We Never Buried My Umbilical Cord

I.
I like the saline taste
when I’m hiding under hospital sheets
pulling the i.v. needle from my broken vein
and sipping the bittersweet solution desperately.

My mother idealized me
and when I woke up
having deconstructed my mask
with cocaine and alcohol
I thought I had lost myself
but I am just a name
never having known my arm
from the Chagall paintings in LACMA.

I was only a slightly innocent child.

II.
Dad and I came home at 10.
He had sword wounds
and I marveled at his injuries.
His purple bloody fingers
made me proud.
Sifu would give me chocolates
to make up for this
as I watched Dad flirt with a student.

As we drove to Korea Town
in his white convertible
we listened to the Beach Boys
and I thought he loved me
like other Dads.

He wanted to teach me skills
and keep a distance
while loving me.
I was his black belt in training.
We ate junk food together
and had dinner with his mistresses.

I think the lawsuit fucked
our fake family over.
His half-secrets were revealed
and he fled to Europe
leaving rich gossip stories
for America’s Chaos Theory community.

I was taken from Los Angeles suburbia,
my silk worms, snails, pool and backyard
and brought to a place of disordered chaos.
Dad refused to buy pots and tables,
content to sparsely furnish a flat
with few reminders as possible.

He’s still there
and now that I am older
I miss the days we dined
with his many women.

I visited one in Boston
wearing his hopeless promise
and I don’t think she knows
he’ll never change.

III.
Samantha was a model
of grace and beauty
but we all get a little nicked eventually.

Bipolar evenings spent
shrieking at the pooling puddle
of blood on our bathroom floor
reminded me of my grandfather
shooting the coon hounds next door.

I was immobile when
my mother called the ambulance.
We spent an evening listening
to the shrieks of a man
in the next hospital room
and trying to calm
the permanent nerves we acquired.

I can’t look at blood.
It conjures memories
of white coats,
chinatown mental institutions,
driving with Daniel for my daily visit
equipped with Pocky
and the intense anxiety
that everything will be wiped clean.

Nothing is permanent
and everything will be taken away
as I lay still on my bed,
imagining myself kicking and screaming.

IV.
I remember crawling
up an ivy hill
at the Los Angeles Zoo.
I crossed a wooden bridge
in the meadow
listening to my sister call my name
but I didn’t return.

Canpainger

Campaigner

I have campaigned for rain
and the feeling of my palms on cold metal.
I watch a man spit and
gaze at its puddle as he walks away.
I perform this task every day as I drink my coffee
on the linoleum floor.  
Basic bodily functions become a wonder
because I have nothing else.
Shitting, pissing, eating, sleeping
is all that is comprehensible.

My words used to conjure something other 
than an empty pitcher of wine.
Now, I only say what is necessary
and rely on recyclables for inspiration.
Broken toilet paper rolls found behind the trash can
become loudspeakers as I quack through them
and Jameson bottles become vases
to show off my sophistication.

Sometimes all I can do is loaf in a stairwell
and stare at the uneven grey paint.
I am not a human being but a repetitive fool
jesting my addictions into tragedy.
I don’t think anything can make me new.

Unreal City

Unreal City

I.

Through half-concealed windows

They climb,

And stumble into unfurnished rooms.

Do you have a problem with emptiness?

This world is scant,

And can control itself.

And walking among the dead is our hobby

And difficult sleeps.

We think of the swift movements

Which slowly deface you.

But perhaps I am falling

Slowly,

And move throughout the walls

Choking on corpses.

II.

I wander through the thinking room,

And stare at a lone signature.

Hands were told to forge it

But,

You can only write your name.

You will never understand his movements:

Masochistically draining blood from his soul,

And spreading it hopelessly on the canvas.

III.

She said her line in complete understanding

While his hands recreated the world

He thought he knew already.

But why have they come here?

Why have I come here?

What lies before our mouldered eyes are projections.

IV.

I looked into blue bowls

And lost myself.

Fragments created shapes

Where bronze men bang against walls,

Stiff from manipulation.

We find ourselves staring at grey blurs,

Desperate to seek discernable shapes.

These came at noon

And brought death.

V.

‘I just thought I could gain what I lost.’

VI.

‘Do you think business men are really like that?

People in incredibly small suits,

With bashed heads?’

No one ever died.

VII.

Middle class embassy:

‘Temple, temple!’ they shout,

Scatter their flesh,

Bow before the altar,

And reveal the almighty pig.

VIII.

During a surreal chapter

I extinguished my mind

Under the bridge.

No one followed suit,

So I wiped the floors

With their dirty rags.

It became grotesquely clean.

When Wordsworth came to me

Lain upon a table,

He was unable to close his eyes.

He turned to me

And said,

‘You’ve stepped beyond the line

And now you must forget reality’.

..........................................................

I wrote this poem during a particularly surreal weekend in London. It was my AS Level English class's weekend trip. A weekend of theatre, poetry writing past midnight, wine, talking to teachers about human connection while drunk on wine, sneaking out of my hotel room after 2 am and ending up laying in the grass in front of the Natural History Museum, museums and the forever insistent voice of a teacher repeating, "None of this is real! London's a stage." By the end of the weekend I believed him, and returning to Bristol on the coach was one of the worst crash's I've experienced.

Treat Your Mother Right

I was watching an educational video made by Mr T last night at around 4 am. It was entitled "Treat Your Mother Right". Lately my own mother, as I've been staying with her during my winter break, has been upset over my lack of concern for her as an individual. I leave my shit all over the sofa/coffee table which have become my "room" since I've been back from college. It's not unusual to find a bathing suit bottom or two or even a pretzel wedged between the seat cushions of the crazy floral sofa she inherited. I do agree with her. I'm just selfish in my own pursuit of comfort. So, you're probably thinking this is a random and rather dry first post but it's late and I have been waking up at 3 pm for over a week and I rarely know what day it is. So that's first excuse. My second excuse is that I am in L.A right now and don't return home to NYC in 2 weeks, thus, I am bored and becoming a vegetable without the constant stimulation of my city. Anyways, I'm coming full circle back to Mr T right now. I think I could learn a lot from him to repair some of the flaws in my relationship with my mother. If I were a badass ex-bouncer who was in D.C Cab, wears amazing gold chains, tube socks, denim cut-offs, and sports a mohawk, my mom would think I were too awesome to tell me to clean up my shit.