Hello, my dragons and dragon lovers!
I will be one of six readers for an event celebrating Asian and Pacific Islander Heritage.
The topic of the reading is Being Filipino and what it means to be Filipino.
If you are in the Seattle area on May 19th, please stop by. The event is free and will include an open mic at the end.
I hope to see all you lovely writers and readers there!
I see streets of gray, gray buildings too.
I see them grow around me and you.
And I think to myself:
What the fuck is this shit?
I see skies of gray and clouds of gray, (wtf!)
the wet windy day, the cold ass night,
and I think to myself:
What the fuck is this shit?
The colors of the pavement, so ugly on the ground,
are also on the faces of people screwing around.
I see addicts shooting up, saying “Do you want to fight?”
They’re really saying, “I’m high as a kite!”
I hear babies crying, I watch them bitch.
There’ll be more crying when their dad cracks the whip!
And I think to myself:
What the fuck is this shit?
Yes, I think to myself:
What the fuck is this shit????
First things first… Do not take out two sticks of butter from the fridge. Never do that. Butter is the gateway to bad times.
Okay. So you took out the butter. Even though I said not too… Okay. We can work with this. Just put that bowl of butter boldness back into the fridge and we will be okay. Just step go to that bowl and … Wait what are you doing with that fork… No stop! Put down that sugar!
Now look what you went and done did. You ruined perfectly good butter with sugar. What do you have to say for your…self… No! No! Put that down now!
I didn’t mean for you to put it into the… You know what? No, this is okay. You wasted butter and sugar and cinnamon but that’s okay. We can fix this. What? You also added vanilla? What is wrong with you? Go and throw this bowl of cinnamom sugar sin away. I’m going to go lie down and this bowl best be gone by the time I come back. God. Now my head hurts like a mother…
Okay, I am back and I thought it over. Maybe I was beong too harsh. I just know you are going through a lot so I wanted to make sure you didn’t … make… bad…
What is this?!?!
I can see that the bowl is gone and why does the house smell like a bakery!
No I don’t want to try one! Argh!
No. No. I’m out! Have your toasted cinnamon sins! I’m out!
You left concave shapes
scattered around the house
molds filing up with my tears.
I keep fine fibers
of you – hair strands, sock lint, dust
-warm in my pocket.
I wash the canvas
bleeding bruised blues into black
dripping drops of white
onto purple yellow bursts
attempting to capture you.
The tanka (or waka) is a classical Japanese poetic form, typically consisting of five lines or units (lines in the Romanized forms). Each line or unit has a specific number of syllables, creating a total pattern of 5-7-5-7-7.
Much like a haiku, the form appears simple. However, brevity is often easier to digest than it is to create. Moreover, the goal of any tanka is to create a specific picture and mood within the reader’s mindscape. The previous poem I wrote for the blog was a tanka. If you feel up to it, give it a try in the comments or link me to your own tankas. I’d love to read my reader’s works.
The taste of nickle
fills my mouth as I put on
my bulletproof vest
over my Superman shirt
and kiss my mother goodbye.
