Upside Down

Can someone point me back to
Bethany and Main, the intersection
Where I seem to have taken a turn upside down
I run from the things I want
And towards the things I don't.
I express affection towards those I don't care about,
I don't write poems because I'm afraid of being disappointed,
I don't make friends like I used to.
I'm shy at the checkout counter, because
I feel I don't deserve food, that I am beggar with
Counterfeit coins. 
I ask girls I don't know out on dates,
Because the ones who I know are closer to compatible
Scare me,
And are harder to friend zone.

Come to think of it, I think I've
Put my life in the friend zone.
No passion, no passionate messes,
Keeps things simpler,
Which is important cuz the show must go on
(but we have to let the game stop?)
But devastating because I seem to have lost my heart.

It's 1:42 a.m.

It's 1:42 a.m. and I decided

To write a poem because

I want to be human.

Today was my sabbath and I didn't

Finish my work until 1:42 a.m.

I met my friend, I helped my friend,
I taught guitar to at-risk teens,

I went to the bazaar and bought eight kilograms

Of laundry soap because that was the only one of that brand they had.

I don't care; it was for my friend.

I like teaching literature class.

I like reading everything.

I say I'm a poet but I'm burning both ends.

So this is my "I hereby claim these lands."
A whimper for the old man.
A grasping flag in the sand.

It's 1:47 a.m.

I'm going to bed.

My Grandfather

Had a steer, that would come up to him
And plant his head in his chest.

Young Bobby would wrap his arms around his neck,
Clinging to the beast as it tore off across the pasture.

A sudden stop, and Bobby tumbles head-over-heels
Lanky limbs sprawling, grasping for orientation.

The steer laughs, comes over to the boy
Sitting there shaking his head,
And plants his head in his chest:
"Again," he says.

If

I am tired
And my eyes are shadowed plum purple

And I have neither time nor energy for writing poems.

At least I am a literature teacher.
And get to read William Carlos Williams
For a som or two.

Metalogue (1st Draft)

Metalogue

I guess I should write another poem.

Did you really think I needed another meta?

My life feels fake enough as it is.

I keep trying to write myself something I can believe in, but I'm

Not a playwright, just a poet, I'm not so good at round

Characters my parts are all bits and clichés:

The rogue, the romantic, the spazcase. 

The intellectual, the workaholic, the saint.

Even my tongue feels like fragments and my brain forgets how to work

In one language not постаянный, I'm kind of feeling like

I'm losing it I want to lose it so I can maybe find a different story.

There's no such thing as an unwritten life. 

My hands are so inkstained and I've been asking the

Author for a break, I'm not sure I like this play,

Everything a game, and even my mind is a stage

For the parts that I play: 

The hubris, the victim, the hero, the plague.

I've pulled so many rabbits out of this hat,

There's no magic left. 

Asking another girl if she'll run away with me,

Just to know if somebody really would think that about me.

And if you say yes, you obviously don't understand the irony or complexity.

You obviously don't understand that this is all just a

Game. 

I tried my best to go off-roading as soon as I got my career

card and my first life tile.  Skipped the obligatory pink statuary

In the passenger seat and I've made my own way.

All of my friends' lives look like atari 2D.  Even the ones I

Wist for.  They all seem...too easy.

Glass is incredibly malleable.  But if you really want to get

This kind of facet-age, you gotta eventually break,

The more pieces, the more surface area, to run your fingers over

A mile wide and a half-inch deep

I cannot feel because I feel everything.

I don't know if people understand that self-immolation, self-forgetfulness,

Feeling completely lost or immersed is the deepest longing inside of me

To step outside the mirrors and the out-of-body narration for a few moments and

Get lost in the moment.

I make mistakes so I can feel a little more surface area

I put my face in a book i don't like my face

It's seems like a little avatar for everyone else's crazy.

An icon of an idea that I've been steadily undermining and erasing.

And you still believe in me, didn't you notice the image was meant to be

Self-effacing. 

I don't actually talk like this.  No one would understand me,

ESL world.  Have my words atrophied? 

I remember when I learned to write letters, line upon line, cursive, but it

Seemed no one could read what I was writing.

I remember reading books instead of reading my life.

The tea leaves are green, yes the leaves were green.

Everything is stationaery, a stop waiting, a fancy script with some flowers.

I've started to stop seeing the point in flirting, started to see end games.

Everywhere end games, expiration dates, RIP, temporary

I'm home but I don't have any soulmates.

I'm home but I have to buy a visa every six months that says I have

The right to exist in this version of me.

There are any number of reasons they could deport me.

Today we saw a car crash the skidmark squealing like slow motion

As a small Toyota skidded all the way across the intersection to it's smashed

Hood destiny.  I almost stepped out into traffic twice, rubber-necking,

But Zhenya saved me.   She takes my breath away but even lust

And friendship seem distant and mundane. 

I'm not sure if my launch into orbit is scary or comforts me.

I'm liable to do anything, 

Chasing the wind cuz it helps me breathe.

It reminds me of a something, a feeling.

My Odyssey feels like a dick and jane,

My opus feels like a top 40 refrain

Identity is a con.

Story is a con.

Trajectory is for physicists.

I'm quite skeptical for being so skeptical of skeptics.

I do believe in a purpose for being but my card tricks

All seem the same, and even if I pick out yours,

It means I'm just good at manipulating. 

I should sleep more.

I can think more clearly.

I've got nothing left but a bunch of sticks strung together on

A page. 

i i i.

srsly?  

I hate selfies.

21st Century Nursery Rhymes (1st Installment)

Bang

 

Bang goes the bullet

Johnny's got a gun

Shoots up the school and

Everybody runs

Andy

Andy plays his video games

Til three o'clock in the morning

Lost his girl, dropped out of school,

But his stats are always soaring.

Miley

Miley, Miley

Young and gay

The girl next door,

Who sings and plays

Miley, Miley,

Young and gay

Someone took

Your clothes away.

You Stare, I'll stare back until you see me...

Today I wore my red and yellow striped shirt down the
Main street of Bishkek.
People stared with knowing looks:  foreigner, stranger,
Non-conformist.  Football fan.  Madrid.
I bought it because it was 2 litas at a thrift shop in Lithuania.
I like the colors, I like the way they scream life.
I know who I am.  Do you?  

Today I wore some tight thrift store khakis and my purse
Down the street in Atlantic City.
Some men yelled gay slurs out their car windows.
The purse was a gift from my sister, a memory of Guatemala, a place that
Changed my soul.  The khakis were the only ones that fit that day.
And I thought to myself, "how strange that you think you know my sexual behavior
patterns on the basis of my clothes."  I can't say that I can rightly say I'm
sexual.  I like girls.  I'd like to have sex someday.  But really ya'll?
I know who I am.  Do you?

Today I sat down on a curb outside the Hilton in downtown New Orleans.
I was so starved I couldn't wait to eat my styrofoam-tray dinner, and I wasn't about to
get the insulation and paint from my beard all over their pretty Hilton beds.
And ya'll stared at me with pointed looks saying "what are you doing here?"
"You don't belong here."  I had spent the day volunteering, cleaning up hurricane-wrecked houses.
When I finished my dinner, I stood up, walked through the Hilton to my room that I never would
Have purchased for myself, for shame of being such a casual consumer.
I know who I am.  Do you?

And you know what, it pisses me off that you ask me about Americans and
Where I'm gonna live and when I'm going home.  Like you know everything belongs
somewhere and you know where I belong.  But I am an American--I am a fifth-generation
immigrant, I mean, the last five generations of my family have migrated West and now
we've come full-circle back, I know who I am.  Do you?  And you know, it's not that
You notice I'm foreign, that's fine, it's not that you see that I'm a different kind. 
I've moved at least 15 times, I've never been normal in all my life.

But you get so caught up on what you think you know,
You don't look me in the eye.
 
And there's not a face that you meet,
famous or forgettable,
that's mundane, normal, or trite. 
Each one is human,
We all have our reasons,
We all have our faces and lies.

But man, look at a brother, when he's standing before you,
Cuz you know, he ain't a Jew or a Christian, a Muslim, a black man,
He ain't a man or a woman, a president or a preacher, a bum or a
Soldier or a kid with mental disabilities,
She's a human just the same as I am
He's a person worth looking in the eye.
A grandma worth hearing, just cuz God made her.
A boy with a light in his eyes.   

Dani

You were never long for this world.
You weren't even supposed to stick around this long,
The boy with the blue face, breathing heavy,
Every day was a gift, and I often wondered if
Today would be the day you wouldn't wake up;
It finally happened.

And you know, there's no questions of fairness,
We always knew you were a miracle,
That you were living on a prayer in
Extra time.   Your sisters spoiled you well;
Forgive me for trying to teach instead of holding you,
For pulling away when you would run your fingers through
My beard.

Little prophet, why were you sent to us?
How were we ever worthy of your presence,
When clearly you were meant for another world?
I imagine you yelling amen at your passing,
With the fervor you would shout out at that signal
That it was time to start eating.
  
I should've carried you on my shoulders a few more times,
That English word that you knew better than all the others, 
"Shoulders" because it wasn't enough for you to just ride piggy back,
You wanted to see everything.
I imagine that Peter, showing you to the throne, will
Smile in dismay as you ask the Father for the same,
Reaching out your arms "que me cargas."
And the Father will spin you, free from the worry that you
Might pass out, and your heart will be a great treasure that
He will show off to all of his dinner guests.

My shoes seemed like battle tanks on your little feet;
Now you will never grow into them,
On the contrary, it is I who hope to grow into yours,
To live with your joy and tenderheartedness,  to learn
To cry when I fall,
To smile with my whole self,
To ask for a hug when I need one,
And to lift my hands to the sky
And let my Father carry me home.



En español (Traducción con Adriana Polanco):  

Nunca estabas aquí para largo
Siempre estabas como el chico milagro
El chico con cara azul, soplando
Cada día un regalo, cada día estabámos pensando
Que es posible que este seá tu último...
Al final, sucedió.

No hay preguntas sobre la justicia aquí
Siempre supimos que eras un milagro
Respirando por oraciones estos últimos años
Tus hermanas te consintieron bien,
Perdoname por intentar enseñarte en lugar de levantarte
En mis brazos, Perdoname por enojarme cuando
Tú pasaste tus dedos por mi barba.

Profecito, ¿por qué veniste a nosotros?
No merecíamos tu presencia,
Claro, pues tú estabas creado
Para un mundo más allá.
Imagino que saliste de la vida con tu grito de "Amen"
Que siempre significaba "ahora vamos a comer."

¡Debí cargarte sobre mis hombros, mil veces más!
Sobre mis "shoulders", palabra que recordaste mejor
que las otras en ingles, porque caballito no era
Suficiente para ti, tú querías ver todo el panorama,
Imagino que Pedro, mostrandote el trono va a
Sonreír con un poco de vergüenza cuando te acerques al Padre,
Y digas lo mismo, estrechando tus brazos al cielo y preguntando
¿Qué me cargas?
Y el Padre te dará vueltas, sin miedo a que te desmayes
Y tu corazón será un tesoro que Él va a mostrar a todos sus invitados

Mis zapatos parecían carros de combate sobre tus pies pequeñitos
Ahora tus pies no crecerán más.
Pero yo espero algun día, poder ser de tu tamaño
Quiero vivir con tu gozo y gracía, aprender
Llorar cuando me caigo,
Sonreír de todo corazón,
Pedir un abrazo cuando lo necesito
Y levantar mis brazos al cielo
Y dejar a mi Papá cargarme a casa.