Thursday, 05 November 2009
-
I present: a five minute poem.
"Tiredness"
War is upon us,
boys.
Suck blood and breathe,
breathe! Inject yourselves,
infect yourselves, and spasm!
In a frenzy of rhythm, I
demand that you drink
from me and produce movement!
War is upon us, who are one.
We, who are proud!
Tug the bone strings tight,
I will command quick changes
in direction
and prepare for impacts.
Predict them!
And drink more of my
red oxygen.
Contract and release at
microsecond's timing.
Please
listen closely to
the myelin lines.
This is in your
striated memories, No!
I won't take
your acidic monomers,
What have you become?
You've done this before,
dammit!
Friday, 05 June 2009
-
The Feminine Divine
I think modern civilization should to revert back to goddess worship. The mother goddess, the earth, and the enigma of childbirth have been celebrated by penis-wielding troglodytes since they first walked the earth. For millenia upon millenia the human race revered the holy cervix. The milk-givers and seed-taker; the original holy trinity- a map of the female figure. Sex was intertwined with love and spirit. Why are sexually repressive religions so popular these days? I haven't a fucking clue.
To Gaia, Ishtar, Yemaya, and Oshun.
Albina, Astarte, Freyja, and Mami Wata.
May men love you, adore you, respect you, and stick the dick to you.
Monday, 01 June 2009
-
The Juice
"Borinquen Bruce"
There are days when I've got the juice- the primordial fucking ooze of the soul. When that shit is on high tide I walk around all day with mean squinted eyes and furrowed brow, bobbing my head and licking my lips like an old school New Yorican hipster.
Back in Rio Piedras they called me "El Chino". Note the prefix, "El"- my testament for being the only little Chinese boy living in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Kids assumed I knew karate and kung fu. I spoke rapid Spanish with a Chinese accent, had fistfights on the school roof, and listened to live Salsa bands at night backed by the rhythms of maracas and gunshots from local drug gangs down the street. I had transitioned from Communist ghetto to soulful ghetto. And then suddenly I was living in fat, white, U.S. suburbia. Wait, no- the yellow model minority suburbia. Kids assumed I played piano or violin, spoke softly the perfect English, had a small dick, and was socially adept to their culture of subtle drama, cliques, and popular conformity. And I tried, I really did, to be just like a second generation Taiwanese suburban American, and play to their social games, and act proud of how properly we emulate white culture, and react to the "outside" world with sneering amusement. I partly succeeded faking my way into that circle, I admit... but every once in a while came the day when I had the fucking juice.
I needed to get loose.
I found a part of myself in b-boying and I was ghost, adios, gone.
Thursday, 28 May 2009
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The Night Breeze
On particular days my equilibrium goes cruising for a bruising. My mood falters, poisoned by trivial matters, some rejection, some past failure. It is then that I remember a gentle night breeze, sharply dressed in smoky downtown flavor and packed with the rich sound of timbales and the singing of Roberto Roena. I think back to the rooftop- empty except for only our dancing shadows and the distant gaze of the beautifully lit emblem of Austin. I am reminded again of what's important in life; the feel of concrete on my hands, the presence of choice exclusive companions, and the exhilaration of my art setting alight what's left of my Puerto Rican childhood latin strut. This is the time when I remember who I am. This is the time when the bullshit doesn't really matter. This is the time when I miss the city of Austin.Concrete session from 2008 in Austin TX.
