All posts tagged: poetry

Observance

Reading Time: 3 minutes At three, the process of deificationthen came known to me.  Jade, like the ancient devices, are foreign objectsto all men. With an abdomen pressed, exposednext to the king who had braced the mountains,my marrow spills to a world far untouched–– the reign of the gods far from gone. Then,a Director rushed into Qingce. Elders say the waterwheel and eastern windscross one another ceaselessly. On the cliffside–– the beast touches springwater. A soldier laid restis left roses. Like everything in this land, it too,is a secret. No one heard a sound when adenmother gave her body to the seas. And Qingce dew exhausts the air, pleasure-bargestread past. Her shoes pressed clean like deer hoofon the long-forgotten streambed. Foreign object touched by the hoarfrostof the night presses red on my grandfather’sbare face. I will later know all the secretsof this world. *  When you taught me the requiem, I couldbarely count to six. The sound of kindling, or of ember, for something so intangiblecame from rock and promise. I learned blood is blood. Man begs to live …

Pinkerton, home, floods

Reading Time: 11 minutes The next three thousand words are selections of writing I did for a class I had this Fall. I am slowly learning, and hope to return with better pieces to make the most of this. A lot of my writing dealt with religion, home, and expectation. If you read this blog, you’re probably used to that. Thank you for following my journey from my first “chapbook” (not really) to my first college works. The title comes from the fact that I did delete a Pinkerton reference in the fiction piece, somewhere in the attempt to copy Borges (we read a lot of Le Guin and Borges–the comment was that there was too much extraordinariness in the listing of lives and beings, and I agreed, we have to dwell somewhere more common at times) but without the experience and knowledge to actually understand what a worthwhile life is like, but I’m getting there. I don’t really spend much time publishing or sending out things (I don’t do this at all), but I’ve been writing a lot …

Outside Gate 2.5

Reading Time: < 1 minute Outside Gate 2.5 Here, I am the rich. I, ilk of captive grasslands; interim of conversation and strangers of shared descent. This discomfort will follow – as oxide stains the validity of tonsils, leaked of coarse throat, straining, frugal with desire to be heard. I abuse the story I come from. Here, a gun asks for a namesake. His crippled hips grin of a lawless history, scorned of the 70s. Hands shuffle us inside. Tell us for a moment, we must finally scream for our own selves. I, voiceless for a future, has entanglement clock our sameness, our waning fear of living. Inside, they pick up all our mangled selves, sputtered of wax; and so we become ember, holding onto life again. We become your voice, ascent to fueling the ends of times, like gunshots splayed of freefall towards streets. Here, I am the rich, burdened of word – further, they tell us not to fight again. Further, they say we do not seek them. To this I wonder the requirement of boiling my skin, …