bombyx mori: a love song for shawn

the talking beat beneath my feet is love.
it takes me through the thrash of day and night,
the ticking tocks of clocks in silent rooms,
unwinds the bind, recalling something new

we met online, t’was women seeking same.
we talked at s’nice, the coffee shop on eighth
she liked my shirt. i liked her honest face.
her easy laugh, my awkward rambling on

entire nights were spent with just one thought
her lips on mine, entwined, our senses taut
we ate the chouchun leaves of heaven’s tree
cocooned in pupal casing spun of silk

if she could see inside my mind
imbued with visions dark and unrefined
she’d find a space for her, unmarred with pain
i knew before she knew, but that’s okay.

© 14 february 2009

female bombyx mori image

obama fever

i have had the worst week in months, but I feel like I'm finally coming out of this black cancer of a brain. i found out that i wasn't accepted into that NYCTF program and even though i had already made up my mind that i wouldn't be pursuing it, i fell into a dark, familiar hole of self-doubt and fear of incompetence/failure. i suppose you want to know what helped to get me out of it? it was actually reading Obama's first book, Dreams from My Father.

in it, he grapples with the stratified self, the lack of identity that we all seem to be suffering from in this new collage of existence. he so eloquently describes his emotional journey to know himself with such captivating detail that i feel inspired to try to describe my own. to take responsibility for my life and for all the elements that came together to make me. the incongruence of my experience, the joys, the sorrows, the maddening injustices, the legacies of my father and my mother and their families. all of it comes together to give me the basis on which my values are formed. but to get lost in those experiences, to be afraid to live, to be consumed by fear and pain--that can only be my tragedy. i can decide to move beyond these trappings of the human condition and discover how i can be useful to others.

i had hoped that i would see a non-white president, a female president, an "other" president in the white house, but i never dreamed that i would connect so deeply with a president. that he would be able to so accurately touch upon the fundamental aspects of my character. that he would call on me to be a less-selfish individual, to break free of the trap of logic and reason.

when i talk about Obama with friends and family, i typically hear: "well, that talk of hope is another form of rhetoric. let's see what he will actually do" or "i doubt he'll be able to even scratch the surface of all the problems we're facing as a nation." at this point in the conversation, i ask if they have read either of his two books, and the answer has invariably been "no." two things bother me about this: i'm not sure how they can make such casual claims without doing any research, and they can't seem to see all of the change he's already accomplished.

dreams from my father image

perfection

i remember how her hair smelled
when I used to cradle in the nook
between her head and her shoulder
like a cat snuggling up firmly against a leg
finding the closest spot possible

she called those spots “Perfection.”
she would run her lips against my face
and every nook they found was deemed “perfect.”

it’s funny but I have trouble understanding
what perfect means anymore.
now that she’s gone.

it’s not funny but eternally sad
to know that I can’t find those spots with her anymore.
it’s not funny but unforgivably torturous
to be without her for so long.

i close my eyes and stretch my mind to find her across the oceans and seas.
as I will myself closer, her freckles start to focus.
i can see the sparkle in her eyes that used to get us in trouble.
i close my eyes and I can feel her lips against mine
i can feel her hair gliding across my fingers
beautiful black silky thick hair
that smells like freshly cut flowers.

© july 2005

spooning image

you know you want it

i sent out all of the emails requesting recommendations for grad school. probably my least favorite part of this whole thing and it's done. take that, academia!

tintin image

om

s and i did yoga together earlier. it felt so good to get in touch with my body. the practice focused on the back and hips and that's pretty much where i hold most of my tension. we both feel strongly about finding a daily yoga practice that works for us. i really hope we do.

a week or so ago, i signed up for some really cheap yoga classes run by the local library that will take place in january and february. the cost breaks down to $2.50 per class. freaking awesome. i have to find out when the neighborhood yoga studios do their free community classes, and add those to my schedule as well.

after yoga, s gave me a full-body massage. it was absolutely amazing. earlier this week, we decided to give each other massages on sundays, alternating giving and receiving each week. it's very reciprocal and interdependent, you might say. afterward, we sat on the couch and i started studying for the gre while she read. the gre is kind of fun in a way--to feel like maybe i can beat this stupid motherfucking standardized test. fucking motherfuckers and their stupid standardized tests. my life motto: "fuck standards. really. fuck 'em."

we just took a walk to watch the sunset. it was so beautiful and huge that it made my eyes feel small and incapable of taking it all in. what a nice motherfucking day.

om image

fallujah, fall ‘04

disillusionment, disentanglement, disappointment
the fall is here, has fallen upon us
and the first frost of the season solidifies my grief.

warm hands of summer, slick with sweat
from the anticipation we made with pressed bodies
pressed like sentimental flowers in heavy textbooks
we felt permanent or worth saving under the weight
of pages and words.

hot heat of Athens’ summer streets,
walking with nothing following us,
walking with no destination,
the ruins were the ones frozen in time.
they watched us with admiration and astonishment
and they held their poses with grace and respect
for we were free to come and go like Michaelangelo
we were the masters
of us.

back to Buda, back to Pest,
back in time to my father’s immigrant past
we stood in the spot where Stalin was torn down
we laid in the square unafraid, feeling the anomie of generations since
culminating in my stratified self, broken down so many times
into so many pieces of pain, and like a kaleidoscope, She saw me
and said, “You are beautiful.” and she glued my pieces together.

but New York City welcomed us back
with the rat leading the way to the dizzying pace of complacency.
under the thumb of nothing but our own idiosyncrasies,
placating ourselves daily with ephemeral pleasures
like the mentally disturbed taking their meds.

© november 2004

fallujah image