Current Residence: Texas|
Favourite genre of music: rock
vintage talkThe flower beds are drowningvintage talk by autumn-spirit
in last night's sweat and rain.
Cat calls echo on the streets
below her window, the sound of
wheels, car horns and people going to work.
The radio echoes her favorite song
on a pencil lead morning;
notes of a Chinese opera,
coming from a simple yet
cozy apartment in Shanghai.
"I'll be right there, darling."
Stepping off the terrace,
she's like the breeze in summer;
orange jasmine seduction.
Beige skirt; knee-length,
showing off her slender legs,
making every dancer jealous.
She is made of dove feathers, creamy poison.
Last time we were together,
she continued sipping her oolong tea,
pretending I had never spoken;
never told her she was
Sleeping Beauty's nightmare.
Such a tease, it's true.
She loves all the ladies,
throwing fans at her feet
when she's up on stage.
And still, she finds ways
to make all the boys hurt;
for her, they're dead.
she bats her curled fake eyelashes at me.
In her dressing room,
I try to win her over at last,
ChinatownHoney, you burn my eyesChinatown by autumn-spirit
in the ashen morning.
Your amber color sparkles
behind my white shell lids
and your name sits
on the tip of my tongue,
the taste of last
summer violet rain.
Urban child, you come around;
lighting the red lanterns
on my porch like a ghost,
dropping plum blossoms
on the doorstep because
I told you once that
those are the only memories
of my mother that
I have left after years of
dealing with her
sudden death of pneumonia
when I was eleven.
Boy, you're mysterious and sweet;
the city's in your DNA.
You're the first one I call after 8 A.M.
I say, "Darling, let's get lost tonight
on the streets of a blank
Let's throw confetti flowers on the ground
and watch all those unlucky fortunetellers
stumble over each other,
trying to find the most magical ones;
the lilies and cherry blossoms,
turning their worlds upside down.
Let's do it all tonight;
waste no time, throwing pennies
in a wishing well."
Little Tokyo, Los Angeles;
take me down the undergro
Cowrie BeachThe beach has always beenCowrie Beach by autumn-spirit
a sort of haven for me;
a shelter made of august stones,
boulders shaped like birds,
wild grass huts and cowrie
shells that make the perfect
necklace if you just stop
judging the shape and
nameless color of them.
Yet, now it's desolate without the markings
of your footprints on the sea glass shore,
without your call, echoing over the tides;
greetings that meant we were more than friends.
On Thursday, I was thinking about just that
when I set up an easel on
the roof of my dad's old house,
pretending that I was back in time,
before I realized I like boys with
topaz skin and the sharp scent of
palm trees in the late pear summer breeze.
There was a natural canvas above me
as I painted; splashes of lavender
and blue, more exquisite than anything
I could come up with on my own
with hands that were so used to
holding 50 cent brushes and charcoal
pencils from the local Wal-Mart.
And the skeletal bridge of this
poor boy's city was a symbol of
the life I had grown accus
MarlenaOut my window in easy teary morning,Marlena by autumn-spirit
the golden cobblestoned streets don't
look the same since September when
you were last here, dancing barefoot
on the balcony, your brandy-colored
arms poking out of a torn peasant blouse.
Marlena, in another life, I would be
a princess and you would be a warrior;
maybe even the commander of your own
army of vintage rebel daisies.
We wouldn't care what anyone thought.
We would bathe in the brook at dawn.
You'd be my bad little lady, mulberry
streaks in your dark hair; damp and
shimmering down your back.
Skin like cinnamon-butter;
sunflowers mark your arms,
I picture your frame as
I walk around this barren house,
remembering how we used to pretend
to be movie stars, playing dramatic roles,
winning Oscars in slick lavender gowns.
You loved writing in Spanish,
creating these long poems that told stories,
not just to impress an audience,
but to really make people believe they were
in those pretty, dreamy scenes;
Sad poems need pretty titles.April was lungs weak of blue, andSad poems need pretty titles. by DearPoetry
scalpels held in heartless,
You told me you were no coward
that the seas and the oceans
whispered in your ears and told you
only the bravest of men
deserve to kiss their beds.
May passed too quickly.
No time for mourning
when I gained ten pounds
of pure muscle
holding up your stars.
People asked too many questions.
People told me I was strong.
One day in June
you woke up to a skeletal frame
that wasn’t yours and the biggest,
strongest ribcage I’d ever seen.
I had cornfields in my eyes;
You misplaced your anchor
and your mind.