Tag Archives: sonnet

san-shin and kwang-ho at the spa in jangsan

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

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He took a stone’s face. He took a rock’s face.
Now when I’m out walking in the mountains
I do not know what he looks like. The grace
I called love has left me. There were thousands
of souls here. His face was not one who passed
me. I first spied San-shin at a hot springs
up near Jangsan. Knobby old man with vast
balls. He laughed at my ignorance of things.
Mountain gods like sex rough. For a whole week
I went around with lockjaw. But he tired
of me, or maybe I wasn’t up to
his hard transcendental standards. His peak
is bare. The cold god I once desired
thought that I was only good for a screw.

* * *

Note: In the Korean peninsula, San Shin is a mountain spirit venerated in both Buddhist temples and by local shamans. To say he is the embodiment of a mountain top fails to capture his true meaning, for all peaks in Korea are considered sacred spots for the gods, which might account for the large number of hot springs and spas that claim to be the personal favorite of San Shin.

lady cixi’s dumb boy toy

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

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“It would be useful,” the ghost then told me,
“to learn Chinese.” “Why?” “Because a kept boy
needs to be able to whisper bawdy
words while making love. English will annoy
mistress to no end.” Being the consort
to the Empress Dowager’s over-sexed
ghost was not easy. It wasn’t the court
robes or growing out my queue; nothing vexed
her as much as her pet “foreign devil”
being sloppy in obscene pillow talk.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì! I wanna cum!” Regal
cheeks spread wide, taking in all of my cock.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì!” Cixi ordered her dumb
boy toy, “– I wanna cum! — I wanna cum!”

* * *

Note: Empress Dowager Cixi, of the Manchu Yehenara clan, was a powerful and charismatic woman who controlled the Manchu Qing Dynasty in China for 47 years, from 1861 to her death in 1908.

According to Google translator, 我想暨 (wǒ xiǎng jì), translates as “I wanna cum.” I’ve yet to cross check it so if anyone with better Chinese skills than me knows please let me know.

 

sleep on the dissection table

11 Monday Feb 2013

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One day when you’re good I’ll show you my Y
shaped scar cutting my chest, my clavicles,
sternum and heart all in half; that which lies
in me is now on display. My devils
make no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross stitch hurts but keeps my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
sleep on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
is a pain. really. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Inside me the hiss
and whir of dark science makes me neither
god nor a monster; not even human.

la petite mort is such an odd thing to say

08 Friday Feb 2013

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There is starlight and strobe in my bloodstream.

With my thumb I blend them in. The Red Queen’s
kiss is good to ward off a hex. To dream
about a pound of Amsterdam pure means
you think about the Netherlands a lot,
that and weed. I dream about my fingers
on your ass, in your hair, licking your spot.

When I dream of war my strap-on-sisters
make great generals. My kitties in cuffs
become brutal sword-swallowers. Queenly
soldiers stretched across my bed; these girl toughs
never suffer from post-coital ennui.

Why blue? Orgasms should make us all strong,
wanting more, unless you’re doing it wrong.

come collector of stories

08 Friday Feb 2013

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tell me your story

tell me your story

* * *

Far, far away in big cities poets
write and write about the horrors of war.

Let me tell you: in a valley of huts
lies a body. Monsoons and grass made tar
out of him, sticks and bones. After the crows

I come, collector of stories. Green vines
covered him, lilies in his mouth. Who knows
how long he lay there; alien skylines
tell us so little. I whispered his name.

He rose, all weed. I took him by the hand
to my tent. I won’t tell what he said. Shame
should be no one’s legacy. He cried sand,
moaned dirt. War, like love, is all in the head.

Perhaps you will get it, just like the dead.

before i was even born

08 Friday Feb 2013

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Between brasa whispers and nuzzlings
your rough hands hold my hips close and coax me
against the wall, against you. This youngling’s
cock tip — nudges — your up-turned cheeks. Easy.

In thrall. You were once Elaine Brown’s lover,
working on the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast
for the Children program. I call you “sir;”
you say I’m your “boy bitch.” Often aghast
I squirm under such words. Language ruins
it all. The night is full of blood and chrome

and ghosts. Sweaty and writhing, my pale horn
touches your cervix. I have a virgin’s
greed for you. You, who are my honeycomb
fire, at war before I was even born.

Notes:

Brasa is Spanish for “live coal.”

Elaine Brown is a prison activist and former head of the Oakland chapter of the Black Panther Party; ran for the Green Party presidential nomination in 2008.

after “it” happened

07 Thursday Feb 2013

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It was hard in the beginning, of course.

Getting her up, the feedings, the wipings.
“Let me die,” she’d beg me, full of remorse.
I don’t blame her. I bought her silk stockings
for her four stumps. She hated them, at first.

Three years after “it” happened she started
to smile. She stopped saying that she was cursed
on her sixteenth birthday. I french braided
her hair and we went everywhere. We’re fine
down in the stream near the village. She rests
in my embrace. Peace is being buoyant.

She still won’t talk about “it;” the landmine.

At night my tongue finds her, teasing her breasts,
her lips, her clit, with love, raw and urgent.

* * *

Note: after three decades of war Cambodia has well over 40,000 landmine amputees, 75% of which are children. In 2012, the Cambodian Mine Action Centre (CMAC) estimated that there might be as many as four to six million mines and other pieces of unexploded ordnance still unaccounted for in rural Cambodia.

lay your head here

07 Thursday Feb 2013

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It is snowing. The serpent that lives up
in the air must be cold. I feel sorry
for that serpent, for all snakes; snake worship
being out of style now. But the sleepy
serpent that lives in the air is my friend.
I’ll go and invite her in. In her maw
she holds all the hatred humans pretend
is high, mighty and righteous. The outlaw
knows a little of this. It is snowing.
Serpent, come down. Coil yourself in my bed.
Sleep the winter away. I am fluent
in old parsel tongue. Girls night in, laughing
the long winter nights away. Lay your head
here. Relax, Manasa, my dear serpent.

ghost dreams

07 Thursday Feb 2013

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ghost dream 1

ghost dream 1

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 4

ghost dream 4

A ghost is born naked, squinting and glum.

There is no mother to catch it, nothing
to cling to with a tooth, a toe or thumb.
There are no older siblings for learning
the ways of the night. If you can hear bats
sing you can hear ghosts sigh. Few ask, what’s wrong?
ask how the day went? What paramour chats
with a ghost — tea and laughter — all nightlong?

I don’t resent this coming to an end.
Now when I sleep I hide in a wall crack
and my face is modest. I don’t resent

rebirth; finding out that ghost dreams depend
on how forgotten we’ll become; flashback
to when we thought we knew what alone meant.

ghost dream 6

ghost dream 5

on the other side of that glass

06 Wednesday Feb 2013

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Some say our lives are what gets reflected
in our mirrors. How unsatisfying.
What small dreams. I can’t taste another’s blood
in dreams. I wake up without the scarring
I earned on the other side of that glass.

There is something sick about that, children
playing as gods. I can decode teargas,
know the best use of fennel and cumin.
Have held a meteorite in one hand.

If you must look in a mirror for hell
you have never seen hell. Nightmares must live

to be understood properly. Dreamland
erupts at your feet. You ride the groundswell
out of the dark, into light, into love.