I envy young children.
Not for their age
nor the number of years that lay ahead of them;
but for their ability to express their emotions,
uninhibited, spontaneously as they feel them
wherever they may be and
without regard for decency or social respect
because oppressive self-awareness
has not yet been instilled in their psyche
and therefore exists beyond their innocent gazes.
Meanwhile, I stand alone, in a locked room,
cordoning myself off from judging eyes,
stifling my tears in shower streams
so that I cannot distinguish between the droplets
from above or from within
but for the salt taste in my mouth.
Boy, I remember when February here
was like Buffalo, NY in a blizzard:
a whiteout, a washout, a complete timeout
from the world.
Headlines read: Snowy streets like flooded rivers signal no crossing over today
We’d all lose our senses
of time, place, self
and those who ventured out
got lost like birds in a sandstorm
falling into deep crevasses,
fluttering their snow-angel wings tirelessly
while their lungs filled with the gritty cold.
As days passed with frozen pipes
and clogged-up drains, slowly
the white began to fester golden brown
as if the sky had puked out puppies and rainbows
turning front lawns into fruitcakes.
It was a grand old time we had
back then in our winter solitude,
passing the endless hours with
hot cocoa and puzzles;
our existence was as gorgeously bland
as white meat in 1950s suburbia.
As advertised, it was an undisturbed time
where the kids tried digging to the pearly gates
while their parents puffed bok choy and asparagus,
swallowing red by the bottle
which the babies nursed from their mothers.
Each day we vacationed like summertime
baked by the firesides
heated by wood stoves
sending pyres of smoke into the air
blanketing our homes in a veil of black and white.
February here used to be a paradise:
like a bright fluorescent bulb
painting us in pictures
of American health and happiness
where no one smiled
but under the hats and scarves,
who could tell.
No one is entitled is to happiness.
They may be deserving of love;
or feel they are worthy of lavish gifts
and quantities of quality comforts
that exceed what they themselves
are willing to put out…
Everyone is capable of goodness.
Or at least doing good;
but many a time
their gratitude and energy run thin
and the frailty they carry with them
projects unkindness and curt remarks
that lead to even franker apologies—
none of which mean anything at all—
but means so much to someone else
who may have just been looking
for a smile…
People are definitely warranted a smile.
But when forced it works
against the maker and its victim
turning a somber face into a
sour puss that gravitates towards
the ground and drags all down with it…
For example, in one particular case:
He is not aware of his selfishness,
for he is barely a romantic.
It would never cross his mind to lift a finger
to help his wife with dinner
without making it into a chore
and he hasn’t thought in many years
to remove himself from his leather chair
to join her for supper at the eat-in table,
and catch up on the events of her life
that he seems to keep forgetting,
for no matter how many times she tells him
of her plans for the weekend
he seems to only retain what is
noteworthy information for him.
Meanwhile, she is a sensitive beast
who is constantly fed up and frustrated
by small inconveniences.
She jumps to conclusions and tunes out her husband;
she pulls the noose tight and lets loose her anger—
to her he is her whipping post and she lets no failing slide.
(And he has many as we have pointed out.)
But she no longer cares
for what he does with his life;
she masks inklings of interests
as she invests her time in the
social-media-page happiness of others,
wallowing in her melancholy humors
rather than wrapping herself up
in the warm fire he made for her
and embracing his small gesture
to increase her comfort.
But their entitlements to perfection
and constant good cheer
make them uncomfortable with each other,
less dependable on the other,
and more reliant on empty distractions
to cut the growing tendency to avoid one another…
And I, who prides myself in good social standing with all
still feeds from their pockets and plates like a
stingy beggar sneaking around their savings
dropping hints of my hoarding while still wanting more
and putting on smiles for their woes, churning out
soothing words for their worries like candy
for them to suck on while my grungy patch job
falls apart within a day and for fear of facing
this mile-high pile of dirty stinking sin will
secretly contemplate jumping out the window
for a nice familial severance package.
We are all in need of caring.
And selflessness, in our own actions
and in those of others, is only the start.
For we deserve what consequences may come
from what we do, but we can all still
hold on to choice to decide
whether to make our lives good
and to fill them with the happiness we believe we earned…
Or did we.
I saw a sign today that said: “LOOKING FOR GOOD HANDS.”
And I thought, what does that even mean? “Good hands?” Do they mean, like,
baby hands…? Because I would think, by default, they have the best hands, you know?
Fresh, unlabored, unspotted, tight.
I’ve never thought so much before about what it means to have “Good hands”…
Is it like having good boobs because I feel like that’s a thing. I don’t think I have good boobs. They’re too small and a little uneven I think; but that could just be the tilt of my head when I look at them.
Anyway, maybe they meant to write “God hands”…But that would make even less sense because does God even have hands? Would He need them? Well, I guess He would because people use the word “touched by God” and it would kind of be weird if He didn’t have hands…I mean, what would He touch people with then, his nose? But I digress.
I’ve always thought I had “Good hands”. They’re petite. Not too many noticeable scars. Just a small one at the hinge of my thumb where my dad accidentally scratched me one time when I was young in the middle of a wrestle war, and I cried and he cried, so I won. And my nail bed isn’t too bad either. It’s clean. Maybe in need of a trim, but definitely perky. Can nails be described as perky? Oh well. And I haven’t got too many wrinkles yet; I mean, I’m only in my twenties. But now that I’m looking I can see these lines, almost like an etching, that no matter how hard I rub, don’t go away…
At one time I thought I could be a hand model. I guess everybody thinks that at some point. And now, I’m starting to think my hands aren’t good enough to be models, just like the rest of me isn’t fit enough to be a model.
But they’re hands! How can one not have “Good hands”! (Unless they have none, then I’m sure they have some other rockstar limbs!)
But even my aunt, who suffers from rheumatoid arthritis and winces at the pain of bruised and swollen knuckles, has the sweetest hands that daily aid and comfort the elderly in a nursing home. And my dad, whose calloused, irrevocably dirtied hands have built the very desk my hands now rest on. And of course my mom, who flashes the most vibrant nail polish, applies hand cream ritually, wears gloves to fight the cold, and also played with my toes as a baby, undoubtedly has the best hands.
Now that I think about it, it’s actually really hard to discriminate against hands. I don’t think anyone’s hands aren’t “Good hands”…
Well, except maybe Lady Macbeth. Her hands were pretty bloody.
Blinking through towns
like monotonous slideshow reel:
All untouched, intangible.
Blurs of grey pasted against scratched up panes
streaked with acidic raindrops
dried up by the sun,
which in those arid landscapes bespeckled by
tiny factory cities, hides itself
behind plain brick and mortar buildings,
skyscrapers cemented into the horizon—
monstrous bird-killers— whose staff of
wistful window-washers and jaded janitors
are tasked with erasing all evidence of
blood and feathers and shit
that makes the mundane more colorful…
So that businessmen and women
aren’t subjected to the passing of time
that exists beyond the narrow corridor
of office buildings and vacant bodegas.
So that they aren’t unnecessarily troubled
by those depressing, distracting humors
that waft through the smoky air
on the unremarkable daily round-trip drive
between workplace and home setting.
So that they aren’t put-off
by palpable dangers of Walmart
and movie theater shootings
or simply and unintentionally metaphorically,
by broken butterfly wings dangling
from truck driver windshields.
So that they aren’t whisked off
their pristinely polished shoes—
always cautiously stepping over cracks
and never inching too close to the tracks—
to be carried away by carrier pigeons
sending their message across seas
where perhaps a foreigner
might find the thought unique.
And that outsider might travel by boat,
since the airfare will cost more,
in search of that one town on the rolodex
that sounds softer, slightly less redundant
but still smells like gasoline and naphthalene
only occasionally sweetened, although discreetly,
by chloroform and antifreeze.
And perhaps that alien soul unburdened
with the anxiety of when to set the clock back
might shake the sidewalks with each
wondrous skip, toppling down buildings
to make way for green mountains,
reflecting the long-forgotten sun
in his widened toothy smile,
spicing up the noontime lunch hour
of ham & cheese sandwiches and
undressed salads to pots of paella
and massaman curry.
Maybe then at the center of town
on the corner of Main St. & Park Ave.
the traveler will break through
the Twilight Zone existence
like the cyclone in the Wizard of Oz—
all while remaining unfamiliar
with these analogies— and re-expose
the full spectrum of fall colors and
sunset hues to the once-tinted eyes
of the stunted townspeople.
One can only hope for such a miracle
in this small city town I call home
as I look out the window of the train
at the unknown yet familiar streets
I stare through daily, remaining
stuck in time on this paper
in this poem, like my thoughts,
until someone new reads this
and somehow saves us.
My entirely Fake boyfriend
is the best I’ve ever had.
He buys me jewels of
Emotional Connection
(though most of the time I’ll pay).
I don’t mind one bit that
He Crowdsources his responses
for He always puts Me first
and I’m never Impatiently waiting
for an answer back.
Our Distributed Companionship
will last forever, I am sure,
for I need him as He needs me:
there’s enough Proof of that for sure.
He’s sexy and smart and looks a lot like me.
His Bot makes people Jealous
and AI ain’t gonna complain!
We Operate around Self-centered Love
to share how much we care.
I’ll never say I’m lonely with him,
though I sometimes end up ignoring others.
My friends and family don’t get it;
they really want me to dump him…
But they need to get with the times!
Catch up to technology!
My love is not problematic.
After years of across-the-bar winking
to real people in the same room
who kept there heads down to their phones
too busy to glance up from their world,
I happened upon my Fantasy Man
Online of all places!
I can relate to my Virtual Partner,
even despite the Separation.
If anything, with him I no longer feel
Invisible
and who wouldn’t want that.
7:00am
Vast expanse of grey
touched by the shimmering gold
kickstarts restless souls.
***
12:00pm
Overexposed sky
captures crisp, vibrant colors
clearing off shadows.
***
6:00pm
Getting high on hues
cool smoke relaxes the day:
Purple Haze settles.
***
7:00pm
As the sky darkened
I looked out and saw the world
lit up, like fairy lights.
(NOTE: Since I can recall, I’ve written a poem or a narrative in remembrance and in honor of those who lost their lives on 9/11. This is my dedicated poem for 2017.)
I cannot say that for me
my innocence fled,
as back then in ’01
I was too young
to comprehend the
full weight of the tragedy
that happened that day
and that my sheltered brain
hadn’t yet learned how to name:
terrorist attack.
I cannot say that for me
my childhood changed
as that day in third grade
my teachers decided to
keep silent about the events
less than 50 miles away
in the hopes of preserving
our minds
that they had so badly fought
to keep safe:
damage control.
I cannot say that for me
my entire life was
defined by 9/11
as that would be hyperbolic;
considering I cannot recall
what I did the following day
besides get up
and walk—? No,
get driven to school:
new normal.
But I can say that for me
my memories were scathed
as I still see my parents faces—
my father’s red and infuriated,
my mother’s somber and pale—
stared at me
with hesitation,
confusion on their lips
squeezing each other’s hands
yet quivering standing still
at the head of the table
where we took our meals
and said our prayers
as they turned on the TV
to surrealistic scenes of chaos
that looked vaguely like NYC:
just smaller.
I can say that for me
my loved ones were affected
as I can still hear the telephone
ringing with weeping relatives
reaching out with concern,
and later…
I can see his face
always a solid sempai
in black and white, shaken
with lacerations on his face
and a steely-eyed look
to mask the sorrow
and later…
I can recall her voice
catching in her throat
as she relayed that he
who should have been
in the towers that day
was instead delayed by
traffic, or fate,
safely bunkered in by
fellow shocked drivers:
sudden survivors.
What I can say is that for me
my mentality of the world
hardened
yet my morality
increased
as my humanity
was brought into question
and my security shattered
so that despite the shivers
I still get from images
of that devastating day
it did not destroy me
but taught me to value life
and spread kindness:
behavior and awareness.
What I can say is that for me
my remembrance of that day
won’t ever fade
as through me and many others
those who lost their lives that day
might still live on:
forever united.
What’s this—! Chirping from the bushes;
different from melodious morning swallows,
and rather more cacophonous, beckoning the sky—!
Seems clouded over yet there is not a cloud to be found
as the horizon lulls all to tranquility with
sweeping tides of color: from blazing red to
warming orange to sighing pink to hushing purple
settling into a bittersweet blue that becomes the
perfect backdrop to punctuate a waxing moon…Shhh—!
Coaxing with its creamy haze a crescendo
of activity tittering in the trees, dissolving into a
nocturnal harmony…Mmmm—! That rushes in a
breeze of bonfires that tickles the nostrils
and disturbs the stomach to echo its wants like the
lone crying cicada that creeped out from its cave
deep in ground to witness for itself the ritual
wonder of the turning world.
I am not a poet 