@ the poetry reading
okay, read these poems out loud (no cutesy performance antics from this one, not a born entertainer, haha) at last monday's happy poetry reading night.
street cannibalism
craving the city
is an incurable disease,
can accommodate
a transient need for food
(just as there are places
in the city
that accommodate
desperate groping and
fleetingsex)
the balut* eggs wrapped
in last year’s
yellow pages,
and rock salt thrashing
about in a paper boat,
eveloped in
inky smudged corners
ii.
squatting next to the
mildly interested cat
he cracks the egg
on the asphalt
gently, quick to suck out
the amniotic fluid
(the joke: the aborted chick’s urine,
last minute excretions of fear
before it dies, and hence
the salty-fishy flavor,
just as they laugh at our corpulent
deposed President
and our poverty)
… slurping loudly until
the chick is bone dry and silent,
the spidery yellowy yolk
for his taking,
swallowed up in salt, eyes
closed as he savors
its gritty-rubbery texture,
briefly:
the vulgarity of the sea
on his tongue
iii.
and he smiles,
(at the day’s wages saved:
a little extra for that field trip
his youngest needs,
to take the tricycle
instead of the lonely walk home)
pleased it was a fresh egg,
and any momentary
discomfort
of half-formed legs,
feathers, beak
would be swallowed up
in the grittiness of salt.
--> i can't remember exactly when i wrote this one, but i gave this to the 2007 edition of portia sorority's lit folio parole. just waxing poetic about balut. hahaha
casual.
the way i hold a cigarette
between my fingers,
thoughtlessness
taking slow, deliberate
drags, exhaling
the smoke
flicking at the ash
with the tip of an index
finger, not
looking at you
not looking at you
in particular
the way we have
these conversations
without actually saying
anything,
languidly
watching from the
foot of the bed,
i turn and
feel the urgency slide off
and rise
ever so slowly
the way i seem to sit
comfortable
among tidy conversations
or raging debates
neither here nor there
expectant
but noncommital
no grace
or skill
just going
against realtime
mode
no predisposition
to anyone or anything
just a brief once over
then..
---> my basic policy is never to reveal my own persona in my poetry, but this would be an exception. this one was written sometime 2005 (previously blogged). and though i revise and rewrite most of my poems after some time, this one i never touched. personally, i think it's not exactly skillfully written but it's authentic enuh. :)
street cannibalism
craving the city
is an incurable disease,
can accommodate
a transient need for food
(just as there are places
in the city
that accommodate
desperate groping and
fleetingsex)
the balut* eggs wrapped
in last year’s
yellow pages,
and rock salt thrashing
about in a paper boat,
eveloped in
inky smudged corners
ii.
squatting next to the
mildly interested cat
he cracks the egg
on the asphalt
gently, quick to suck out
the amniotic fluid
(the joke: the aborted chick’s urine,
last minute excretions of fear
before it dies, and hence
the salty-fishy flavor,
just as they laugh at our corpulent
deposed President
and our poverty)
… slurping loudly until
the chick is bone dry and silent,
the spidery yellowy yolk
for his taking,
swallowed up in salt, eyes
closed as he savors
its gritty-rubbery texture,
briefly:
the vulgarity of the sea
on his tongue
iii.
and he smiles,
(at the day’s wages saved:
a little extra for that field trip
his youngest needs,
to take the tricycle
instead of the lonely walk home)
pleased it was a fresh egg,
and any momentary
discomfort
of half-formed legs,
feathers, beak
would be swallowed up
in the grittiness of salt.
--> i can't remember exactly when i wrote this one, but i gave this to the 2007 edition of portia sorority's lit folio parole. just waxing poetic about balut. hahaha
casual.
the way i hold a cigarette
between my fingers,
thoughtlessness
taking slow, deliberate
drags, exhaling
the smoke
flicking at the ash
with the tip of an index
finger, not
looking at you
not looking at you
in particular
the way we have
these conversations
without actually saying
anything,
languidly
watching from the
foot of the bed,
i turn and
feel the urgency slide off
and rise
ever so slowly
the way i seem to sit
comfortable
among tidy conversations
or raging debates
neither here nor there
expectant
but noncommital
no grace
or skill
just going
against realtime
mode
no predisposition
to anyone or anything
just a brief once over
then..
---> my basic policy is never to reveal my own persona in my poetry, but this would be an exception. this one was written sometime 2005 (previously blogged). and though i revise and rewrite most of my poems after some time, this one i never touched. personally, i think it's not exactly skillfully written but it's authentic enuh. :)