the kumquat is the smallest citrus

small &
raw
dangling
green,
halfway formed
deceptively
pretending

just by looking you can tell
the taste
in your mouth now
would cut
your tongue

but maybe one day
you'll say
fuck it
to falling
and climb the tree,
reaching for orange

you’ll peel it apart,
sweet skin and all,
suck and then softly
spit
a word
not meant to be
said
out loud

parking lot poetry

because i'm cheap, i park my car at a hypermarket (an inflated version of the supermarket) across from work. it's called tesco lotus, which used to be 1/2 owned by the tesco chain from the UK and then the lotus is probably just to make it sound asian or something.

i get my coffee at a cafe called "au bon pain," which seems out of place among the other B/C offerings. it's weird to think about people and products in letters not so different from letter grades we used to get in school. everyone is an A, B, C, or D with a + or - in between. nobody is a failure if they've got the buying power.

every evening at the north (?) end of the parking lot a bunch of people gather for government-sponsored aerobics. there is a makeshift stage for the instructor and bumpy techno music. the receptionist at my office often joins them in the back row. late at night in the same spot the kids bring out their motorbikes and do tricks. then later they go racing in the streets. some probably die before the night is over.

once i saw high school or junior college kids practicing their act possibly for some school talent show or competition after the aerobic ladies had cleared out. they surrounded a piece of cloth, each holding a portion and waving it up and down against the wind as they moved in a circle--sort of like that parachute exercise from PE class when you're a kid--as some of their friends in all-white uniforms watched from the back of pick up trucks parked nearby.

once when i parked and got out of the car, an old man came up to me and asked if my car ran on a lot of gas. at this point, the paper towel around my coffee cup fell and i bent down to pick it up. when i stood back up, he had already scurried away.

long day short night

left work
this morning

almost hit
a dog
and a cat,
a kitten rather
on the way
home

as always, flashed
back
to trolley park
tennis ball
thud
dent
and then
teeth & foam
convulsions
is he still alive?
i may never find out
she said
it was her fault

called sleepy
spain
set alarms
for wake up
calls
stayed awake
for no reason

brb
see you
soon

two drafts

a lot of blanks

figuring out the distance

between

what you want

and

what is expected

of you

i want to do

what i want to do

now

it's why i sometimes do things

alone

golden goose

golden goose
(title by tkk)

i once thought there was actually a 

pot of gold

at the end of the rainbow

but the last night i drove through one

at the end of it, was just the simply the start of 

the wet rain-slicked road

when santa claus came every year in his fire-engine truck

with dancing elves that 

looked a lot like the kids from the nearby 

middle school pizza hut on the corner

mom told me that santa claus wasn't real,

but who could deny the white bearded man

outside my window that night that i thought

i was going to pillowland

and land fueled of fantasy and wonderful

and my own bedroom

if golden goose feathers were good luck

then i might have a pillow full of them

sticking my dreams between the soft dawny wings 

of my sleep

storing them away from the haters and takers of the world

keeping them for that harsh winter of sleep

where all the conscious negativity seeps in

building winged fortress around me

protecting slumber and secrets.

--ann

hey

i once thought that crying was a form of hurtness
of tears shed
of smeared eyeliner
of that dry heaving that happens after you cannot cry anymore
the pooling saltiness that pools at the edges of your pillowcases
i found myself in front of a mike today
crying out
in quite a different form
"chained" i cried, "chained" i cried
chained at the ankles
heartstrings chained
lives chained
unable to leave and go anywhere else
no room for growth
chained we cried, chained
shackled 
tied up
twisted up
arms legs a sweaty head
chained
is there escape
or relief
or freedom
or simply feeling chained is enough
to make one cry
out

click to heart

there are street corners i know
like the wrinkles & moles on my hand
but only in photographs.
snap
and i've got those balconies
down to the flaps that neighbors let down
to shield themselves from the rain.

i'm looking at someone else's photos,
newly conceived.
it's something i indulge in
sporadic
vicarious
nostalgia.
nobody's ever going to say
they never felt that
good.

and maybe we just gotta make our own
romance
pull teeth, make way
say it over and over again
but it ain't over
till you say it's over
even then.

where were you last happiest
as yourself
and with whom?

waiting

I once waited for 
you to walk in
from a night of drunkness
reminding me
of stale beer cans
of burnt cigarette butts
of passions that fell silent
to the criticisms of all the rest
of the audience

i once waited, but i no longer do
because i am changed
and have no more reason
to have my emotions
torn up in a blender

-------------------

period

skipping a day
feels now like skipping
my
.
and i know that something should be happening
but nothing is/was

leftovers

they burnt tires that fumed black above clouds
then broke ranks and smashed
windows, threw flames.
if there were guns &
bombs, we heard but did not see
them, just leftovers of electricity
last week. it was
a struggle.

memorizing

quickly now,
before work
i want to spit it out
in your hot soup
as you scream for service
that you pay for,
that pays for me to live
in houses that are way too affordable
but i'm thankful
for any sort of employment nowdays
even if its memorizing who gets
ice in their water
or the numbers of vegetables
or the last name of the ten million melissas
its just 10 dollars for every hour of labor
that i sweat out
but at least this time around
i'm getting paid for all the bullshit
that goes down in the kitchen
and somehow
i keep falling for these traps.

create our own

my feet hurt
we've ran so far they squeak
and you tied us in sneakers all day now
even in the woman's shoes
that you found in the garage this afternoon
high and deep down in a box
as you clean
you unearth more and are forced to spread it all around
we stirred the spagetti
even though your throat was sick
and i wanted to hug you
but you were too worried and stressed to care
but you did yesterday
because we told each other that it was important
all the steps are in order
we follow it
and create our own

if only i could find my cellphone charger...

tuck

i exist
so that i may see
texture
that would have escaped my view
if my head was buried in the ground
worms crawling in my ears
burrowing through my eyes
blindly me from my own ignorance

the light that burns is better than one that is dim
i squint to see your face
hidden amongst the shadows of the wall
your body almost invisible as it tucks itself into crevices
but we ignite the darkness
the candle burns away anything that is hidden
tucked into crevices
buried into ground
burrowed away
and blinded

yes, the light swallows it up
gobbles up anything dark
slithery,
slimey,
and hidden,
presenting the truth.

why how could you deny this:

the seen
and exposed
skin
in the sunlight.

--amisa

a little over a year ago i wrote this poem:

retail therapy (2 for 1)


at the mall
banners advertise
monthly sales
in politically relevant
colors, such as red
top & yellow
bottoms, blue
backgrounds & white
text--bold
but still
hard to read

it's like Superman in the shape &
form of a celebrity
flapping
gently in the wind




we don't need no
yellow no
red if
shoppers can save
the nation



today this poem is suddenly true. on my facebook newsfeed, i'm suddenly seeing posts about "shop to save the nation" programs all over the city as a result of the latest bout of civil unrest.

maybe retail therapy really is the best form of healing for some crises.