Wednesday, March 30, 2011

haiku #3: thanks

I'm really grateful
for the day that haikus were
introduced to me.

haiku #2: yay

class finished early
today so now I'm eating
small cubes of mango.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

riding the overpass

On the highway overpass
you can see half the city,
black boxes, shrunken fumes,
small silhouettes before the sunset.

It almost feels like something,
my insides almost flutter,
then I'm going down again,
stretching my neck to keep it.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

haiku #1: oh.

I won a donut.
Sweet, there is hope for my day
to rock after all.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

How old are you really?

I like your smile,
I like your hair,
I like you here.

I don’t like that joke you made
in combination with your
pretentious suit.

I didn’t know
that suit was pretentious
until you made that joke.

Well I can tell that you like
being here too,

and that you don’t like
all the rings I wear on my hands.

I wear them because
I don’t like the way my fingers look.

They wouldn’t look good
on your pretentious suit, either.

So we can continue to glare
at each other’s distracting apparel

or we can smile politely,
unfocus our eyes slightly
and part ways.

Or you can hold
my bejeweled hand
and unbejewel it,

I’ll grab your tie
and untie it,

Let’s
come of age
together,

Let’s
take the stairs instead.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

a shakespearean sonnet in iambic pentameter (hopefully, or else I will not get an A). "A Vacant House"

The dusty floor has been unswept for years,
Ceramic tiles once pearly white now grey,
Or yellow with the small, round stains of tears;
Dried flowers, mold; the drinking cups decay.

They say she doesn’t live here anymore,
They never look this way when walking by;
Outside, the grass sways long and limp and poor;
The grass, the paint, the walls – the tears are dry.

A field nearby, below a patch of soil,
His bones, her hand, forever intertwined;
She curls her fingers; milk begins to spoil,
She stares, she holds a glass of acid wine.

At night she’ll leave her chair to close the door;
They say she doesn’t live here anymore.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

What you took in the trunk of your car

I didn’t notice
how full the trunk was,
I was too busy trying to recreate
what my eyebrows do
when I’m upset,
And I was waving with Mom and Dad
to your shrinking bumper,
so every other second
all I could see was the back of my hand.

You’d packed a few things of mine,
accidentally.
Years later
when I stopped waving
at the bare horizon,
(I could’ve sworn
there was still a speck)
I really missed them.

Had I known then
that those things of mine
were rolling away from my life,
I would’ve chased your trail of smoke,
roaring,
jumped in through the passenger window,
wild,
but you’d have booted me out the door,
lest I crash us both.

You’d have zoomed on
towards the otherworldly sunrise,
you'd have left me there
on the hot charcoal asphalt,
dirty, without my things,
in hanging dust from spinning tires,
eyes watering.

But at least in that red,
bloody moment,
my eyebrows would’ve known
exactly what to do.