Question:

Where have all the ninjas gone?

Peaceful Night

On a cool evening, I took a shower. The hot water massaged my head and I could feel blood rushing through hands running through my hair. I smiled and I could feel love flowing from my lips down into my chest. I washed. then I rinsed. then I dried.

When I returned the towel to the rack, I noticed a smaller towel hanging there, dirty, and old. I picked it up and went into the kitchen and picked up the another small towel that rested on a tea kettle. It had food stains and I had used it in the afternoon to pick up the hot metal. I turned on a song I wanted to hear earlier.

A piano rippled, a guitar strummed a hollow tune. The song was about feeling lost, but the music meandered gracefully.

I turned on hot water in the bathroom sink and soaked the two towels in with some detergent. I waited for the water to run and then I sunk my two hands in, feeling the warmth, and then pulled out one to turn off the hot, and turn on the cold. The cold fell into the hot pool of soap like a cloud that had been kept in the refridgerator. It wrapped around my fingers as I tightened my hands around the towels. I massaged the thick wet cotten towels, straining my shoulders, my arms, my hands. My fingers were red. Pushing away the shower curtains, I hung the two towels to dry on the rusty bar.

So Much Work to Do

Comfort is the devil, he said.

Finding myself soft, digesting my food well, I realize what I have to do. I've grown too comfortable in this state. I've left the fields of blood to come home and grow old, too soon. My children laugh at me. My wife no longer loves me. The house creaks, and opens its windows, allowing dead leaves to spread through its hallways, bedrooms. Beauty mocks me. Dangles its grace before my atrophied body. I can not even remember what it felt like. We were not invincible when we were young, we were in constant state of pain. Our bones stretched, and our stomachs swallowed with desperation. And now we resign ourselves to wisdom? To experience? to knowledge? Be prepared.

You will be young, whether you're ready or not.

Attempt #5506

I'll take this old receipt
rub away the charcoal
script, watch the white
paper wrinkle between my fingers
flutter away white dove
fingers spread--
I'll lose every coffee
and biscuit we bought
in the web,
fall through like silk scarves
a snake seems forever
consuming my youth
clenched fist--
new evidence like new kiss
printed on dove's feather
death will be quiet
when we are together.

[Nothing To Hide]

that's enough

What is it you rhyme?
when you time
your words to the beat testin
the limits of your life passed
to the next kin
inherit the best thing
the soul memory
enscribed without fear of the body
afloat in the ether
the big house for the ghosts
written in stone
in an invisible ink
as the little ones lost--
(under development dreams)
big things
crush but never kill
so live like no matter what you will
know no other
but the patience it takes
to grow to grasp to gravitate
fate like space dust
accumlate into us
what?

Words are meaningless

Without work, words are dead birds. Still and quivering in the wind, this beauty will not fly. I try to face this everyday, but I have failed. So far, I have only tried to make a dead thing live. There is no potential. There is nothing to defend. Nothing to protect. That was all a dream. Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up.

and Stand.

Shuffle

So here's what happened. I picked up my powerbook for the first time in a week and I carreid it into the ktichen to try out what a friend of mine, dianna, suggested, which was to listen to music while doing the dishes. And so I'm listening to beyonce and i'm like okay, this is cool, this is cool, but then i realized that the itunes was on repeat single, so i turned it on to shuffle and

i let it ripppp....

first this soulful song about love for the parents came on, rapped by dynamic duo, on their taxi driver album, then i believe louis armstrong came on and he started to sing, if you smile the whole world smiles with you, and then lauryn hill came on and said that you can get the money and you can get the power, just watch out! for the final hour. and now dispatch is strumming and streaming about the general let his soldiers free but stayed to finish his duty, go now you are forgiven! go now you are forgiven! and then oh man, foo fighters blasted on with a mellow bass singing the rain is here, and you my dear, are still my friend, it's true, the two, of us, are back, as one, again.... a short song that has this smooth blue shell and a rocking electric core of a room party! my lonely heart it falls apart for you to bend! ouch!

and i peace out with the current song blastin' bomb
dilated peoples just tryin' to breathe
so all ya'll can try and see
it's my world till it's time to leave!

and swooooosh!

peace

Hold with your Hands

There is no such thing as an emaculate conception. I vehemently protest this idea applied to our living breathing and suffering bodies minds words thoughts images sounds songs shakes trembles dances embraces cold warms. I remind myself. There is no such thing as an emaculate conception. I fight the thought that birth can happen without blood without sweat without a violent burst of colors that pale the human skin without love without hateful exchanges without human animal and godly expressions often embodied in bodies embroiled in bed rituals dances debates debauch moments of fate. I tell myself there is no clean birth. There is no son no daughter no child without death without murder or unjust blame beaten upon the brows of a thorned and lowered head asking for forgiveness despite and because of all the terrible things the doubtful the hateful said. There are no poems blessed with a paternal moon that floats owning the world. There are no loves that escape lips without trails and tangles of bloody threads, fleshy breaths, and above all, there is no emaculate creation only an expression of something pure to be dashed like the first stupid idea that a lazy man has.

good weather

Man, oh man. what a job. what a mix. smells and feels like genius, brilliance. today's weather is an absolutely lucid experience. like a perfectly mixed hue of orange. or gray. just right so that it touches those untouched places in my brain, triggering warm memories. this is some sweet job someone's done. done it right. good timing, too.

love.

Hate Violence

Racial Slur Preceded Slashing of 3 in Manhattan, Police Say
By NICHOLAS CONFESSORE and KAREEM FAHIM
Published: March 5, 2006

A man with a box cutter slashed three men outside a Manhattan restaurant early yesterday, and the police said they were investigating whether racial bias motivated the attack.

The three men were entering the Gramercy Restaurant on Third Avenue at 17th Street with a fourth friend at 4:30 a.m., when two men on the sidewalk spoke to them, using a derogatory name for Chinese people, and performed mock karate moves, the police said.

The attackers were Hispanic, the police said, and the victims were of Asian descent. When the Asian men left the diner about 45 minutes later, the police said, the two Hispanic men had been joined by a third. One of them pulled out a box cutter, then cut three of the Asian men with it, slashing one in the face, one in the neck and one in the back.

The three were taken to the Bellevue Hospital Center, where they were treated and released. The injuries were minor, the police said. The victims' names were not available.

Officers canvassed the area around the diner, a mostly residential neighborhood near Gramercy Park, but had not made any arrests.

By the time the breakfast rush began yesterday, there was little sign of the attacks. On the sidewalk outside, a bloodstained blue dress shirt lay on the ground, alongside a torn white undershirt wrapped around a scaffolding pole.

Residents expressed surprise at reports of the attack and said such crimes were rare in the neighborhood.

"I eat here all the time, like three times a week," said Jennifer Connell, 28, who lives in the building above the restaurant and works nearby. "If it wasn't safe, I wouldn't live here."

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/05/nyregion/05assault.html

Landscapes

Flying low over the landscape, I can't see them cry. The engine roars so loud I can hardly imagine a dog barking outside on the front lawn. The bricks of the buildings blur into each other. I cross a thousand homes in minutes.

I want to hear a voice. Mine. I realize I'm speaking. It's my back I'm staring at. It's a summer afternoon and the apartment is so hot the fan blows only hot hair. My shoulders sag and I'm saying... speaking to a figure wavering before me. Is it the heat, am I seeing things?

It's so cold. I see my breath, and realize it's mine. My hands are wearing no gloves, so my skin is raw and numb. I've been waiting for an hour, watching bus after bus. Each one seemed different from the other. Each one carried a little less hope. At home, mail piles up. Telephone rings. I'm not aware of it. I don't know it, because I'm here.

I wake up with my forehead pressed against the glass. I look up to see that I've returned. A cacophony of cabs, smog, and suits are silent as I look on from inside the bus. A baby cries somwhere up front. The seat next to mine is empty. I feel nothing.

Something Beautiful

Lately I've been thinking about idenitity, politics, and life. Navigating the waters of who you are can be difficult, and may involve facing a lot of hard questions. No one likes politics, and it it seems it's easier to simply have a prefabricated opinion or to completely play that apathy card. Where's politics and identity in life? It seems one thing is clear to me: that nothing is simple, and that anyone who tells you it is hasn't thought about it enough. Sometimes, the best thing is to know the right questions to ask. A willingness to feel uncomfortable. I find it rewarding to talk to many different kinds of people. Ask them questions. Listen to them talk. And I've got some strong opinions about certain things. I can get awful angry. But I know in my heart that I'm not done growing. I'm no where near done struggling. I'm trying. Trying to stay hungry because something in my heart tells me that's important. What am I hungry for?

hm. hungry for:

Something Fresh?
Possibilities?
Positivity?
Connection?
maybe, the day
I can give
something big.

Travelin' Man

Is it possible to live in the present? Do you constantly live in tomorrow? Is this traveler's life makin' you sing sad sweet songs, as you pack your bags, and stand inside glass boxes looking out at your next ride out of town? Do you know home? Have you been back, recently? Can you face the hot hatred, and the distance between where you've been and where you're always coming from? Is the soul a suitcase lined with socks and underwear, a toothbrush, and a clean pair of pants, a jacket, shirt, and tie? Do you know, when you leave, if you'll be back again?

Sol Park

A week of confusion and reckless abandon left me with a lot of pieces to pick up, but mostly I had to pick my self up. Sickness set in the confusion, and reckless abandon came from the self-pity I felt because I couldn't breathe comfortably through my nostrils and my throat felt as if coals had been sprinkled on to my red flesh, turning it black, and stringy. But after a pretty long day out doing a last-minute architecture project (we had to create a narrative of a journey from one place in manhattan to another) and a brief moment of flipping out at home, I cleaned my room, watched a movie, drank some tea, then went to the library and figured out the plan for the week. Sure, some things are going to end up lost, and I won't be able to say I scored a perfect 10. But I kept my composure in the end, setting up enough time to think of my next move.

review of Sympathy for Lady Vengeance coming soon

decoding

So you think you've got it all figured out.
I won't be the one to tell you you're wrong. You're not wrong.
After all, what's so complicated about life, anyway. Most of us are living in a tearless existence and emotion is long for emo. War is happening and people are starving and the means to this knowledge are more potent than ever and it seems we're more apathetic than ever. where is love? Do you feel like an island? Is connection just another asset? How's the book going? Are your memories for sale? Am I a chink, and is that funny? Should I picket my existence? Protest my outrage. Or work within in the system, because it's all a system, and there's no man. Hollywood is benign. Music is money. There's no intelligent design, there's only stream lined. Penguins fly. like rockets to the walmart moon.

where have you been, lately?

what have you felt?

Green Light

"guys were waiting at a light, discussing the backwards and lowly state of some of their brothers, today. all the while, waiting for a electric light to tell them when to go."

So today was the last day of the first week of the last semester of my undergraduate career.

I think I've forgotten how to build a logical argument.


Looking up,
the weight of the world slides
off the top of our round heads.
crashing plates and bronze weights
our eyes catch glimpse of the infinite stars scattered
shattered light like church glass smashed
by the grey stone in our pocket.
we feel the smoothness of a world that fits
whistle through the air
as if God, as if stars,
realizes us
and is born, anew.

Click

The music Ons,
have vision.

Peace to this young warrior

Everyone's got a struggle,
everyone's got a demon,
some of us give in sooner than others
while there are a few who do the best until the end,
and that don't mean nothing
'bout stayin' away from money
actin' pure is just frontin'
so cut the bullshit homie
tell me where you goin'
let's see if we meet at the end and then
we'll see who been doin their best
until the end no rest
and then, peace to this young warrior
without the sound of guns

response to: Ishle Yi Park's "Distant Stars"

I listen
to this song and as she speaks words like hemming, and horizon, and fire... she says L train, and says that a thousand seagulls are flying, a lake somewhere, sunsets over bushwick, cursing singing and crying, she says, she speaks, the names of artists friends family who are the stars of her night as she writes:

We are like distant stars
we glimmer softly
and we live on our dreams
our small dreams
and we
dare to be beauty
to be beauty

she stomps her tongue a gun fires and a blade cuts she flowers the graves and she creates spaces where I see hope can be saved if only I listen and I speak with her words dotting my night as I write I search as if i am still young, as if i'm still young! she sings the names stars as they sit in different dark shifts passing like lights across the walls of our small apartments filled with so many bodies sometimes from somewhere the bricks sigh wishing they too were alive the beauty and strength of this song gives me knowledge gives me strong will the faith the hope I could not muster myself tonight as I cried searching for poetry from the insides, "because david will hold my mouth in his mouth" because we believe in poetry because we believe it will do more than set us free it will be, it will be...

we are like distant stars
we glimmer softly
and we live on our dreams
our small dreams
and we
dare to be beauty
to be beauty

*chorus and other parts of the poem are compiled from Ishle Yi Park's "Distant Stars"--the poet was listening to the poem recited by Ishle Yi Park as he wrote this response, thus her words dotted his song.

shall we die
whither away as salty slugs
like punctured lungs
or be
amber
fossil
refusing to become one
with wood and rock
so that when they dig to build
towers of steel and rods
they must remove our roaring jaws
and place us in marble halls
hollowed out
to give us our
rightful space.