Thursday, December 22, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Click on this text to see their first issue.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
from the first time I grasped you in my hand
(your taste can’t be found in just any land).
Golden skin, striking smells, all that won’t betray;
your massive, meaty, and pinkened fillet—
such firmness is always in high demand.
Our love, a blaze, continuously fanned,
or so I assumed until your display.
Scarfing down Wok Chang’s take-out, so slimy;
it drips down my throat, into my hip bones.
Junk that should last for all its rumored flack,
Oily and dense enough to make me weigh
as much as a handful of pebbles; stones
batter against my ruined stomach-sack.
remnants of worlds long forgotten crash in
nauseating waves of ripe red, akin
to pomegranate seeds— translucent; black
like the bile in her throat making her crack
and break down enough to manage saimin.
She basked in the haze achieved through some gin
so when he called she did not call back.
The savory smell of an apple tart,
ambrosial steak cooked medium rare,
both of those dishes once tasted divine
before a food-loving boy broke her heart
before, when food could drown any despair,
before, when everything tasted sublime.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
I guess I'm unsure of his success
today I witnessed a man's attempt
to end his own life
As I drove
towards offshore islands
hiding behind the stillness of afternoon haze,
through golden, coastal hills
hovering between blue skies and seas,
there was a truck stopped
on a freeway overpass
facing on-coming traffic
I watched the driver-side door open,
a man in a Tyvek jumpsuit
quickly made his way to the railing
where he tried his hand at flight,
I made my way over the bridge
passing gawking eyes in idling cars
making frantic phone calls
As I pulled onto the southbound 101
some asshole wouldn't let me merge
I couldn't believe it
>>I tried to post this the other day,
but the internets were all messed up.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Im selfish and I don't like the idea of someone wasting my time. In a relationship I don't like investing in something for no fucking reason. Partly because I hate romantic relationships. To tell you the truth it seems like a bunch of bs that two people should be side by side for sixty years without homicide. A sort of convenience is really all it sums up to be in reality. I have a dildo, shopping buddy, drinking buddy, etc all in one. Who wouldn't at least try? The point is that I'm giving it a go, bit I don't want to waste my time. Which means if there is a reason to abort mission, lets get on with it. Now.
I often feel that my personality is a little too thick for most men I have dated. The number of tears that have stained my collarbones while they pumped to the Rhythm of their sobbing should earn me an award of sorts. I'm not mean by any means, bit I'm also not easy. I'm not the type to tell my lover he has a a gifted bat that's bringing me home if he's actually struck out. Im nice, but I'm honest. Too honest. And I know it can eat away at them.i feel more and more that I'm the cause of the depression, his new found preference for grandpa behavior. "You have to leave the house or I can't miss you. If I don't miss you I start taking you for granted. Please go somewhere" I said. I even offered to make prostitutes fair game, hoping it would get him out of the house. Plus, he would give me a break from his non stop advances and prepositions. "If I bring you coffee, will you pee on me?". I'm sure a hooker would gladly pee on him. Whereas even the question makes me a little awkward. Doing it is more awkward, which is why I have only given in once. I think women and men need distance and a taste of loss to maintain that little sense of "lucky me". However he doesn't leave the house.
I asked him if he left the house when he was dating Cristina. That was his gf before me. He used to fuck her in front of people. She's Spanish. He would cum in her face and she liked it. She was probably molested. Her picture is the screen saver on my phone. I put it there to teach him a lesson about giving your new girlfriend, your old phone, with photos of your old girlfriend on it. He was happy and had a life while they dated. Clearly something doesn't work between us. However instead of admitting it, he makes excuses.
I don't particularly want to be dumped on my ass, but I would rather figure out now whether or not it's worth the investment. I don't like the idea of looking back five years from now and thinking, "he knew even then". Time you can't get back, and for that it's worth the argument . However, "tell me if you were happier with her" sounds like a trap to him. He gets defensive and wants to protect what we have. Realistically though, I want to know if there is any need. Am I destroying him? Love is not about the ability to maintain or hold, it's about the ability to let go for their well being. For me it's about saving time and feelings by ripping the bandaid fast before it has the time to adhere to the skin.
The Applicant by oMa
The creator of this piece, oMa from Chile, would love to hear your comments on his adaptation of the Plath recording--what do you folks think?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
You lift your head up, closing your eyes because the salty sun harshly attacks your sight. Your dripping skin, sopping wet from its own exhaust, is encased in the static quiet of the swollen air. You move slowly, body beaten down by the heat of a tired army that relentlessly tramples your motivation, step after step, beat by beat. Your only resolve from this undying heat and pounding humidity is to escape into the ocean water, a greater and grander pool of life than the sun or the earth upon which it lays. Standing in its presence is to stand in the company of a giant. You hope it swallows you whole, gently, as you walk into its gaping mouth.
You stride into its vast expanse of a stomach. You dip into its cool glassy liquid. You begin to ride its stampeding waves instead of crashing into them, triumphant and at ease.
“Where do you come from?” asks the blue giant, finally accepting your entrance into its rippling ribs. You close your eyes and let the chilled insides and smooth embraces envelop your aching body, sinking into and in between your every curve and fold, exciting your skin.
“I come from land. I come from dry crumbling Earth--sand, rocks, cement. I come from tense active places, stress inducing, crime producing, smog-ridden lands of waste and toxins drivin by the mundane lifestyles of a society ruled by machines. But it is my home. And I understand it. I am a product of it, and it is comforting.” You float carelessly on your back, gliding along the giant’s skin. Your eyes stay closed.
“Stay with me,” demands the Ocean. “Here you can live happily--free of the constraints of your home. I will take care of you, and give you anything you want. There are many interesting and beautiful creatures here. They will take you into my depths. It is cold there, the sun can’t reach you, nor the poisons contained in the air above. It is quiet, my body is heavy and the pressure will blanket you, protect you. ” The giant re-affirmed his grip on your waist. It now yearns for your presence beneath and you begin to feel a vortex circling your body. It gives you an unsettling tug. “You should come with me.”
“I can’t.” You rotate your body upright and begin to paddle in place, your legs kicking free from the undercurrent, stirring up the beginnings of a plan clouded by desire. “It’s hot, but now I feel refreshed. I should go home. Thank you for letting me rest here.”
“Your home is here now,” whispered the giant. As you kick your legs faster you notice that you’re slowly sinking. You keep kicking into the emptiness that soon loses its substance and begins to pull at your feet. Each attempt at upward movement is futile. The ocean pulls you down, one foot at a time, one kick at a time, it into its body.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
box of uneasiness
flapping at the insides—
pecking away to make holes
to let the pressure come
are the black crows
only to shy away from the brilliant
charlatan that you are.
It can’t be helped:
I’ll have to make my home
amidst this tumultuous nest.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Book of Dialogue
(Translated by Rosemarie Waldrop)
Monday, April 4, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The small girl sits by the sea, listening to waves wash up and die down. Smooth round rocks lull her to sleep as she rests in the red and green rust of her bench’s saltwater legs. She dreams of an orange octopus who reaches out of the sea and lightly touches the tips of her fingers with his suction cups. He lures her into the cool water, tears blending with waves as she sinks to the depths of his home. It is safe. The girl buries her face into the curves of his malleable skin, eyes closed tight to the sea. Her swollen thumbs rub incessantly over a single suction cup, trying to recreate the warmth she knew she had once felt. The sea is cold. His skin is smooth. She does not leave.
The small girl wakes to her father’s hand on her shoulder and the cold wind of the evening brushing her thin hair across her cheeks. “Elizabeth,” is all he says to her. The sun was still up when she had drifted off.
The two walk back to the car where her mother is waiting and Elizabeth sits in the backseat. Her mother says nothing. Elizabeth unties her damp shoelaces and wiggles her feet free from the salty sneakers. She lies down across the backseat. Her mother sighs. The engine starts up and her father begins to pull away from the rocky parking lot. Elizabeth is rocked to sleep by the sound of the windshield wipers and of NPR playing quietly from the radio. She dreams again.