Archive for November, 2009

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Naked Except for her Heart

November 29th, 2009

Naked Except for her Heart

Inside a corrugated box that once contained
a classroom set of Math is a Journey! there is:
a spitball bazooka made from straws and Scotch tape
and really strong lungs, someone’s grandmother’s cross

strung through a part of paracord, a handball
whose Sky Bounce logo has been long lost,
a figure of Chris Benoit, the Rabid Wolverine,
his kung fu grip, who developed dementia

and strangled his wife and his boy and himself,
an issue of Maxim from June with Jenna Jameson
all naked except for her heart breaker tattoo
and a fireman’s hat on the cover, its paper soft

like a torah from being folded and guarded, folded
and guarded, and chocolate in thin tin foil
painted to look like monsters.

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Mechanical Turk

November 26th, 2009

Mechanical Turk

A chessboard perpetrates a real bodied war,
threats of push and pull.
Beneath the checkered semaphores,
a confidence man novelizes it all.
Within him, diametric muscles
bubble and repulse
to flex a thumb, tic a lip.
The sinews are brilliant
draped in myelin,
a fasces of mica.

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For a Moment

November 25th, 2009

For a Moment

There are days at my desk
when everything is articulated neatly
patient in its own plot of table top.
Black pens, an open faced journal,
his grandmother’s ring.
I’m supposed to take them up,
these things, and create
something larger than myself
like art or an act
of love. Instead, it’s
digging through a shallow mountain
for a photo of someone else –
Poetry was someone. Marriage,
someone else. Even breakfast
needs my hands to make it.

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Askr y Embla

November 22nd, 2009

(very small textual revisions)
Askr y Embla

Eres hermosa como un árbol de las Secoyas.
Sé esto debido al ámbar en tus ojos
y la altura con destino al cielo que hace
imposible para no hacerme caída en amar contigo.
Incluso tu nombre significa que tenías que ser
una planta floreciente,
la adivina de me amas y no me amas.
Puedo ser que parezca un hombre
escritura a través de su crisis de desear
pero soy realmente un niño que juega con
un cuchillo de bolsillo, un par de iniciales,
y un tiro a través de corazón.
Eres esa especie rara que crece la más fuerte
en la incandescencia de un incendio forestal
pero de faltar ese calor, puedo ahora contar
las venas que se ramifican a través de tu palidez.

Dríada, no has encontrado a mis manos,
los creadores de palabras, el calor de sus tenencia,
ni mis brazos que no quieren mas que
abrazar árboles. Secoya –
una palabra prestada del Iroquois,
amos de ocultar su charla en los vientos.
Utilizo este código romantic así que
conseguirías el significado antes de que consigas el mensaje:
me encantas. Creo que eres fuera de mi liga.
Creo que eres el más hermosa cuando
estas quieta y plantada.
Tus oídos miran a escondidas, hacian fuera como las hojas;
habrías sido el sueño mojado de Robert Frost
y ahora divago pero dicen
que es la primera sintoma de la ceguera del árbol.
Utilizo una lengua que no sabes
de modo que comenzaras quizá a entender
cómo me pregunto en la Aurora Arborealis,
los que parecen que siempre te seguir.

Es extraño porque
sé la lluvia,
sé cuándo baja,
cuándo permanence en las nubes
esperando el sol hacer las visitas
así que podría dar una serenata a los amantes
con sus tambores de timpani.
Sé también los rayos del sol,
el beso derecho atado
de sus puños desenredados.
Sé la tierra, su regalo de los reyes magos,
su asombro que acuna, la generosidad
con la cual comparte su sangre manchada.
Apenas no puedo imaginar cómo
agregas para arriba tanto más
que la suma sencilla de esta música,
misericordia, y martirio.

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Flop, Turn, River

November 22nd, 2009

Flop, River, Turn

The gnash their shoulders just
from standing close to one another.
The heat of bodies and now blood
corralled against the lime dust.
Protect the spectacle.
They bark into their fists
a language inbred with fury.

There, a topography
of dollar bills whose peaks
shift in between rounds.
There’s nothing left to wager except sometimes
favors from their women.

Punch up in victory, punch arms
to give good luck, punch inside pockets
to fight off the cold, punch down bets,
punch out lights if someone cheats,
punch losers in the back of the neck.

The contenders fight naked and shiver
more from the cold than the gore
in their mouths. It’s hard
not to swallow. Above
the babbling bramble, someone says
Check out my human! He’s as big
as a fucking cock. Another: Mine’s
a pure bred spic!

When we are dead and gone,
the dogs will throw dice instead and move on.

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My Calling rewrite

November 16th, 2009

My Calling

“you lie,” he cried
and ran on.
–Stephen Crane

It’s the knowing that kills me.
Not the knowledge of distant things
that is too slowly unhidden.
Journey
is unavoidable
in lives like these.

We count the nights
like pomegranate seeds.
I can tell by the weight
too many are missing.
I won’t survive
even as an inkling.

What else then
but crane my neck
toward the sky?

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BaekJul BulGul (Indomitable Spirit) original draft

November 16th, 2009

BaekJul BulGul (Indomitable Spirit) original draft

At least we have the dirt. We could
ball it together like table
crumbs and hold it under our tongues
until the soil separates
from the ore of KeumGang San. That way
we’d coat our throats in diamond dust.

They stopped teaching Korean in
Korean schools today. Something
as simple as annyoung
haseyo said in the hallways can
earn a demerit. They’re holding
red pens against our children’s throats
and it’s as good as their bayonets.
When Yeong-Sun calls me otochan
I want to smack her in her mouth
so hard she spits out blood hotter
than the rising sun, or feed her strips
of kimchi one by one. The sour
will preserve her dying Choson tongue.

The missioners taught us metaphor.
Their pahng was so tough it may as well
have been flesh, won’t melt like bahp. No –
When they taught us how HaNaNim said, Let
there be bit but we were still sitting in
the dark, windows boarded against
the street, well, that was metaphor.
God ga ra sa dae light i ssue ra.
Our throats grew warm with the words we’ve saved
since morning, since our daughters were born
into this. I swear Yeong-Sun looks like
a yudeung or a lighthouse when she
recites any passage in Korean.

Sometimes, after prayer, they ask us
what we believed before we knew Christ.
Their voices are soft so we could tell
they’re being polite, won’t turn around
and burn our books on Palgwe or Taeguk.
But still, we’re tired of philosophy
and reasoning. We start to sing:

Arirang, Arirang, Arariyo,
Arirang gogaero neomeoganda.
Nareul beorigo gasineun nimeun
simnido motgaseo balbyeongnanda.

There’s silence. We’re all closed eyes, living
in our own Koreas. Someone brave
opens his eyes first; someone braver
says this dirt will never be enough.

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One Hundred Eighty Seconds

November 15th, 2009

One Hundred Eighty Seconds
by Victoria Rivas

Bow to each other. Bow to the ref.
“Fighting stance. Begin” Hesitate. Then,
a suddenly compact universe,
reduced to two. Fighters move, parry,

fighting stance. Begin. Hesitate, then
start a three minute relationship
reduced to two fighters. Move, parry.
Eyes locked, we watch peripherally,

start a three minute relationship.
I push, urge him on, move him closer.
Eyes locked, we watch peripherally,
dance, casual acquaintances. Will

I push, urge him on, move him closer.
to me? Weave, reach, move away, we play,
dance. Casual acquaintances will
anticipate, try to dictate moves

to me. Weave. Reach. Move away. We play
like not-yet lovers. A foot I don’t
anticipate! Try to dictate moves
as it slips my guard, touches me hard,

like not yet lovers. A foot I don’t
stop. Suck breath, circle, counter, block, punch,
as it slips my guard, touches me hard.
Sweaty vinyl gear smacks together.

Stop. Suck breath. Circle. Counter. Block. Punch.
Still foreplay. Nothing below the belt.
Sweaty vinyl gear smacks together.
We breathe hard, touch hard, clothes wet, still on,

still foreplay, nothing below the belt.
Finally comes commitment. Hit hard,
we breathe hard, touch hard, clothes wet, still on
guard, I watch, back off. Begin again.

Finally comes commitment. Hit hard,
again, again. Padded gear smacks loud.
Guard. I watch. Back off. Begin. Again
I mount the assault, corner him, hit

again, again. Padded gear smacks loud
against his solar plexus. My point.
I mount the assault, corner him, hit
openings, kick inside. Gasp. Heave. Push

against his solar plexus. My point.
A second wind drives me to search for
openings. Kick inside. Gasp. Heave. Push
as he counters, scores. Scores again.

A second wind drives me to search for
his eyes, look for signs. Pause ends
as he counters, scores, scores again,
ends without warning. The ref calls, “Break,”

His eyes look for signs. Pause ends,
A suddenly compact universe
ends without warning. The ref calls, “Break,
Bow to each other.” Bow to the ref.

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BaekJul BulGul (Indomitable Spirit)

November 15th, 2009

BaekJul BulGul
(Indomitable Spirit)

At least we have the dirt. We could
ball it together like table
crumbs and hold it under our tongues
until the soil separates
from the ore of KeumGangSan. That way
we’d coat our throats in diamond dust.

They banned speaking Korean in
Korean schools today. Even
saying AhnNeongHaSeYo is
enough to flunk you out. They’re holding
red pens against our children’s throats
and it’s as good as their bayonets.
When YeongSun calls me otochan
I want to smack her in her mouth
so hard she spits out blood hotter
than the rising sun, or feed her strips
of KimChi one by one. The spice
will preserve her dying ChoSon tongue.

Westerners had taught us metaphor.
Their Ppang was so tough it may as well
have been flesh, won’t melt like Bahp. No –
When they taught us how HaNaNim said, Let
there be Biht but we were still sitting in
the dark, windows boarded against
the street, that was metaphor. God-Nimi
GaRaSaDae light ItSsueRa
HaSheotDa. That word, “Biht”, it glistened
beneath our throats as if we were
YuDeung or beacons for lost Koreans.

The missionaries asked us once
what we had worshiped before Christ came.
They wouldn’t raze BulGukSa even
if we drew them a map but we
were so tired of philosophy and reason
that all we had strength to do was sing.

AhRiRang, AhRiRang, AhRaRiYo,
AhRiRang, GoGaeRo, NeoMeoGanDa.
NaReul BeoRiGo GaSinEun NimEun
SimNiDo MotGaSeo BalByeongNanDa.

Silence. We’re all closed eyes, living
in our own Koreas. Someone brave
opens his eyes first; someone braver
says this dirt will never be enough.

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love

November 11th, 2009

“If there is a mystery at the heart of human condition, it is otherness: the otherness of man and woman, parent and child. It is the space we make for otherness that makes love something other than narcissism.”

–Jonathan Sacks

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