Modes of Transportation

I think it was Carlos Diaz in "The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" who said that the best way to get over pain was to transform it into literature. I'm thinking now that the literature has to be good to validate this claim. Anyway, Langston Hughes also said that he only wrote when he was really pissed off or upset and I find that it's difficult to write without these motivations. I mean, who really wrote a good testimony* when they weren't completely anxious or troubled anyway? Whatever. Along with some other emotions that aren't exactly accommodating to a successful blog, I'm both pissed and upset. There. I said it.


remember when
the airplane skirted the coast

to ask me my name?
it asked me my secrets

i answered and it fluttered away
along with my luggage

the next day it swam loops
but only when it slipped on a wave

i reached out my hand
as it flew from my touch

on stolen words to the only place it knew
to put to float in between bedrock of

unanswered phone calls along with
other types of uncertainty

to where roses are only red

and while seeking for sunrises over sunsets on a tilt
behind the footsteps that were never there to lose

the moon spoke to me gentle words

to forsake second chances along with
other types of hallelujahs

for how ugly hell must try
to upset meeting halfway

in a slow dance with the curtains on fire
as we smile the words we mean to say

watching your eyes close before mine
i have already lost you halfway

to where violets are only blue

whispering that this is not our flight
and that its okay to consider

the bus


*Excuse the inside reference. Speaking of which, some Korean dude asked me which church I grew up in and when I answered, he seemed extremely concerned. This, for some reason, makes me laugh.

Straining Oars

Have been having a really hard time trying to write something. Writer's block sucks. And when you're over it, you forget what it's like and think that you've never had it. Anyway, in the mean time, this is something I wrote a while back.

We, a quiet generation, wait for the signs of Father time’s affection.
Listening for resounding chords lost along tracks of windless waves
Rearranging cloud pieces if only for a moment’s worth of attention
And blow profiles in sand to reclaim stares surrendered to disheveled graves.

Listening for resounding chords lost along tracks of windless waves
I’ve seen this somewhere before, replaying tracks of bittersweet hope.
A descending vessel determined within unforgiving storms and rain,
Tearing numb white knuckles straining oars just to hear an unspoken note.

I’ve seen this scene somewhere, replaying tracks of bittersweet hope,
Awakened prematurely without anything to show from this equation.
Where we were young and drips of coffee in ceramic assured us our beliefs,
And without a moment’s notice watch faith turn fact from this indignant fiction.

Awakened prematurely without anything to show from this equation,
On the edge of our seats waiting to present this public display of perfection.
Waiting for permission to walk or run thinking greatness never questions,
We, a quiet generation, wait for the signs of Father time’s affection.