The Dispatch: A Weekly Newsletter
For Simba Like back in the day, all these emotions make me numb Time has lost all sense of propriety Food tastes like the ghost of a cloud I miss you, and I don't know what to do Everything is blurred, crumpled foil Tossed into the bin like yesterday's news I can't resist looking out the window Hoping to see you there I wish I had more time, to hold you close, to cry My memory of you is mucked up No matter how hard I try Not sure how to move on Other than pretend to smile Fake it…
Another breakfast alone Won’t wash the bedsheets Can’t lose the scent of your cologne These words will dry on their own All these things that I’ve done
Home is where the fences are cinder blocks, radiating heat well into the night. Home is where the shit on the street is from ornamental plums, and not migrating ducks and geese. Home is knowing where the garlic salt is in the kitchen. Home is where your dog is. Home is waking up to the sun everyday, ten months out of the year. Home is walking out to your car, covered in a thin coat of dust. Home is moving your joints, and not hearing them crack, because humidity. Every day is a new day. I have been craving this…
To be young again! To jump on cracks, breaking Mama's back To run from the shadows of a cloud on a spring day To skip to my Lou, fall down from a ring of roses Hopscotch, and jump-rope, and down down baby To be Enlightened by curiosity To examine the world through science, reason To believe in God unrepentantly To beg someone to kiss the boo-boo to make it better To imagine the floor is lava To defend to the death the notion that rain on a sunny day is the Devil's wife weeping To bathe in water and imagine…
I won't let you in, I'll fight you to the end Too close, I can no longer be your friend Love ends, where hate begins You are which of the seven holy sins? Hold you down, surrender to me Mission to the black hole of a distant galaxy You make me strong, can no longer deny The thought of you makes me comply All I ever wanted was you Black and white tableau flame in my mind Of all the memories we left behind All the minutes - I imagine me and you Together, like it was only natural A…
Fruitful and productive Tired and antisocial Emotions that define my life I have seen wonderful things Celebrated milestones with loved ones I am a true gastronome Yet I feel alone in a crowded room It is time to stop dwelling on the negativity And let the sunshine in It is time to believe all the storied words of Scribes, poets, and heroes before me I am worthy of love I can practice my faith Despite all obstacles I can be anything I want to be If only I can get my brain To catch up to my heart It is…
Things that are full of music Cascade like a waterfall Down the coin slot Chirping in acceptance, once, twice, three times luck be a lady. They call me the One-Armed Bandit The meadow in the Wild West Words and music under the gun Of the tiger's sun. The Ballad of Michael Valentine Could be a country song, but isn't Telling the tale of a wannabe rock star Nuns on Fourth and Fremont sing topless, gaffer's tape covering their nipples, implications of areolas Because bare breasts are not fully nude in America, if they're covered up I've become a part of…
The battlefield in my headis littered with the loversI'll never bed, let alone wedSee me ride the light of loveTo a place inside his heartFalling below the mists, undertowSinging the praises of an unknown soldier,Broken apart by the promise of releaseFight with me, beside me, inside meBehind me, roller-coaster ride meTouch me with your lettersLet's find the Elysian fieldsFreed from constraints,One bet to become unsealed
We practiced our haibun in my grad school poetry class. This was my result. The tsinelas on my feet do not protect me from the grains of sand. My mother's pale skin is a gentle reminder for me to protect my face from the sun, so I don't get tan like my ancestors. But the freckles sprinkled on my cheeks are my tell. I have no poker face here. A murder of cacti and bloopy tumbleweeds in wide, open spaces. But that can't be true. My childhood was the green grass that made me itch, the hand-me-down purple banana seat…
Where are you from, a person is often asked.Where indeed? I have no answer. My eyes are slanted, but I'm not Oriental.I'm not a rug, don't tread on me.My jeans are Levi's, but I'm not a stadium.Don't play games with me.My feet are blistered, but I don't wear high heels.I can walk on broken glass. I'm from California, I say, naive of the social cues.No, but farther back, they insist.What do you mean, I reply, and it hits me. What's a brown girl like you doing in a desert like this? I lock my jaw, squint my chinky eyes, and…