Monday, February 28, 2011

DAy 592: poet forgotten

i have forgotten ho to be a good poet
the kind that slits her wrist on the stage
so that everyone can Marvell at the crimson
call it beautiful
look at the way shes grows for us
they say
i know
you want to be here
watching me
dancing for the hyenas
so i have made myself
the routine
is just that
a routine
and no one ever grows from doing the same thing
that's called insanity
and we've
mistaken it for artistry
for breaking and rebuilding
for hearts
sewn into screams
like the silence we've banished from our palms
these are the parts we've forgotten
done written them into routine
resented our pens for becoming ordinary
when we failed to want to push ourselves to the brink
any longer
there's only so many times you can bleed
on the same piece of floorboard
before you stop growing
before everyone
stops calling you beautiful
and starts calling you

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Day 591: no brakes


these are the things i do
in the middle of night
while you sleep


make thing whole
or was it hole
going broke
or is it broken


she takes

going forward

no brakes...

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Day 590: haiku

remember my name
when i have left you nothing
but silence and love

Friday, February 25, 2011

DAy 589: selfish

you lied to your mother when you told her you hated her
the first 100 times
until you meant it
held that kind of ugly in your vocal chords
spit it out
cuz you didnt like the taste
couldn't be strong enough to keep it to yourself
you were selfish
and young
all things you couldnt control then
but whats your excuse now
in your forgetting
when there are 100 times you could love her in words
but the words
beautiful as they are
get caught in the back of your throat
and you
selfish still
and young
want to keep something sweet like that to yourself
worried that letting it go,
might means you have nothing beautiful left

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Day 588:

you left the first one you loved for something beautiful
held her like the men held their loves on TV
you remember the way her lips
te beautiful one
not the love
melted into yours like warm milk
how it was uncomfortable
and not right
but it was then
and then is all you had
all it wasnt enough
but it was something
something that couldn't bite back at you
something that wouldn't terrify you
because beauty
only has power of persuasion
but love
love can
send earthquakes to the parts of your bones you convinced yourself never existed
to the holes you cut into skin in adolescences
love can do that
make you feel empty and worthless
and ugly
beauty cannot do that
beauty has no power
nothing that cannot be forgotten
by morning

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Day 587: shiver

i will call you beautiful in the mornings
when the sky isn't ready to be shown
and all the smiles i've promised you
for the years that aren't even thoughts yet are hiding under my skin
sending morse code shivers down my spine
theres a moment in those mornings
when the darkness is putting itself to sleep
i will be there
on the cold side of your pillow
awaiting your day to begin
to turn these shivers to something solid
like a smile i can kiss into you like promises for tomorrows
that arent even thoughts yet
not thoughts
just promises
promises that the morning keeps fresh
in the cold
in the darkness

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Day 586:nbd

You told me you came from a place
where stampedes of horses hunt in the valley of your ribcage
i laughed
because that is what you do when someone says something beautiful
and it makes you uneasy
so you hide the parts of yourself that want to live under their skin
and spit out tears in spurts of laughs
call the uneasy a joke you'd tell your mother and father
and hide the beautiful in your gum line
so you can taste it without anyone noticing
save it for the next time
someone calls you stunning in 3 stanzas or more
and you dont know what to say
just wanna sit back and smile
like its no big deal
like it didnt just change your life

Monday, February 21, 2011

Day 585: dreams

i have dreams
things that put me into darkness
into the cold
make me shiver
like every bone in my body is fractured
playing itself
a harpsichord
for an audience of space that doesn't know how to fill itself with anything but breaths sometimes the stale
sometimes it taste like morning
sometimes it cracks at the hairline
sometimes its alone
or crowded
but its always dark
always slow

always just a dream
always a little more than you expect

Sunday, February 20, 2011

DAy 584: expectations

ive weighed the secrets you left behind
hung them along my wrist
passed out pieces to the beautiful girls who passed
like promises
like things that stick
that are beautiful
but they are dark
trickle like rain off a tin roof
i want to open my mouth
catch the drops as they fall
but the angle
its a little more difficult than expected

Saturday, February 19, 2011

DAy 583:

the things i've given
up for you, laugh at all the
things i stand to gain.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Day 582:

i must be getting older
because the years are starting to pass like minutes i used to trash like pennies
leave for someone to find
eads up
hopefully bring them luck
ivegot a pocket full of emptiness
too much of myself
i have given away
thrown aside
thought worthless
things hurt more than they did before
the pain stays longer than youd like
and the days
the days keep on keeping
the years
dangling over my head
waiting still
its gone

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Day 581: to get me through the day

writing these days is so painful
i must be growing

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

day 580: whitwash

I do not know how long it has been since I have spoken a word of Hawaiian. However long since we last found each other lucky enough to be on either end of the telephone line. But I do know that the words fall out of my mouth like white wash. Its foams at the edges and slips through my fingertips- I have forgotten how to hold right. Something I am remembering- but it is painful to be reminded of all that I have forgotten in just a few short months away from the islands. I try to dismiss all of this from my head. I have already spent enough time crying and missing home- now I am home, there is no reason to let such a waste of salt continue.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Day 579: daydream

When I am 12 I learn to read and write in English- the same year I realize I am half white. I punish my mother for it.
When I am 17- the doctors tell me I have the joints of an 80 year old woman. I am brittle. I will have known this since birth. When I am 19, I meet the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with. My parents love her. Her parents tolerate me. We break up. My parents cry. Her’s are silent. We fall somewhere in between. I cry on my 20th birthday and for the first time in over a year I do not write a poem. When I am ready, I will travel the world writing songs for beautiful women. And When I die, I will be younger than they expected. I will remember the names of all of my gods. I will write each of them a poem- realizing I should have done that all along.

Monday, February 14, 2011

day 578: gender


When I am 5 my brother tells me I was born with a penis- I am too afraid to ask my parents for fear they will confirm this. I watch Oprah and cry at the other misunderstood transgendered children. Because they are scared like me. We seem the same. When I meet Oprah, I want to tell her this, but I am afraid of what the kids at school will say if I am on TV- so I sit across the table, eat the fruit loops and stay silent. This is the first secret I remember keeping.

When I am 6, my parents pull me out of my kindergarten class to tell me that I am going to be a big sister. I am going to be someone’s role model, the thought of it sent shivers down my spine. When my sister is born, I am no longer responsible for being the little girl my mother always wanted, always needed. That was my sister’s tiara to bear- and she did it effortlessly- with a smile like picket fences and a rhythm that can only be born of angles. I resent her. I only resemble magma. When I am 13 and get my period, I learn that I am a woman. I do not know what this means except that I am not like the confused kids on TV. I am different. So I spend the next 5 years finding a new way to fit into this skin.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

DAy 577: birth

I am born in the silence between two generations. The elder- told that nothing good could come from this history- this language- this skin tone. The latter who insisted on uprising. So my revolution begins when my fathers chooses to recognize the prophecy of a name- mine speaks of music. I am born like a poem. Perfect and ready for the world- quick and painful, but worth it. I am everything my mother prayed for- 10 toes and fingers. For the first 5 years my weight is measured in smiles and dimples, in curls and giggles. I am a miracle. They called me daughter, but I am still struggling with the weight of that word. When I open my eyes, I only see mirrors in the skin of my brothers and father. I cry. I spend the rest of my life wishing that I wanted to be more like my mother.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Day 576:

I come from a place where every shade of darkness has a name. My family emerged learning to sing to Te ao u`iu`i- the darkness the begins in the deepest pocket of the ocean. We are born praying to the sea that swims in every thing living. My ancestors were built of the clay of this earth; pours, like lava rock with the foresight of constellations so my father spits magma and stardust when he speaks. But this is only my father. only the part of me that speaks in ocean tongues and sacrifice. My mother is born of a different story. One I have learned- never wanted to enough. All I know is she was born of picket fences and crucifixes. She is the margin of every poem I’ve ever written, while my father- he is the reason I speak.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Day 575: the things we carry

my baggage is heavy
i do not want to leave empty handed
i will not let you go

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Day 574: prose

I do not know how long it has been since I have spoken a word of Hawaiian. However long since we last found each other lucky enough to be on either end of the telephone line. But I do know that the words fall out of my mouth like white wash. Its foams at the edges and slips through my fingertips- I have forgotten how to hold right. Something I am remembering- but it is painful to be reminded of all that I have forgotten in just a few short months away from the islands. I try to dismiss all of this from my head. I have already spent enough time crying and missing home- now I am home, there is no reason to let such a waste of salt continue.

So instead of crying, I wait. My shoulders start to ache because the baggage I carry is heavy- so heavy that sitting down brought little comfort. I do not have an answer for the questions I know you will ask. Instead I wait for you to arrive. Shuffle my feet against the hot concrete. I try not to focus on the humid air leaving beads of sweat on the back of my neck. Instead I wait for your judgeless embrace to remind me why I choose a 600 dollar trip across the ocean over a drive to Santa Cruz and a handle of vodka. Sometimes any ocean isn’t enough. Sometimes you need to come home and that’s hard to explain. But I know you. I know you know this feeling- of being misunderstood and lonely. I know you will understand.

I see your car from across the terminal. You look happy to see me. Surprised that I am in one piece. But I have only been gone for a few months- what tragedy could have occurred in that time that would leave me in pieces?

If only I understood well enough to tell you.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Day 573: for two years

to two years,
you were the heart i forgot to pick up from the dry cleaner
the stain they forgot to remove
the blood crusted under my finger nails
all reminders that something was there
and was whole
before it was broken
clean before it was tainted

730 mornings
i've spent trying to wipe the dreams of you from my eyes
curl them back
hold them
bug like
in a jar
for you to marvel at
in 10 years time
call every scared mistake
a masterpiece
call every tear
the ocean in your veins
every last piece of dried saliva
a kiss that was supposed to carry into infinities
that we never really believed existed
but we waited for it anyways
in a jar
that we forgot
when we were busing breaking

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

day 572: liberation fails

they say god made the world in 7 days
and it was perfect
and i know
he doesn't make mistakes
but it took centuries to make beautiful
look like you
took the sky falling in meteors
for a woman to peel back her skin and see god
see perfection

Monday, February 7, 2011

Day 571: slur

it fits on the back of my tongue like a skin graff
like something i've forgotten
burned bright
like s secret kept in nightfall
in constellations
in things that sound pretty when they slip into the universe
into reality
look like they shine
but only burn
we only burn
only break
tar a feathered
hung like jesus

we are not secrets
neither were their intentions

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Day 570: to monday

you are like the cold
a sad sorry bitter woman
whose daughter never loved her
angry at the morning
you leave us all shivering
wanting a day of sun to return

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Day 569:

you are an expectation and i not sure i have the conviction to live up to
a kiss i've tried to forget
skin that i've grafted to the inside lining of my heart
i do not want to hold you
i am owned by your breath
we know this
by the skip in your step
the twirl of your lip

i am waiting for something other than mistakes to be made in the places we share
call a home
cuz we can smell our hearts burning into each other
like its something we've wanted
all along

Friday, February 4, 2011

Day 568:

i want to wear you like a smile
on the small of my back
like a curve
i've cursed to the wind
with my hips
break me backwards into you vertebrae
and watch me sliver into you
by morning
i will be the touch of your tongue
the taste of you breath
the tenor in your skin
everything we have forgotten to love

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Day 567: some things are better left ordinary

I was born on the 18th of may
On a summer night in Honolulu
A 90’s baby boomer
I could not break anything but my mothers heart
There are no foundations I have been taught to build
The common only crumble

the ordinary in me
wants to be built into castles
but my hands are tired and I’ve been less than what I was promised lately
all I know is that something has changed
and you left anyway

when I met you
I found a way to use this skin like a sundyle
Learned to write poems into miracles
That could walk on the orbs of your voices
You taught me what kind of halo is warm in darkness
And how to shine
Even without the slightest of light

there is a crackle in your kiss
that’s shakes the mundane from this skin
that’s begs to be more than what I was and am
I’ll spend the next 10 years trying to fit into the expectations you created when you made me beautiful

your love is a burden
I begged you for it knowing this

some things are meant to be left ordinary
and still will beg you to leave your sparkle
wish to be carved into temples
into poems
and novels
into stories of love and whispers
how they hover
will beg to be miraculous
your job is to resist all temptation
concret is stronger than krystal
and lets be honest,
ill never be a diamond
you do me no favors making me beautiful

I do not ask you to stay
Because I have spent too much time begging god
That you never leave
But Somehow
This cradle yourve given me for a voice
Has forgetten the frequency of prayer
Because not even he could convince you to stay

miracles are overrated
your smile
still something I haven’t found definition for

i feel like a sculpture at a museum
sparkling behind the glass of your gaze
the kind you must watch at for minutes
leave confused
call the artist brilliant
because you do not understand
I want to be understood
I should have asked to be left alone
But couldn’t

you are the kind of women who leaves something behind
I am your most recent masterpiece
They’ve built walls beyond my body
I was called a castle today from a distance
Because No one comes near enough to watch me crumble
touch the ruble
witness the fall
They call me miracle
But I feel like a tornado
Wishing to be ordinary
Wishing to be anything but beautiful

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Day 566: poems

writing you poems is like peeling hnagnails from under my tongue
burns like vodka
cold on my throat
kisses like your fingertips
drenched in sweat
in something else
in me

thinking of you
is like writing eulogies in body movement
in sanscript
in things we can leave behind
that will not be forgotten
that the world prayers over
wanting to know the significance of

i cant seem to finish anything i start
you cant seem to stay long enough to notice
i'm great at beginings
can pull you in easy
but have trouble holding on
writting anything that is anywhere near an end
anything that would make you stay.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Day 565:

never say goodbye
it leaves too much space for home
fuck you is better