Posts for June 2, 2022 (page 6)

ideas only come with movement  
     steps across a bridge

I drove across town and would again
for her, a woman who has much more in common with me than she knows
she truly doesn’t know me at all and I barely know anything
but I’ve pieced together and realize
well, women’s stories often flow like rivers
all into the same larger one, then finally to the sea
salt water, tears, the results of the whims of men

my thoughts circle like tiny cyclones in my mind
the above mentioned ideas that formulate when I walk
when I seek and explore
delve deeper than the mundane
I want something more

this recurring dream of driving backward
fast, too fast and I cannot control what’s happening
a vision though
not dead people or some gauzy gray spiritual enlightenment
a thought and I vow to name something, before I pass, after my great grandmother
and what he thinks matters not

I want something more for her too
not just good enough or isn’t it nice to not have to worry
I want her to exceed every expectation
and be clothed in purple despite him
I want her to win and win again

I will cross that bridge eventually  
     we will move freely, together

To her
The she
That was me 

The one 
That shrank
The one
That cowered 

To the life
She settled for
To the love
She accepted 

I raise my glass 

To honor 
The path
She paved 
The heart 
She protected 

I am
Because
She shattered 
I exist 
Because
She broke

Cheers, Dear
We done good 

i.

I ponder over big words…

the ones with more then two syllables,
the ones I pretend I know the meaning of-
like I actually understand the conversation…

I’m a fake-
a muggle in a world of wizards,
a child in a world of adults
playing pretend


ii.

I spend time lingering under the shade 
provided by a deserted football bleacher-

watching pale people become ghosts
and hearing lonely ones read to phantoms-

I spend hours in the way of a breeze
waiting for time to blow me away-

Strangers ask for my name,
congratulate me for existing-

I work off their praise-
thrive off the attention

June has left me lonely
craving sun, then shade, then night


iii.

Treasures of the earth uncovered-
turned over thanks to a great conscience…

the spirit of the conversation darkens
as confiscation starts.

Building pyramids from dirt-
monuments from bones-

carving the future from our history
it’s a biblical text.
The story of our bodies:
from genes to genesis,
we can draw abiding conclusions…

We are treasure

our bodies turned over for a greater good-
our language shifts into an ugly sound-
and we are stripped of our identity…

We were dirt
turned bones-

our history lost to a magic fable.

It’s a biblical prediction,
the story of our hands,
from start to end.

We draw the line at tragedy repeating.


iv.

I got cut by the sharpness of the tongue,
got stung by the floating ember of a dead fire,

got killed by the mistranslation of bodies.

I fail on definition-
fall to deeper meaning-
I cling to kinder words
in hope of getting reincarnated as a princess.

Can one fault me for existing?
I find flaws within my drawn conclusions-
too prideful to admit to them.

Consoled in the ‘happily ever after’ theory
While knowing I’m going to burn
in hell


v.

Pillows full of dust-

I’m begging to suffocate 

on allergies 

and pain medication


vi.

“It’s for the aesthetic”


Thrifting long dresses-

only to strip them of their nature.

Eating cookie dough ice cream-

as I’m melting in the summer heat.

Listening to Lana Del Rey-

while driving in the rain.

Wearing long sleeves 

in the summer.

Keeping a journal

of my meals.

Wasting away

by the liquor store.


I’m right back to where I started

a whole two years ago.

when I look out across the yard
at yellow dots, then
flip up the phone so
it recognizes my face, then
search for dandelion honey
or tea or jelly or a dozen
other uses of useless weeds

when I stoop and shuffle
across the yard, picking
am i reconnecting
to ancestral ways, of
what you had you grew,
or is it just some hippy dream
in between snaps

when I think of mamaw,
how she’d never do this,
a days work for three jars
of sugared water when you
could just walk to the store
and get it sweeter
for just a dollar or two

child, you need to use your head

Here’s to the long days
To the games played
To the late nights
The internal fights

Here’s to the freezing rains
To the heat daze
To the miles logged
To the sweat fogs

Here’s to the one mores
To the “I’m sore”s
To the goals set
And the ones met

Here’s to the battles lost
And the personal costs
To try to be great
On the last home straight

Here’s to the high fives
And the swan dives
To the tears cried
And the hills climbed

Here’s to the weight lifts
And the sand pits
To the wind sprints
And the friendships

Here’s to forgetting the clock
To the muscles in shock
To the crowd’s chants
And the side cramps

Here’s to forgetting “me”
When the goal’s about “we”
Here’s to chasing the dream
Here’s to my team.

When Grandma died
and my child self
watched the casket close
I wanted the world to stop.

Now Depp, Herd, Queen E Jubilee
lunge like lightening
through Uvalde Texas
survivor desoltation.

Black crows of the spirit
cry out to warn of more
and beg to pause now
for resolution.

Stop the world
we don’t want to get off.
What we want
is change.

-Sue Neufarth Howard

Intersectionality:
The principal
or practice
of a minority demonstrating privilege
over another minority
Dogs eating dogs
to only be kept in cages by people

There’s a certain kind of oppression
that comes with being Asian
A certain impulse to bathe yourself in gasoline
and run through a castle of cards
with only two B’s, all A’s
and a will to live 4 more years then run away

Stopping people from hate criming Asians
won’t fix anything
If you don’t stop Asian’s from hating themselves,

There’s a certain type of oppression that happens
when a mother cares more about grades than
getting help for your
OCD,
Bi polar depression,
PTSD from being touched,
When your mother cares more about religion than
the color red painted on your walls
A certain type of oppression
when your therapist and friends say
“It’s just a cultural thing”

It is not a cultural thing
trauma isn’t cultural
Leaving your kids at home to work extra
hard just because you don’t get paid as much
only to pass on your trauma
Isn’t cultural
It’s systemic
and to say I am any different
is a lie
because there’s a certain kind of oppression when you’re the
Child of an
Immigrant,
The second son of soil and stars,
An end of an era.

A dream was caught red handed awake
in the glare of morning.
The nudge of waking had begun,
yet my eyes had been pierced by light,
a bright disarming bolt.
and for a brief moment,
an Augenblick,
I went blind, instead of waking.
Yet, in my mind,
the dream continued to play out.
I wished not to leave.
I could hear a stage director calling out to me,
Time to do your lines!
Telling me about words and who needs them.
She went on to say we don’t even need books,
and we sure as hell do not need any more
bookshelves!
Just then my Mother leans into the conversation:
We always need bookshelves!
Then she leaned back again
As we nowsat together in a car.

A man was loading bookshelves into the back.
He talked as though on a battery.
One eye suspiciously looking my way,
the other focused from
a deep pool of all he knew,
a well within him.
He was covered in scars yet
filled with cheerful stories
tying the shiftings of the world together,
as he rattled on.
He was happy
to be getting rid of his bookshelves.
My Dad was in the car now.
He ran his fingers around
the brim of his straw hat and
looked down and decided to stay out of
any arguments about bookshelves.
Right then my mind began to wonder
How could I know
my Dad’s thoughts?
Who was that other guy?
Weren’t we just on a stage?
Thoughts floated around like collage
pieces not glued down.

No time left for answers.
Pictures move faster than words.
It was over,
though so much happened
in the blink of an eye.

Things are different now.
It seems like 20 years ago,
the county mowed the medians
even when there wasn’t an election. 

Something vulgar in the overgrowth
between two cities. But beautiful, too,
in nature’s way. I guess I’m saying
when did we decide maintenance too expensive?

Where I grew up–finally someone said,

In the back of the pews 
with his arm around no one 
he doesn’t sing along to the songs,
but seems to be talking to someone.
He never brings  his own book 
and always has this look
that he doesn’t quite seem-
to know what the preacher means.
At the end of each service,
while everyone goes, 
he sits with his head down
where his tears start to roll.
He seems to be by himself,
but I can tell he’s not alone.