games

Tomorrow

I am pushing and pulling

the bill of my cap

tossing it spinning ‘to the air

and I will feel the tickle of spiderwebs

on my forehead

giving high praise

to wind-born beings

half-flesh, half-heaven

to their whinnying brethren I long

to belong

Today I skip

across the chalk-line squares

they tell me I play at games

and I say,

what is life without games?

let there be light

I am contending

that underneath every single

lamp

post

yes that ugly thing of iron and spray paint

there lies a thousand

and one

angels all covered in dirt

maybe even some shit

and worms in their hair

 

and some say

they illuminate the goddamn world.

An Unlikely Vision.

Oh Lord

idolater that I am

I once fell on my knees

a crumpled body on the chilled, evening sand

I waited minutes, an hour total

for your recompense

 

I thought of a man who

saw a trembling shoulder 

a tilting altar

sprang forward to touch the gilded

wing of the sculpted cherubim

 

Struck him down dead

dead like the fallen log

rotted

gripped by fungus fingers

 

die die die

dead dead dead

 

cried the angry preacher man

for who among us is without sin,

holy enough to touch the holiest of holies?

 

Oh Lord

sinner that I am

I imagine, not the gripping flames of hell

nor the chill touch of hades

but in a moment of bursting love

a flash of insight so true

so beautiful

 

when he touched the ark

we all thought we heard the click of a belt

the slithering scrape of punishment

promised

delivered

 

the sizzle and crack

of utter love

perfect

 

Struck him down dead

dead like the rising sun

like salt crystals

gleaming along

the sandy dunes

Oh Lord, have mercy on my soul.

some sounds.

The water drips

from the faucet into the

black bowl

a metal inverted bell

that fits snugly into the rice cooker

 

The water rings

inside

I can hear the ring

of a bell

a beep of a mechanical beast

 

and I am well again.

envokation

For Goodness’ Sake Man, Write.

Pulitzer’s, Wao’s, and Blank Pages.

I am holding the most expensive novel I can remember ever purchasing. A hardcover novel, brand new at 24.95. That may seem odd for an aspiring writer, but it is nevertheless true. The cover is a beautiful off white with a splash of red. I am a judger of books by cover. When a cover tries too hard, I rarely trust the content within. I feel the same way about women. But never mind that. 

On the front is a gold label that says WINNER of the PULITZER PRIZE. It reminds me of the gold stickers I used to get in elementary school when I did something good, showed up on time consecutively for a number of days. It was so much easier to win accolades in those days. Nowadays you have to win some fucking elusive award to get a gold sticker. 

I love this book so much and so hard I wish I could perpetually read it but never finish. I had started and lingered on the words and scenes and characters so long that when a friend wanted to borrow it for an overseas trip, I reluctantly said yes. I hoped in the logic of lovers who spend time away who become that much more passionate when they see each other. But when I picked it up I suddenly became nervous and afraid, what if… what if starting from page one, I get bored. Or worse, tired. 

Foolish notions, for from page one, I was there. And once again I sigh, smile, and fall in love with the narrative. Later, I take some time off, before the inspiration wears off, to write. And I wrote this reflection which I would like to share with you.

I wonder, what is it like to be published, to win the Pulitzer?

What the hell? What in Sam’s name (who is Sam?) just happened–would be my answer. But then, this too would probably pass, and then I would have the same fucking blank page in front of me as I do now.

Is that depressing, or actually, quite comforting? I suppose the answer to that question is akin to the answer to whether or not I’d like to be a writer, when both shit and praise hits the fan. Right now, in this particular location in the space-time continuum, I find this very very comforting. Comforting because this is what I’d like to do–be doing. And even if there ever was such a thing as arrival in life, I would never ever find it in writing anyway. It is a place of infinite possibility. Hilarious, because it is also a place where failure feels infinitely more palpable than success. No real way to win, many very real ways to lose. 

But then of course, who can take away my blank page? Who can, for that matter, take away this inane bullshit I put on that blank page? And ultimately, who can take away me? I will write. Whether or not I will also have readers is very much out of my control. 

So explore, invent, by our Good Lord, have some fun! Because fuck it all, how else are you going to get through this shit? Write like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at. Write like it’s the only thing worth doing. Because as soon as it becomes anything less–you might as well make some money and eat some steak.

Babel.

Today, as I look at the two-toned map of California, marking the divide between those that would allow a population to live as human beings, and those that would restrict them, rendering them exotics stuck in a glass jar, inviting both the voyeur and the scoffer to come and see, I begin to see why it was that Obama looked more sober than elated, determined than victorious.

When I watched the poll numbers rise yesterday, I found my heart beating faster. When I heard the booing crowd in Arizona, my heart fell. When I listened to the rhetoric of the soon to be first Black president, the salty mist building about my eyes, the steady rhyme of 2Pac’s Changes ringing in the back of my head, I said, thank You God.

Now I cannot help but think of Babel. The way we speak to each other, intending to make perfect sense, intending to bring the other to a comprehension of our point of view, we are still babbling to each other. I refused to believe that Proposition 8 could truly pass. I refused to believe that no rigid set of beliefs could override the underlying notion that they, too, are human. I refused to believe the irony that a State who could overwhelmingly vote for the first Black president would then apply the same historic bigotry, the same historic hatred to another population group.

But now I have no choice but to bring this mixed heart to the altar, and beg for the mercy of a nation. Truly, truly, Lord, we need You.

rejection.

A white rectangle, without mass,

without dimension

I rip the edges to get at the morsel inside

hoping, but also knowing the stench of rotten fruit

A form letter expressing rejection called

regret

A blinking line at the end of an email

“unfortunately,” he says

“surely,” I say

“I cannot-”

“you can”

It is not the letter, not the email

not the disdainful eye

the critical comment

but the sinking, dark feeling

that what you are doing, what you are daring, what you are hoping

is not to be.

Breathe.

Three and a half in a two hour zone. Can’t bring anything, just your jacket if you won’t take it off. Can’t sign it like that you gotta sign it like your license. But it’s just a… Forget it. Initial here, do this now, do this like that. Whacking away at a low resolution computer, clicking the right ovals to get a numeric score. Blue pencils, blue scratch paper. Sigh. Wrong exit. Wrong turn. Cell phone on speaker forgot my bluetooth. Crackers and cheese. Letters of recommendation. Television.

Exhale.