journal poems

a series of poems scribbled in my journal during the year 2015

garbage truck

there’s something deliciously simply about watching humans move about, their shuffling steps, slouches, lifts and slips of the hand. sometimes i ask, who made you and could it possibly be all for me? But in reality nothing in this world is for me. and you, you could be as fleeting as a garbage truck.

for now, it’s enough just to smell our trash. the traces of our movement—expansion, contraction, consumption expulsion—our very nature destructive. who knows when we’ll be taken out.

babies

the old people tell me to get married and make babies: at some point there’s no use watching yourself die unless you’ve made yourselfs some progeny.

but sometimes i wonder, why make a baby when we have screens––iphones, pads, minis macs to meet our every needs. screens upon which our eyes can freeze. our brains: cheese.

driving

you, me, an empty road, fluorescent lines, signs
for once, the words weave us tighter
for once, the emptiness leaves us lighter
and this, this old car, dirty windshield
these two seats cradling our body
are enough.

heart beating

the first time i lay close to another being
the most magical thing was that I could feel
their heart beating
i’d press my forefinger where their ribs made
an upside down V
awed by the pulsing underneath
and sometimes i’d even hear the beat, beat
after they went to sleep
after you go to sleep
i stay up and listen to you breathe
this human being next to me
is living.

spring

i remember these last dying remnants of snow
i remember that last year I bought a bike and you taught me
that the city could be surrendered to and tackled at the same time
the streets beg ride me, the sun glints––puddles, parked cars, trash.
the empty beds wait patiently––seed me.
the rawness, aliveness still reverberates within me, and here, this,
this season of change
this season of unknown
where will it take us?
where will we go?

and i can’t help but wonder how people live in places without seasons.

touch-down

i remember as a child
the realization that i had so much power in this life
that i could do something terribly kind
or terribly mean
but that there was no
“right way” road map
for me to follow
it sickened me that my parents didn’t have all the answers
and that they wouldn’t know how to make things work out
perfectly
they like most adults were helpless
and the scariest thing was they weren’t admitting it
where is the floor
my feet are not touching the floor
i am tears
and just because my mom is a social worker
does not mean I am good at expressing my feelings
the world is wide
i can either dance or sleep
i can’t deny.

spider-legs

i’m like a spider––limbs out-splayed with a string tied to each, pulling me tighter and tighter, in every which way, pretty soon they’ll start popping off, a little ooze of black blood where there used to be a leg, pretty soon I’ll just be body, furry and brown, with no limbs to yank

there will be scars
and i’ll have to roll
but i’ll find I like
being closer to
the ground