Poetica Spontenaium Posts

(To an odd tune in my head. Yes, it’s sorta a country bar kinda tune. Your indulgence please. And fuck you. Go ahead and laugh at me. I’m a little Korean girl with a country tune in my head with bad lyrics desperately trying to get out. Patsy Cline is a Goddess.)

I’ve been rustling around here within a cage of my sentiments
Crumpled with a tea stain sometimes flickering with sighs
Wishing wanting never shoulda maybe with my better sense
You think I’d know better than to believe my own lies

I’ve never been as good with words as you were with your hands
And such body memories still leave their mark
I’m wishing that I can steal into your dreams and just watch you there
You’d never find me, I’d still be hiding in the dark.

National Poetry Month is wrapping up.

“To commemorate the end of National Poetry Month, blog about your favorite poem and provide at least one link to other poems and/or a bio of the poet.”

Morning Poem by Mary Oliver
(more…)

This soft drenched conversation
Under dream covers, heavy and warm
When your voice is in my ear
And your breath against my cheek

It reminds me of my younger days
Before you and I ever met
And I’d lie back on the summer grass
Watch clouds, taste honey and lilac in the air

I didn’t know that I was closer to you then
While clinging tightly to the ground
Feeling the earth pulse beneath my spine.
If I concentrated, very carefully, I could hear you smiling.

This by my friend James.

Min Jung holds Camphone,
Snapping pictures snap snap snap,
friends keeping abreast.

A honey crusted moon
Suspended in a soup dish of mercury
Not unlike my kiss upon your upper lip
Toeing the edge of madness
With an antsy delight that sweeps through
like march winds between sky scrapers.
I think, now.
About the yesterwhen.
Do you remember then?
The thing that startled and terrified
Trilled and intoxicated
The base of your spine
When leaning against me in the coffee shop line?
Americano. With lemon.
You said it made you feel like you were legit.
Blushing slightly when you said it.
A shadow over the bruise, the neck I’d bit.
At least in my wannamaybe state of mind.
Doubts cast like pearls before,
well, ya know.
“So it’s like this”, you said.
Looking me straight in the cheek
Because my eyes made you nervous
With their careless desperation.
“It’s not that I don’t…”
And I chose not to hear the rest
Instead sipping on my latte
like a crack baby to a tainted breast.
I asked myself, was I fearsome?
To this man, whose bone marrow I would gnaw at
To know and love and transform
Into some greater incarnation of my wishIwas?
Or was it the wishIwasgoodenoughfor?
Couldn’t tell you then, nor now. Honest.
“It wasn’t like that” I told myself.
In my corrupted dreams and confessions.
It was parkinglot lithe tempos
And cymbal slashing heart beats.
Chrome tipped hot passion
Sweat stained arc welding
Rhythmic rationale with Yeates overtones
Liquid glass over clenched fists.
It was love at it’s gruesome glory.
And it was mine.

I held my hands in the gesture of prayer,
to my lips
head bowed
eyes sealed
as if I could sanctify and make clean
the stain of shame that had come forth
from our last exchange.

These were my thoughts last night
before casting out into the sea of dreams
where I reeled and made myself sick
with the tumult of lost chances

In the grinding twist of chance
Where once there was safety and comfort
In your hand, only chill, and ignomy remained.

The thing I’ve learned from the Devil
is that we share a trait in vanity.

The thing I’ve learned from God
is that I am too far from him.
And you.
Always you.
Too far from you.

Trapped in the Present Tension (Audio blog)

You would oft times tell me that I was bound in the past
Shackled by the should have doubts
That carried nails and poison
With a hair-pin trigger.

So that later, caught up within the present tension
Some suicide epipliplectic occasion would occur.

A sophisticated bomb that set on the appropriate occasion, circumstance, or flicker of emotion would emote a response of painful and indomiitable conflict and collateral damage.

I could not help myself from the tail spin.

Otherwise, I’d find myself in an ersatz dystopia of future potentialities.

Dramatic dialogue set in sepia
Complete with anime hair and personal wind machines
And subtle guestures like a Chinese Opera.

Me, I’d be the hero. Wouldn’t I?
Saying the right things at the right time. Ever noble and true.
Ever dignified and forth right.

And if it were my destiny, I’d be honored better in tragedy than in victory
for my ideals. Because in that future tension circumstance, I’d have someone writing the plot and the drama and dialogue.

I’d have a visible purpose from the divine’s perception of my life. Director. God. The same.

Right.

Stuck in the present tension, I find myself like this.

Trapped, mute, and self conscious. For everything I say and fail to say. For every glance that can speak the volumes that my tongue paralized is muted by.

As if I were a Shakespearian on stage without script.

And that is life, isn’t it? Within the present tension?
Sweaty, silky, and soaked with doubt?

As if I, in my IPA-weary perception could identify that which is true and that which is decoy.

You’ve told me, yes once before

That this time, the now
is it.

There is no other. No second chances.
That the now is the most important component of our lives

And that our greatest sin in life
was to discredit the now, and those opportunities

those lush love soaked opportunities
that in the now we pretend don’t exist.

because we’re still sorting out the should have’s
and meticulously planning the next time’s.

You. Me.
Tied now with twine in the present tension.
Do you see how precious this is. This madness that holds us two in this moment that’s flying past us faster that public opinion on this season’s fashion or local politicians.

Do you see now, this thing of ferocious existence that claws us into the world of the awake as opposed to those that are dreaming of the future or meditating still, on the past?

And the present tension that is now only evident in the meter of your heart synched in to mine?

Yes this. The Now. You, me, and a ball of twine.

(Inspired by Dan Diggity)

It’s been too long.

In a ripple cycling forward
Like my head unto a pillow
A lip bite to your shoulder
Which was an accident, I mistruthed.

Confidence was a jade ring
Passing light from caressed angles
Murderous Midnight at the slightest
Tearing flesh and stone in the force of fist

Should I deny my contradiction
To jellybeans of consternation
Thorns stuffing pillows on my hammock
dragons tending fawns upon my brow

Secrets give pleasure only in the telling
And knives, only in their silky cuts
My words tangling two hairs and a cosmos into knots
And behaving as simply as now.

This actually from a few years back.
Revisited.

*******
There is no space between us.

This thing
you refer to it as a boundary, a line, a wall
an impermeable membrane that is, as you say
nothing like a vise or fist.

That only allows your whispers within
And keeps my thoughts without
And reminds me that wrapping corpse with a bow still makes it unpretty.

And in keeping things unsaid
denied them palpability.
Spells and curses cannot do harm without voice.
Unspoken things cannot make you hemmorhage.
Prayers without a head bowed in humility cannot be heard, either.

That’s what makes us different.

These words tumble in my belly like sharp stones.
I wash them with oceans of dreams, drowning
hoping that some day they’ll be smooth, and luminous.
Sliding off my tongue on silken threads.

I’ve gotten used to the taste of metal and blood in the meantime.
Smoke fills the space within my ribs made empty
And otherwise filled with liquid memories

There is no space without us.

No we in this wordless castle.
Which shrinks and cages us in binds
until our eyes staring at each other
crush into themselves,
ecstatic in the relief of blindness and night
Our palms caving into avarice
bellies that we’ve been clasping tight.

And a hand reaching out.
A stranger, elsewhere.
Dear ones who no longer recognize us.
In the space without
and the we within
And our pride refusing
to speak.

Count
Down
To this.

Crossing grids, lights and lepers
Hookers, dealers and wanna-be players
To that sign that says
I’ve crossed over
and with a breath
caught with desperation from my chest

I

pass

over.

And like a child on a bus
Waiting to get just beyond the last gate
Of a cemetary lest a demon steal my life

I stop for a second
And can only hear my pulse pounding
In my ears, bang bang.

Like a gun left in the nightstand
Like a prayer on a dead man’s lips
Like a confession before morning breaks
Like an egg against the wall of hate
Or was that really a home.
Maybe it was yours.
I choose to forget.

To you I beg for dispensation
For a criminal emotion that
Without expresion
or intention of malice

Comes out like obsidian and ash upon your face
To cut and make filthy, that which was once lovely and kind.
And burn with absolute zero the lack of freedom, philosophy,
and filial generosity that once poured
from your lips into mine

You. And where were you.
When the shit came down.

In honor there is everything
A blessing to every wound
Each scar a convocation of this silent sacrament.
For whom?

Your prayers start out
“God, I’m fucked up, but you love me still.”

And the truth shames me because I recognize
a mirrored mantra that I am incapable of reflecting upon
Without recognition of the starvation
of my own eyes
without a cup
To pour apologetic meditaitons into.

Consider this.

I
am
fucked
up.

Will you love me still?
When I claw at the inside of my arms
When I put myself in bodily harm
When I set off all your alarms
For a fight or flight
visceral reaction
To an admission of weakness
with an odd, wounded animal charm?

Does it apeal to you to play Christ
Salvation ?
For my chemical vice
Take it easy you say,

You should think twice.

So you say you’re still here.
Why are you afraid to stand so near
To this heart you hear across the room
Pounding, bang bang.

Count.
Down
To
This.

In you I want to tag my name and stars
On your tongue and inside your ribs
And own in touch tempo your fascination
For rain drenched dreams and tea touched terrors
How wicked and unforgettable your lips inside my bones
And lace against my wrists in ribbons
Of carefully licked lies and loss
You boy, and me against a wall at midnight
Finding rhyme in body against concrete
Parallel curses syncopated with contrary delight

Check this Limerick Challenge out

On Arnie’s first day in the job
He polished his freshly shorn knob
In great expectation
Of a historical ejaculation
To screw California over like a slob

Dragging old memories
against this worn fence
I ran faster along your borders

The gate has been locked
Rusted, regret and rage and clamped
No sweet words can convince it to open

I tried pulling at a board
Digging with broken nails
To crawl beneath to find entrance

Your dog bit my ear
My neck splintered against this post
Shadows, far off overlooking this domain

To crawl over, impossible
The heights reaching rain’s womb
Tacks at the top to keep me and trilling birds away

How strange we’ve become, so other to kindness
Courtesy with strangers was better than this

(Thinking about an old galpal I used to have and the last big fight we had)