plastic

maybe the moon has us on a leash, that's why we stay out so late, giggling at mechanical cow rodeos and shit-talking the holidays (fuck christmas, give me a guiness.) i saw the sun set twice yesterday, once in the rain, along the 405, the sun looking like a shy goosebumped peach rolling side-by-side my car, quietly singing can't-touch-this-nyah-nuh-nuh-nyaaah at me, and another time, in the rain, on a plastic couch, her cigarette butt dying out as she leans in close, her chin fitting in the 3-inch space where my neck meets my right shoulder. whenchoo start smoking!, a friend says me. i think when i stopped sleeping, i sheepishly reply, with a goofy etch-a-sketch-grin. lung cancer, what i want for christmas is lung cancer.

i drag another one, and watch the smoke turn into elephants and jellyfish. a circus, it's a circus under my skin, a square dance to squarepusher set to a beat marked by the fibonacci sequence (square one, biotch.) what i'm saying is: i have no words, just pauses and breaks, a "..." and a "um" walking hand in hand out of my mouth.

sonic youth's "dripping dream."

i think the stars are singing que sera sera. and me, i just wanna shut em up with a sunrise. (ouch, cheesy.)

an 8.9 earthquake, the largest in 40 years, hit this morning. 10,000+ feared dead...

architecture for humanity

drown out that caroling

love (a tribute to natalie portman)
the kleptones' a night at the hip hopera

dope. it's like having shelly duval, dr. octagon, and vanilla ice home for the holidays.

scrawl

grew up here


now live here


one day end up here?



movement. not quite sure where, or how. but i'd like to go somewhere, soon, leave with nothing on me, except a toothbrush in my backpocket. ok ok, a toothbrush and a discman, but just one record though (digable planets - blow out comb) nothing else. ok ok ok, a toothbrush, a discman, a cd, and a book (of poems, mohja kahf's "e-mails from scheherazad," i want some voyagers dust on me shoulders.) that's it. no, some cans of soy milk too. but that's it.

strap a balloon onto my backpack, i need to go somewhere.

(aren't subway maps somethin? the colors are dope. the blushing red line are full of would-be lovers who don't dare introduce themselves to each other on train rides, the blue line are for the tired coming home late who like to sit by the window and look at the stars, the pink lines are defiant and show off tattoos of graffiti, the green lines got an identity crisis and wish they were a horse and carriage through the park, and the yellow lines... the yellow lines are for the asian americans who should ride the train for free, they built them railroads. word, jin, word.)

rubbersoul

a parent telling stories over tea and sugar:

"my colleague was in a restaurant in china with a client who made a fortune selling condoms to the chinese. he priced them at half the normal price and wanted to show my colleague that his products weren't the cheap stuff (no holes and all.) so he pulled out his condoms at the dinner table, opened them, and poured hot water in them. and he did it several times, with all sorts of condoms. soon everyone at the restaurants started looking at them, and my colleague started feeling embarassed. 'please put them away,' he asked, 'everyone's looking at us.' and the client goes, 'so what, we're at a dinner table! i'm just showing you food, see, here's the chocolate one, here's the strawberry one...'"

welcome home.

elastic

nursing a typhus in me nerves, kids, i got elastic bones, jumper cables in my blood stream. what can i say - i'm tired, been jogging my chest, trying to dodge the cracks above my heart, tiny holes carved by your departure. goin round and round, round and round.



i think, pavement is memory, this concrete's got grey matter, how its cracks are wrinkles, how every street corner must cry when people part on them. this street misses you when you're gone, it sings your name, through every electrical current beneath this city.

...

who says the right to love doesn't deserve a movement?

was something i needed to hear, just in time, a kiss against my ears like a car crash, something that left me drifting away with red wings. a night of poems that left me leaping out of my seat, nudging waiching next to me, yapping "say what??!! say that again!! BOK BOK BOK!!!"

poetry for the people, i miss em.

(but damn: the right to love needs a movement. desperately. from atrios, here's why: here and here ...)

i anchored my lips to a red balloon and off they went, perhaps to vietnam, to hue, where my mother is right now, clutching my grandfather body of dust close to her heart. she's bringing him home. i have a message in my cell phone inbox all the way from the home where my grandfather - papi - grew up, each word a little lost, its shadow long and thin. how did these words find me, all across the pacific ocean? did they wait until night and used the stars as a map? or perhaps they just caught a flight (a stop in hong kong), and arrived here, shaggy haired, grumpy and a lil jet lag. somewhere, she is throwing words at the ocean to me, skipping like stones under the night sky.

in other news: i got 40+ pages i need to trim down into a thesis. see yall in three weeks.