24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I miss chicken feet
I miss the various forms of chicken feet
Soaked in vinegar
Dim Sum style
Snack style
I miss the flavors of my cuisine
And the depth of our story
Retold
By the textures
Spices
Sauces
I miss Cantonese cuisine
Normal changed.
Everything is strange.
I want to scream.
Mom, dad, no longer here.
This wasn’t what I dreamed.
Normal changed.
Everything is strange.
Does anyone agree?
I once knew a caterpillar with two heads
One named Jeff and the other named Geoff
They would always want to head in different directions, but we’re stuck together
Like glue on a cold frying pan
Jeff was ever the optimist.
He would dream of leaving Geoff and going out on his own
Finding his own path before evolving into a beautiful butterfly and spreading his wings
Geoff’s outlook on life was so upbeat
He didn’t want to be left alone
He was happy sharing a body with Jeff, but he knew this wasn’t normal
No other caterpillars had two heads
Geoff was half responsible for that
Life wasn’t normal for Jeff and Geoff
But what would I know?
I’m a Lizard with two tongues
Summer. Time to prepare
For liquid influx. The concept
of weekends. No bearing on
Anything.
We curse the humid feeling of
organizing limited time. We think
of Fruit, and removing seeds.
Tedium.
The barbeque is cob-webby
and has rusty parts. I don’t think the
Steak will care.
Salmon is better. And it
makes the grates smell.
Outside where the grill lies
are furry things eating bugs.
Cute but snake-like.
The freshness of spring
Has changed to skunkiness. The rain
is never enough.
Very few monarchs. I join
A milkweed campaign. We need
more of just about everything.
But people.
My friends go camping. If you call it that.
Luxuries and electricity.
Blue Jays. Lost perspective.
They’re a real bird. Aggressive.
Catching squirrels. Re-location.
Cats, with testicles
That need removing. Despite the season
the news
hardly ever changes. We try not to be
selfish about Death.
French fries with Cajun spice
Malt vinegar.
Noisy air-conditioners. Not a breath
of fresh air.
Let me fuck
You wrong,
And treat
You right.
I’m sleeping
With a pillow
I could make
You bite.
And my wrist
Is fucked,
Cuz I hold
Myself tight.
When I go
To bed,
And miss you
At night.
The town is small.
No big store but many tiny ones.
Expensive for those that visit and rarely bought by those around.
A dock is at the park.
A large path going from one side of town to the other.
Downtown to uptown confusion.
Change happens and it is boring.
I don’t want to change this small, although safe little town.
i am haunted by humans*;
follow a trail of laughter
not my own on my way back
from work, eyes smiling
with the memory of the way
she stole my planner and
wrote ‘my birthday! ;)’ on
every wednesday except
for the one in the week of her
actual birthday, which fell
on a tuesday, of all days
i am haunted by humans
spill water down
my chin as i drink while
imagining his eyes as he
asks me how i’m doing
in my relationship with God
and i keep having to
say ‘i have a lot to work
on’ and he will tell me
‘it’s okay, it’s okay
me too’
i am haunted by humans
shoulders drawn up defensively
recalling th way she
stared at the side of my face
while scratching on the chalkboard
of my insecurities
with the sentence
‘i don’t think you are letting
yourself want this’ because i
wasn’t, still can’t let myself
dream of things it might
cost me a lot to keep
i am haunted by humans,
or better yet, how
they made me feel
how i let them in
just to push them
away when they
made me feel too much
i have only ghosts with
me, now
i have only spectres
following me around,
whispering of love behind
every corner, fata morganas
of the closeness i crave
dreaming of an oasis
is better than none at all
if i tell myself i am drowning
maybe i can forget my
sandy tongue
maybe i can forget
the thirst
*last line of ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusak
Should this poem be flippant?
Carefree?
Lazy?
Maybe funny?
Or should it be dark?
Depressive?
Full of death and anger?
Should this poem rhyme?
Should it sing?
Should the metaphors jump from the page
and run around the room?
Should this poem pull me into the grave?
Pull my grief outwards?
Until tears flow and my heart aches?
Must this poem be anything at all?
Can it just be itself?
Tired and muddy
Wordless and tone-deaf.
Why does a poem
Need to be anything at all?
The fallow must follow the fecundity
Grow
my darling
Verdant and riotous
Create
Vines of ink and harvest of words
Tend
Insights in untidy rows
Cultivate
Ideas round and sweet as melons
Gather
The sun ripened seeds of dreams
Then
Turn the earth
Tuck yourself in soil’s bed
Let your productivity
Rest
For season
Or years
Trust
The pale land
Will grow scarlet
With inspiration
Ready
To flower
Once more
Free-write
My hair has a mind if it’s own most days.
Unruly and hard to tame.
We’re a lot alike, my hair and I.
But I think we both look our best
wrapped in your fingers.