Listen;

I say

“I might not see you again”

Read More

I tell myself
“I can live with pain”
Everyday, I seamlessly slink from
one to the next.
And I complain.

When I sleep,
my jaws clench strong
and true
and when I wake
they pop and crackle from
physiological misplacement.
The dentist offered to
take molds of my mouth,
to fashion a guard against the pressure
but I denied.
My jaw locks from time to time.

“I can live with pain”

My female anatomy dictates a monthly
surge of hormones and destruction
that keels me over with aches
from my ankles to my belly button,
twisting my lower back so tight
I’d rather not move.
My mother suggests I start taking
birth control pills
to subdue the cramping
but I don’t really need them that badly.
It’s only every month.

“I can live with pain”

I’ve become accustomed to the bruises
trailing on my skin,
the ways they climb up my right bicep
and hug my thighs with their
murky, swampy green and yellow stain.
But the definitive thud of the weapon’s tip
into the bone of your shin
never gets easy,
nor do the slashes on your exposed legs
refrain from stingy from the sweat.
It is too damn hot anyway,
so I am to blame.
When I die, I want my tibia hung above the mantle
and I want to baffle the doctors
who look at the depressions in the bone
and ponder and draw no significant conclusion.
I could live with that thought. 

“I can live with pain”

Is there any reason I shouldn’t fear intimacy?
I admittedly fear falling prey to love
and the ways in which love leaves me. 
I senselessly fear that I am inherently manufactured
to make my girlfriends fall in love with someone else.
Maybe I did really bore them.
And maybe I can’t forget it
if I want to remember
to stay interesting.
Just long enough.
Just one more day.
Just maybe,
I can live with pain. 

The thought has crossed my mind;

when you break up, how do you decide who keeps the strap-on?

This is under the assumption it is bought mutually,

that it contains mutual history,

and that mutually neither wants to claim it.

Two ex-lovers, forever joined by

a penis on a leash.

I am glad,

reflecting on it,

that we never bought one.

Because I do not know the struggle

of deciding the home of a plastic penis.

But despite its absence,

I can’t help but wonder

what would have happened?

And I know that I’d want you to have it

because I know I won’t need it.

And I’d graciously

Oh

So

Gracious

(As gracious as the salt in the sea

to the razor burns of prickled shins)

present it to you,

as you will.

As you will.

I remember when I 
kissed your scars,
on the window-sill.
Thinking back I wonder;
did you cringe?
Were lips a useless remedy
or was I simply ignorant?
I always enjoyed when
she kissed my bruises better;
the fencer’s topography is
riddled with remnants of 
mistakes.
The faults of my sword failing
to stop theirs 
from bursting the capillaries
or drawing up their blood. 
The scissor’s edge is no mistake. 
The blood drips
and we watch in 
awe. 
It is beautiful. You
understand. 
The Art of the viscous 
source of vitality
is compelling. 
There is no pain 
without it in our veins.
No touch awarded without
the circuitry of the wire. 
Maybe now we’re fencing dry. 

Read More

Ste. Foy was much more loved in Conques, 
if you measure happiness in miracles/
if you measure miracles in love received. 
If you can believe that the golden
jem-laden shell with the pagan head
pleased the bones of the virgin saint,
so-much-so to grow eyes
in the empty sockets of the blind,
then so be it. 

Did the monk Arinisdus feel no guilt
when he stole Ste. Foy from the crypt?
Or was it the fault of Agen for trusting
a thief, for “setting a stranger in authority over themselves”?
Can you blame God for allowing it, 
or wanting it, 
planning, or plotting it
as the clergy of Conques had?

Noble theft is right by the means,
by the desires of the taken,
but not the ungrateful that suffer the loss. 

What did Ste. Foy have to say? 
“I am quite tired and miss my grave”. 

I was told today that I have the hands of a conservator. 

We sat around the small circle table. He asks what is my passion. I laugh nervously and admit that I may not have one. I admit one passion I have is the pursuit of conservation. He asks me to define conservation. I state that it is a mixture of chemical and artistic preservation of materials or art. He nods approvingly. 

“Good. I’m glad you know.”

I smile and nod in return. It is a frequent gesture on my part. 

“Let me see your hands” he asks. I feel like I’m before a palm reader. Confused, my hands raise with palms facing the professor. He sighs in relief. 

“Those are the right kind of hands. Not small and stubby. You have conservator’s hands. I hope you are prepared for tedious work that involves a large amount of concentration and precision.” 

Nod and smile. 

“And for organic chemistry.”

Be both have a look of fear in our eyes. He admits that this course brings most to their knees. It frightens me, but I’ve yet to even tackle general chemistry. 

Though my hands may have read as those of a conservator, if he had asked to see my brain would their be signs of a chemist? I’m not sure. My last experience with chemistry was four years ago. Was my sophomore year of high school really that far in my past? Anyway, there is a lot ahead of me. Maybe organic chemistry, maybe conservation, and maybe not. I worry as the clock races that I can’t set my path straight without really knowing my destination. What is my passion? And when will I find it for certain? I feel love for this field, but does it have fire? 

All I know is I have the hands of a conservator, with multitudes of patience, who is excited by the thought of sitting in a dusty library aisle four feet underground because of the vast collection of art folios, and maybe - just maybe - could spend hours and hours cleaning grime and mending wear on a cubic inch of something known as art. 

The year was 1987

1987!

And Craig Chung had just finished the MCATs

FUCK THE MCATs!

He was a good Asian boy so he never had a single drop of alcohol in his life. But that night, Craig Chung went to the liquor store and bought himself a bottle of JD Number 7…

NUMBER SEVEN!

 And he drank every last drop of it and it was delicious. He was sure to be in for a good night. On that night Craig Chung went into St. Elmo’s…

FUCK ST. ELMOS!

EVERYONE LOOK AT JAY.

and jumped onto the first table he saw and yelled at the top of his lungs, “BONZAI!”.

UTTER CONFUSION OF WHAT BONZAI MEANS!

So St. Elmo’s kicked him out…

FUCK ST.ELMOS!

JAY.

but Craig Chung could not be deterred. Stealthy like a ninja…

LIKE A NINJA!

he snuck in through a window and climbed up on that very same table and yelled, “BONZAI!”. 

CONTINUED UTTER CONFUSION ON THE MEANING OF BONZAI!

And they kicked him out again. But the Great Craig Chung could not be defeated. Stealthy like a ninja…

LIKE A NINJA!

he crept back into St. Elmo’s…

FUCK ST. ELMOS!

jumped on that very same table and yelled, “BONZAI!”. 

CONFUSION! WHAT THE FUCK IS BONZAI! I DONT GET IT!

So in memory of Craig Chung

GOD REST HIS SOUL! HE ISN’T EVEN DEAD!

we make these four toasts: To the coming of Spring,

TO THE COMING OF SPRING!

to the commander in chief, 

TO THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF!

to the late, great Emperor Hirohito, 

TO THE LATE, GREAT EMPEROR HIROHITO!

and to the winning of MACFAs. 

AND TO THE WINNING OF MACFAs!

Bonzai!

BONZAI!

Bonzai!

BONZAI!

Bon! Zai!

BON! ZAI!

Frustrated

Read More

Tonight I sleep alone

with the soggy tissue paper

and the salty seas

capped behind tight lids

and masked behind 

faulty dental work

held fast at the clasp,

stuck. Broken. 

The New Year has started but that is not why I need to make a fresh start. It just so happens that my life needs to be put back together around the same time that a single number changes, regardless of any calendar system or rotation of the earth around a luminous star. 

I need to change. For too long I’ve been ignorant and useless. I know I’m not happy. And if there is any chance in fixing that, it’s going to be a chance I actively take. 

I will escape my isolation. I need to. It makes me miserable. I need to engage the people around me. I can choose who will care for me. I have that power. I can do it if I put in the effort. 

I can learn not to fear putting myself out there. Because maybe it was easier being alone than losing the people you love. Maybe it was easier being along than being hurt by them and by my own insecurity. Maybe it was easier than facing my fear. Well, I was wrong. I learned the hard way. Being alone is no easier than rejection. And I think I deserve to give myself a fighting chance. 

More than ever I need friends. Not many, but close friends. I need to make strong bonds with people that I can trust and who will trust me. These are the types of friendships I need but they are also the type I fear the most. I’ve seen enough of them die. But I need to give it a shot. I need to try. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand my loneliness.

In addition, muscles. I need them really badly. I’m embarrassed by my health and fitness right now so that needs to change.