Saturday, January 24, 2009

It's the same ol' song

i said well daddy don't you know what things go in cycles, the way bobby brown is just amping like michael...

like beebop to hiphop back to beehop sampled in some hiphop...


a professor in a class i once dropped told me that a poem is never finished, the poet just gets bored, fed-up, impatient, and moves on to the next thing

i see it as there is no end, it is just forged

i wrote this a minute ago and haven't touched it since
might as well post it
in writing this i think it was the first time i shared my emotions with an audience

with no further ado, "somebodys in trouble, awwww here it goes, ohhh nick, nick, nick, nick, na-nick, nick, nick.." -coolio the kenan and kel theme song

Re: Stuff
I remember when we first kissed, and it was really awkward,
and then you made a point to announce aloud that it was indeed awkward, but not to fret for everyone’s first kiss is awkward

Awkward has long since ceased to exist between us;
we now reside in the land of the comfortable and intimate

Intimate, defined in Webster’s, open up the book,
flip through the thumb index:

Umm it falls somewhere after,
I dry heaved into your trash can as you brush my hair from my watering eyes,
forehead kisses telling me I’m beautiful,
just as my whole body violently convulsives,
retching once again

And before, I strategically plotted and mapped every notable freckle on your body,
tracing each point with my fingers as my eyes are closed,
center-nose, upper-left cheek,
mid-left neck, left collarbone,
left hand in-between the middle and index fingers

Deviating, a devolution from path we have journeyed along,
awkward does live and thrive in the vast abyss of the city bus we both happen upon,
separated by a chilling coldness,
of me wondering who’s that you’re with
and what you’re talking about
if my name gets brought up what do you say?
my insides sobbing, turn into one entangled heartbeat,
anxiously throbbing,
yearning, yet dreading that in passing our eyes will meet once again
It’s like the flustered red-cheek nervous high I experienced
when you first put your arm around me at that café,
imagining what “us” would be like,
but now less novice and seemingly more hopeful

We went from 3 feet high and rising—
complete with a complimentary slight creak in my neck,
the price to pay for being the one who is spooned
on confines of an extra-long twin bed
your arms permanently wrapped around my stomach,
your chest pressed against my back,
sleeping so close to your heart I could never feel alone,
you could fill up my empty part

Now restless nights of being alone,
fighting back the compulsory urge of my body,
trained, to compact itself and press against the wall to make room for you,
for now our being is a big question,
you tell me our relationship is a clear hindrance to your progression,
I’m not at all ready to internalize your words of “don’t bother,”
as if de la soul is dead

From time to time I find myself re-reading old e-mails and letters in secrecy,
looking over my shoulder to hide from my hurt,
but it’s too busy indulging in renunciation unyielding to surrender,
it fights back tears in public, puts on a forced smile,
robotic small talk and nodding

Still cautious I look over that shoulder,
as I reread and replay old conversations in my head as if to retrace where it went wrong,
but all I find is where I stopped talking to you and commenced in discourse with a ghost,
the desperate pleas of my heart fell to his dead ears,

Even now as I open my lips to speak
I’m surprised by my own heart’s will to tickle my vocal cords
to plea my case yet once again,
trying for you to hear me,
my heart grows tired and is unable to rouse another sound from my voice

—but I often find myself thinking about you so dearly,
as if to percolate the sound of my unspoken love for you
that dispels from my thoughts and being,
into a high pitched tone that only resonates in your heart

I’d like to believe you can hear,
even from within the highly guarded fortress
of your removed emotions:
Friday night parties,
straight shots of Svedka—no chaser,
and coquette antidotes;
your effort to forget me

Blog shlapp:

No comments: