Pluto is sending, is descending,
is from her duchessy demoted.
We have always called it so,
soon none shall know--
And herself, but slighted slightly
for our passing life of seconds,
keeps graceful ampersanding
across the canvas universe.
Effectively PygmalionYou have no right to say such things
The truth is somewhere in between
it and what exists in my head
But then you say it like a certainty,
deny my conception of reality,
rip it out of me before the first breath
I know you don't know any better
so I say nothing and tuck away my pains,
sink beneath the waves of your words
I bottle sand and bits of shells
saved from your still- crashing surf
to puzzle later but never fit together
GutsThe entrails of the machine are spilling in haphazard order
Across the allotted space of my desk
Silver, red and black coating hug the gold and semi-conductors
The heart of the machine, my machine,
is heatedly blinking to the wires of a careful and furious transfusion
It was surgically removed from the body that could no longer read it
We are performing a long overdue emergency operation-
First the data that does not quite transfer
Save the heart
then save the body,
Save the mind.
TurnsBreathe in, breathe out.
The world keeps turning.
You are telling me serious things, and I, you. The electronic seconds-arm of the screen keeps flashing. Facebook updates the feed: a new post sliding the rest down, gliding the text sound-
lessly away the world keeps turning. You would think such a big old thing should creak and groan at the seams--but it does, and it has all along. We've just gotten used to it.
One planet away, a tsunami is ravaging the island states and monsoons beat at fragile shanty-town roofs and all the while, meanwhile, at my dinner-room table, I am waiting for your words to appear.
Quietly, silently, digitally, hum flicker blink.
Breathe in, breathe out.
What would I do without you, and you, I?
Dry SpellI have been suffering a dry spell. When the water doesn't come, the very air crackles with tension, static and dry. It's more than enough to make you irritable. Sparks fly at the lightest approach. The woven matter of my headcloth is weighty with dusty burden. Forty days and forty nights is far too much to ask from a mere mortal slouching along this desert terrain. When day breaks on the twenty-eighth and no oasis nigh, I sink heavily into the sand. I want nothing but to hide my devastated face from the sun and the sky and the world, but there is no relief from the pressure of heat pressing from every direction.
When the drought breaks, there is no storm, no breaking of flood gates. Only a sputtering of mud.
What is Love.What is Love.
Hate is not a word to throw around. The man with the Book taught me so when I was much younger than I am now. Hateeasily defined, easily refined, an expression of utter loathing such that one would kill but for the consequences. Love was a word to avoid without instruction to do so. I could not confirm what love was and so I did not say it.
I knew love, having traced the path of its shadow, intimately embraced its portrait. Love printed in the pages of books, flashed on the two-dimensional-three-dimensional screens. Love in the stories the flowers tell the wind.
Love is in the scene of a 1950s film, is waiting on the iron-wrought whorls of a bench in Paris, is hanging under a full moon that hovers low, large, luminous. Love is in the Text, 46th Book, 13th Chapter. Love is the ocean with a variable shoreline. Love is forever and ever after. So I learned.
Both not knowing and knowing absolutely that I was doing so, I looked fo
Your demise is imminent. Even so, spell it out for me in alphanumerical glyphs. I will whittle it into your tombstone when you are dead and gone, the raindrops courting rose petals as they dance upon your grave.
You are beautiful like the sunset.
Now, give me the key to the world
Million Tears Called LoveI.
Let me write you sonnets you will never read,
Songs you will never hear.
In the summer shade of a sky bridge edge
I'll whittle my passion for you.
Pining is overrated when the object is you,
Frustrating, irritating Heart.
Day and night the fringes of my insides hum
Till I want to scrub them raw.
Give me a year of intensity in these two months
When days are human heat.
I'll never believe relations of devotion and lust
Only obsession, fairytales.
The intermittent glow of embers that reside in my ventricles
If I prod them they will burst into
Basic elaborationsEating and drinking and sleeping and
Oh, but the passion, such passion! Passion like the falling of a million (burning) meteors headed for sea, for the deep, dark (cold) ocean.
eating and drinking and sleeping and loving and hating and
Once upon a time there lived a population of translucent crabs. They came to shore every day in the night to build their cities of sand- such white sand!- only to be washed away by the coming tide. Nobody knows what drives them. Perhaps they don't even know themselves.
eating and drinking and sleeping and loving and hating and trying (so, so hard) and wishing and
Past tense melts to present tense as the eaves drop their sighs and don on robes of nothingness. Where are you? What are you? No, no- who are you? When are you?
eating and drinking and sleeping and loving and hating and trying and wishing and praying and failing and
Hello? Yes, yes I'd love to. No, I'm afraid I don't. Hold on, let me check-- Hello? Hello? I'm sorry but I can't. You
P--ieces --I spent my dollar and now I'm broke--
--bleeding blue residue up the tissue I'm swiping back and forth, back and---
--scrubbing at my hands. Beside me, someone I dare not meet in the eyes is scouring their own hands; the two of us fugitives trying to remove a stain that just won't lift--
--blue blood--or ice blue?--
--an ivory coffin of black and white bones, great bones I lay to rest beneath a heavy wooden lid--
--round and red and discomfiting and unwonted and--
--blood caked kleenexes turning from rust to brown to black--
--once upon a time..."sat there in front of the music and knew instantl
and we found...we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold grudges and we refuse to die because
the world can not stand the sight of our scars and
cloud-colored eyes filled with a malady called freedom.
we are believers and dreamers and scared to death but we
are not done yet. we are dusty library windows and thunder
raking through bones and leaving eyes glowing, skin shaking,
burning whispers of 'I'm sorry, but this is
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
and beg you stay.)
time enough for a kiss-
and-never-tell, for a stumbling waltz
to the dissonance of crystal-shatter odes
to the summerlong i knew you --
we were(n't) meant for more than this.
morning goes right through you,
and breathes a thousand fortunes in-
to shards of (our) stranger starfall.
Sea-Salt Ice Cream Recipe
Sea-Salt Ice Cream
Wire whisk or fork
Medium sized saucepan
Medium sized bowl
1 cup measure
1 teaspoon measure
Ice-cream maker or ice-pop molds or a cooler of liquid nitrogen (optional)
1 heart (optional get it)
1 cup milk
1 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
blue and green food coloring (optional)
1. Re-arrange the letters of your name and add an X somewhere.
2. Crack 2 eggs into the bowl and whisk well for a few minutes. A wire whisk works best but a fork can do in a pinch.
3. Add the cup of sugar into the eggs and continue to whisk well until creamy.
4. Heat the milk in the saucepan over medium heat until warmish hot while constantly stirring with the wooden spoon (do not use a metal spoon it will scratch your pot and make the milk burn easier). The milk should be right before boiling, but do not
Slutit implodes on the walls of your skull
and slides, sickly
off your tongue
like the body of a slug.
when it hits the floor
it is not quiet,
but sharp as a slap
and totters out of
they are disgusting
and you are ill.
there is no more room
washed away by the slime
coming out of your pores.
the fault is yours
When I Die
When I die
Will you sing for me?
When I die
Will you cry?
When I die
Will you send flowers to my grave?
When I die
Will you be brave?
When I die
Will you still love me?
When I die
Will you let me be?
When I die
Will you throw away the ring?
When I die
Will you walk over the land like a king?
When I die
I will always be with you
By your side
And sing to you all day long.
for unseeing eyesladen with sky
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.
between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.
keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
build kingdoms under
with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determination
we built a pyre of peace
in the shadows
and watched it blaze
the truth across our
as new leaves still curled
and stretching hands
unfurled in suppliance
we lifted our heads
in broken laughter,
for this light is our burden,
and even a whisper
can shatter silence
and bring the blind
Six Words for a SlumpSix Words For A Slump:
You're tired, unable to create anything.
You feel angry; the anatomy's wrong!
Why won't these words come together?
"Nothing's right anymore, my hands tremble..."
Yet the solution is fairly simple...
I'm showing it to you now;
Break up your ideas, smaller sized.
They come together, like in Tetris.
Rotate the blocks; shape your art.
Draw chibis and stick figures too.
Instead of epics, try a haiku.
How about a six word story?
If your mind is blocked, overheated.
Let it cool; take it slow.
By attempting all the smaller things,
Your art is sure to grow.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th January 2013
The Avatar StateThe Avatar State:
Just as there are four elements
Existing in harmony with one another
So too are there four states of poetry:
Air is the element of freedom
Exemplified by the use of free verse
It has no structure and no true shape
But allows us creative control
Through the use of air as a poetic medium
We allow our emotions a freedom to be
We allow them to soar upon worded wings
Gliding freely through the skies of literature
Water is the element of the changing flow
It can be hard as ice or as soft as snow.
Its nature resembles the power of rhyme
Which grants us order and a structured mind
By pushing and pulling the words we may-
create a picture of what we wish to say
Painted upon a canvas of emotional lines
We create a sculpture of structured rhymes
Earth is uncomprising
Craggy on the whole, it resembles the concrete
Like the craggy mountains with peaks and valleys
It can take us down
A creative alley. For rock resembl
To My BrotherMy mother tended her first yield tender,
with slender fingers interlocked in a cradle
placed over her ripe stomach,
the calluses raised from farm labor
serving as little pillows for her son.
The first time she felt the quake underneath her flesh
the little feet,
the kicking feet that would someday hold up a man
she whispered his name,
The son rising in the east to reflect her soul.
But dawn broke too early,
stretching its scarlet, wet arms over her underwear,
spitting defiance in a rush of water soaking her feet.
On the way to the hospital,
she clutched her splitting stomach,
screaming and pleading to the impatient babe,
Too soon, too soon!
But he was too much Icarus;
too eager to reach the light.
Finally, when the doctors extracted what was inside her,
she heard no sound of a baby boy crying,
only a beeping monitor tracking the beat of an incessant heart,
Let me see him.
With cold hands,
the doctors presented