Obaasan

the doom of the pending day bullied

my every step  and my mind shot out in a million directions

the mist felt like blades on my face

while my untethered thoughts piled up like delinquent bills

i hung my head to look at my watch with quivery lip

and an angry heart    my tendons moved against me

in an instant i heard her call out my name and my name she called was “good morning”

i turned half way round straightening my frown as to not be maleficent in her space

the heavens did ring and my eyes caused to squint at the beauty of the ages

the halo around her small perfect bow as she cared for her bed of roses

and through my mind crossed the wisdom to know that she was an angel

post card to Jean-Louis

being raised in los angeles is indescribable born in the old la county general hospital with its beautiful antiquity is an unbelievable honor i drive by there almost daily sometimes three to four times per day a place so intimately familiar and so alien at the same time i love it so much a sick love it makes me want to run through the abandoned hall ways and burrow myself in the old phone booths and never ever come out again Jean-Louis have you been here and do you know that i want to fill my lungs with that old air it was founded in 1878 ironically my three favorite numbers 1 7 and 8 forty-four years before you came to consciousness i was born there in the 70’s and i haven’t really consciously checked out Jean-Louis is it possible to be a human ghost i am a charity ward alumni but in many ways those of us born here continue to love our city bitter sweet the nursery that birthed us and healed us with ticket number infamy we have paid and continue to pay one large ass never ending bill one that is paid day in and day out hey! Jean-Louis you bum tell me something kid blow the sax of time is not a sandwich and we travel through the Ozone of your most triumphant hours general hospital with its jubilant height and art deco facades sends shivers through my blood cells when i see it off the santa ana 5 beautiful and mean and powerful and ever loving with its chiseled arms going towards the sky like the baby Jesus of your catechism years i can only imagine you Jean-Louis wide eyed Dharma child on the knees of love and me as a child i was introduced to many medical machines and medications i played for hours with knobs and hoses and tools i was sickly but willful as most angelinos but i wasn’t a wizard  the hospital in my mind was a nation state with endless halls and sulfuric smells with the aroma of vending machine coffee and chicken soup like mother’s Yiddish parlor the shower rooms with white cold chlorinated tiles and the smell of latex too oh Jean-Louis even now i am conditioned to seek out these smells and no food is as good as vending machine fare now that i’m older i beat the gravel around Boyle Heights and look in wonder my child eyes and Converse sneakers have not really changed much probably because i refuse to lose sight of my cradle but Jean-Louis what does it mean to look all of your life for a granule of meaning and be told you are in God’s image and behold on top of a mountain there you are and while the pigeons pan for peanut shell gold i look at the horizon and the junk yards of the northeast beckon while i thumb through the pages of the oldest book                                  

Pharoah in the hizzle

the valley of the dead

on the corner of Fig and Expo

the dogs of relic wait

north bound Honda “fights the power”

east bound Bronco just another “renegade of funk”

in silent slumber

sandy bandages, myrrh and cinnamon

to mark their trails

headed to Jamba Juice, Starbucks and Nico’s

what will it be today Raiders or Dodgers

there to greet the substance

in the cloth with the threads

of desperation in costume of the

royal river where you were once

given away

351 E. Temple St.

i am tired.

the gray in the lining

of my soul is see-through.

my love is withered and

unresponsive.

no petals in my chamber

for my chamber is a street.

i am hungry and cold.

the fire in my spirit has

smothered its last spark.

the matches of life have

been stolen by proposals

regulations and copper pipes.

my feet no longer carry

dignity and strength.

my arms no longer capture

me at my disgrace.

i am numberless in the

bar code of the beast.

one tear at a time

the curtain flaps in the clumsy breeze

my heart beats down

the coolness of the aging day

appears to release the hope evading me

it is alright now

i accept what came and went

in the treks of time today

my face has become stronger

the longing has receded like the curtain

in that room where history is made

and played out in my head

one tear at the time

green gown

the nature is at work today toiling in her green gown purple tip toe slippers amongst the mighty pillars made of timber underneath the carpet of it all with the millipedes and bumblebees across the shadows are the rays of light igniting warmth coming from the heavens as mother floats upon the ferns who reach up asking for a kiss of dew awaiting for her nurture

mad house

in a mad house i shoo my heart away

i don’t know why      i stay

in the hope that you will feel

or think in your head to

need me

the yellow of the walls

suffocates me; I get held

down against my will

but it is not yellow

it is           dimness and fear

i see a tender brook out

of my third eye window

and the idea that i could

be free                  is unsettling

for letting you go

means being without

in my head i look into

my eyes and i see empty

inky dread         such a quick sand terror

in the night where did you go

from me

                        madness at all hours

stuns me; soothes me; makes me weep

cruelty beyond           all naturalness

of human spirit

the cell is silent              

the day is        come

the brook is                 muddy

mi naturaleza

llego

el

tiempo de

verme como soy

un humano de hueso estelar

caminando por los caminos indebidos con pasos tímidos

hasta el templo de la antigüedad donde todos los secretos mueren en silencio

y en la lucha yo contra yo no entiendo mi naturaleza deseo volar con halas de ángel pero solo soy hombre

y en la decisión de amar o odiar me tropiezo y con furia levanto mis manos para el rostro de la santidad golpear con puños destructivos que no me llevan al cielo más alto

no me sirven los pies para llegar al lugar bendito y mis pensamientos navego a lugares fríos donde no hay luz

este día suplico tener permiso de entrar a la casa de mis madres

y que mi espíritu sea nutrido por sus

consejos medicinales donde ya no

sufra mi alma

y descanse

en

paz


minha natureza

chego

o

tempo de

veja-me como eu sou

um humano de osso estelar

andando nas estradas erradas com passos tímidos

para o templo da antiguidade, onde todos os segredos morrem em silêncio

e na luta eu contra mim mesmo eu não entendo minha natureza Eu quero voar com halos de anjo mas eu sou apenas um homem

e na decisão de amar ou odiar Eu tropeço e com fúria eu levanto minhas mãos para a face da santidade atingida por punhos destrutivos que não me levam ao mais alto céu

meus pés não me servem para alcançar o lugar abençoado e meus pensamentos eu navego para lugares frios onde não há luz

hoje peço permissão para entrar na casa da minha mãe

e que meu espírito seja nutrido por sua

conselhos medicinais onde você não está mais

sofre minha alma

e descanse

em

paz


my nature

the

time

of seeing

me as i am

a human of stellar bone

walking on the wrong paths with timid steps

to the temple of antiquity where all secrets die in perfectly still silence

in the fight i against myself  i do not understand my nature wanting to fly with angel wings i’m just man

and in the decision to love or hate i stumble and with fury raise my hands to the face of sanctity hitting with destructive fists that do not take me to the highest heaven

feet don’t serve me to reach the blessed place  my thoughts I navigate to cold places where there is no light

this day begging to have permission to enter my mothers’ house

and may my spirit be nourished by their

medicinal advice where my soul

will not suffer

and rest

in

peace

jarhead

as a babe i was never the tender one in the infancy of the developing footsteps of the mind i was just a soldier trained and not raised for raising would mean a coup at some point i was rather just a little girl kid lost on the floor of Grand Central Market amongst the watch towers of produce foxholes of spices grenades of chow mein and old man coffee napalm Kurtz was at every corner and my bayonet still could never hook the salmon filets embalming in the smoky mist of downtown bus pollution of course not being an heir of Grant or Lee i fell back in the back of most everything but my duty was not to keep score but rather lead the budding anarchy of my Phoenixian heart