I am a star floating in chaos
Dipped in moonlight and
Descended from the heavens as flesh
Knowledgable of the chthonic;
I am a deep sea diver and desert dune surfer of economic calamity
In a world that trumps love with greed and
Lumps altruism with selfishness.
I am of materialism yet unbothered by narcissism.
I am depressed as innocent blood is spilled on shores of hope
And guns shoot education to death.
I am high on the wings of drones that bring internet instead of indigence.
I am the floors that soak in scents of those who walk over me
To leave a receipt in the pages of history.
I am the atmosphere that circles the earth;
affected yet surviving the cataclysms of humanity,
unbound yet involved by the nature of my being.
I am the bonsai honed by hands of my own choosing.
I am the sands that weather tsunamis,
crushed yet carried,
riding the churning waves unhurried, unworried, unbroken.
I am a star
Afloat, undrowned, awaiting my own addition to
The wilting flowers raise their heads
As the sun rises above their hell:
A churning, dead enjoyment
The metal for which they fell
Weakened they stand strong
And pray like angels straight
But they are trapped at short roots
Immobile in their fate
And no one comes to save them
They’re not important enough, you see
So they grey and die and their ghosts rise high
For death is now their liberty
Note: I wrote this on Jan 17th 2010 and decided to edit it today. It is interesting how differently one can interpret a poem based on what they think they know of the author. The poem was originally a description of the photo above, but without the photo and in context of this blog it could easily be interpreted as a metaphor for a hopeless Uyghur situation.
and in those microscopic images
like the rods you see behind your eyes
she spotted a woman,
swirling, twirling amongst fluorescent green
in the night, luminescent,
fragrant like the nostalgia of nailpolish,
criss-crossed with the fates and
DNA of unknown substances,
dancing her life away
No. Don’t talk to me about your thoughts on the matter/ Another word and my zen-like patience will shatter/ while your head gets fatter with placeholders/ I scatter the remains of my soul on barren ground/ splattered with the red of my older self/ Colder than the remains of a bolder self/ I’m weakened, suffocating in the folds of a shaken breath/ breaking prematurely through a cracked chrysalis Stop. Don’t tell me you’ve watched me long enough to see my mind and read through my actions. A late reaction in form of a retraction but the damage is done/ the world thinks you are the one.
I found some post-its tucked away in last year’s planner, poetry presumably written while procrastinating in the lab. Perhaps I will make a mini-series. Here is the first:
It’s complementary/ like peaks in Raman and infrared spectroscopy/ indestructive harmony/ creating cascades of music in melodious cacophony/ hard on the ears/ a grip on the heart. Aromas of a romance waft through the air like the notes of a Spanish guitar, tense, melodic, gravitational. A spiral of fallen petals in a small whirlwind appear in front of you, dust attacking watering eyes. The crusts of a long night in the warmth of a hot chocolate.
her fingers linger on
grappling hooks that had
hooked on to
an edge; it falls —
the words just behind her teeth
float back into a wonderland
through a sinkhole gaping at
the back of her throat;
where realism competes and
she forgets those
she might have said;
for days she lingers
at the precipice of