would have them
let me go
omb
that cross
did nothing more
than make a death chamber
of a nursery
i became
as a child
only after
i had entered
the kingdom
introduce me
to your after-life
let me see
if i can tempt it
from its cloud form
those white robes
are the very cloaks
of your enemies
and their leader
has the brazen tone
of your shepherd
maybe you shouldn’t have prayed
with your eyes closed
open eyes plainly see
the resemblance
a prayer stamped