on kibbee street

;boots

;1hour photo

;italy talks

;shake shake

;happy hour

;video games

;screw top wine

;drat

sunlight

morones boys

a collection

also, merry christmas

evelyn pt. II

putting on a pot of
coffee at eight.
scraping dried glue
from underneath
my fingernails.
making loops with
my hair.
starting a book
together. reading
robert bly and
greek tragedy.
getting epiphanies
in the car for the
play to be staged.
'two actors, facing
forward...'
giving things ordinary
names. happy for
christmas lights
and funny shaped
trees and thinking
'it was just spring
and i was glad for
the sun to be showing.'

evelyn pt. I

come hither, again
i'm painting now
i'm stringing a web
in my fingers
i'm drinking
coffee and sitting
on the couch for hours
i cut bangs in my hair
i always wear a bun
and large sweater
i blow my nose
i file my nails
i'm staying up late
and sleeping in
dressing in black
running around
running my tongue
along my coffee teeth
i eat slices of bread
run my fingers along
the crusty edges of my
eyelashes in the morning
prop myself up with
a pillow, saying good morn

sing loudly

climbing up one side of a gnarled, twisting tree
just to get to the other side, a ribbon purple sky
and waving hands out there of ones who were
never told to cry.
a flag in the air of one, a red rag grasped in the
fingers for to scream of the rage.
a scream of a whisper of a yelp of a plea
not to screech but to inform of a voice
not usually heard of a face not usually seen
of a life not usually known or been
to the other side.
a flower turned inside out on the
fancy table plate for the selected ones.
looking through the bent back tulips
and not only seeing how the other half
lives but begging for it and how troublesome
that is. being current measures of success
are what we all dream for hope for scream
and scream and scream for.
leaning against the gnarled, twisting tree
scratched bark on our backs and rain
beginning to come only hoping to be
safe under the bare arms of a dead tree that doesn't
promise anything but whispering just to be.
heels digging in the wet dirt, toes
glittering with drops of dew, hands
bracing the earth held up by the strong
arms of a woman saying i will not apologize
for the advances made by my people i will
not apologize for demanding more i will not
apologize for making anyone feel
uncomfortable of my plight because
measuring how far we've come is sweet and pure
but it's not good enough anymore and
asking questions why why why?
why am i not paid as much as the man in
my office doing the same job who just bought
a new car? i have mouths to feed and trips
to plan because i've been dreaming of
the far away orient all my life why why why why
do i not deserve that as much as the
other? and why why why why am i crippled
like the crippling dead twisting tree
above me that i support my back upon?
crippled for to make the bills each month
each desire of mine getting further away
because i'm sorry i can' pay.
because i'm sorry honey, you're not strong
enough. i'm sorry honey, it's a man's world.
i'm sorry honey you're too pretty you're not
pretty enough. well man, you gotta stop
apologizing too because when did my
looks and the beautiful folds of my vagina
make me incompetent to handle what
you do? when did my hips and my
demeanor and the timber of my
voice mean i am less?
my daddy told me i deserve the best
and these best aren't giving to the
rest and rest can't rest because hell
it's a man's world out there.
but the ribbon purple sky doesn't
care who i am it rains on everyone
so let's take our lesson from the air
and breathe deeply, sing loudly,
thunder ravenously until every bone
and every foot and every head has
heard our voice, has felt our presence,
has needed us to survive, has respected
our product, who looks to us for omens
and wisdom and guidance and
strength and comfort.
sing loudly into the open violent violet
red rage sky until all is equal, until all
has passed, until apologies are no
longer needed and i beat on my
chest with a thunderous cry
we have overcome.

on a medicine wednesday

listening to led zeppelin and french music
looking out of dark windows, wondering,
big baggy shirts with large armholes
perfume and gilded mirrors standing
upright at the vanity.
my black, shiny asian hair
and my slippery long legs
in my big bed swishing in sheets
with books and clothes lying on top.
wearing stripey things and forgetting
to wash my face before bed.
looking up at george harrison and
thinking about gertrude stein.
having long and drawn out detailed
dreams about job interviews and
waterparks and walking on city streets
with no end.
being solitary and obsessing over my
next birthday and having the itch to
leave. tickets to streetcar and new
schedules and taking photos for
christmas always thinking about
church and eavesdropping on
conversations in coffeeshops
and thinking not much has changed
around here. someone will still
prescribe scripture to save my soul.
a cup of joe to set my head straight
again and a loving word from a
friend and telling myself be happy
be happy be happy be happy.