kitchen poems

Monday, February 25, 2002

Midnight Blue.
it has no time zone. as rebellious as Indiana. like the
eyes of a fry cook @ friars. like the wall coverings
on the south end of the Blue Note wall. as rebellious
as Miles Davis without the watch. free as jazz. Coltrane
holding Ella's hand. a puff of smoke. a sugar daddy's
money club. a seventeen year old's favorite graphite
hitter. a sweet spot on an afternoon game in the hands
of an expert. when willie mays saw the record book.
it observes no time zone. the sky before battle. a cat's
dog collar. a painted manhole cover in downtown. that
look she gives. north avenue beach in May. the car you
lost your virginity in. a cloud over a cow. a mad hatter
looking for a timepiece. the true color of the red pill.
Midnight blue. Vangough's first starry night painting-the one
that's not as famous. Total Darkness fills the sky and the
only lights were let in through the stars, reflecting off the
river which in turns ride the town some sort of path out
of the darkness. This pen's ink (blue block)<-- not totally
midnight blue. The color of a queen's dress that compliments
the multi-million dollars diamond neckwear. It has no ending,
it's the color of the limit of the universe. Goes deep
and doesn't splash. A mystery well that no kids are allowed
to play near. There's a monster hiding behind the midnight blue.
You go in there and you'll never come out- stuck in the monsterland
for the rest of your life.
Life begins at midnight blue and ends at sunrise. My
thoughts swirl around in the chair but snap together in
the framework of midnight. So close to yesterday but
not that far into today - you almost feel like you
could go back if you didn't want to go forward; if
things were just a little uncomfortable just yet. My
favorite hiding place is somewhere in the corner
of my mind. The shadows of my fears and the walls
are painted a midnight shade of BLUE. (Cue: Miles
Davis' "Kind of Blue"). Colors dance, colors sway-
they encroach and envelop. They grab you and tell you,
"You feel this, so shut the fuck up and sulk."
when it's barely morning. barely night. between hope
and loss. when dreams or words bridge gaps. i walk.
unable to sleep. the thoughts clear, legs guide. it is cool.
it's easy to dwell. it's easy to run. away. into familiar
pathways i see possibility. at times i can open up the sky
caught in between the worlds of twos. the owl howls to remind
you the omen is set in gear- like clockwork. the night reminds
you the day is coming soon. The day never lets you forget the
night is closing in. The land is always slipping in the sea. And the
water always finds a way onto the most inland grounds. The
people are also split into live perpetually stuck in between
reality and fantasy, dreams and daily grinds and spaces and fillers.
we stick as balls of over watered rice in a cooking pot- that
need to have each grain stick further closer together- my mind
trails off into thoughts I think would lead me to streets paved
with nightmare consciousness. Until the strip of asphalt in the
distance is noticeable closer than my arm- but it's dark and I've
lost my eyes so the walls feel closer as if squeezing me into
a narrow flat strip of self. motionless I am floating in the night
which winds up being a deep blue flask of the moon's tears
and I begin to breath it into my lungs and it moves through
me as easily as light and after its initial shock, I feel as if my life
if beginning again.
The impossible gap in the movement of life.
The death of a nation and its birth.
The impossible split between Indian Independence
and the birth of Pakistan.
Kashmere Soldiers patrolling their walls,
sitting against the sand while
watching the bright red pulse as they
breath in their tobacco home.
First night after a hurricane destroyed
the town grocery store. Dinner mints after
a meal you wonder if you'll ever forget.
Countless slaves looking up into the
sky, so beautiful though they are about
to collapse from exhaustion, hearing the
hounds.
running. running. running.
The walk home after mustering the courage
to kiss you first girl.
Softball skies in junior high.

marlon esguerra 6:35 PM

Wednesday, February 06, 2002

exquisite corpse exercise:
YELLOW OCHRE
sand. creamy sun. mustard. add a little white to thin it out. lay pastel colors on top and make patterns, make a story, an indian illustration of buddha, of how he gained enlightenment. ringlets of hair like snails keeping him warm. flowing clothes, flowing prana, energy flow. dangling ears that gave up materialism. large cranium. hands in mudra. life is suffering he says. Fainting, Faded - the pale yellow skin women who work in the fields - Straw hats weaved by grass splintered for craft - plump skin women who fade into the landscape bending down to be with the rice fields existing as laborers in the day. By night they are mothers and grandmothers, daughters and aunties. Life in the light is a thin veil, life in the night is a heavy cloak. Bending and bending - they wither and root themselves deep into the ground. Pear shaped fruits - seeds of seeds - the hallow rattling of the gourds that make rain music to shake away the demons that hide underneath grass thatched homes where you can find happiness for a very minimum price. Mustard seed ground by peasants who only speak the indigenous language but can't read it. Peasants and out of work laborers standing against the wall, staring at passerby, in the sand-dust heat of mid-day. Eating bread with no water to drink. The smell of burnt spiders. The belly of roaches and black ants. A worm writhing in the sand. Gunpowder backfired on a young dead boy's face. Smoke from the burning of autumn leaves. Fumes of red. The dawn of the horizon after a sleepless night of pain. I am at a U.N. Conference on racism, when I am met by a fellow ogre. Although I am quite deft at all bipedal languages on earth, his eludes me. He must be from the contingent from Greenland. Israel is beginning to head for the door when this yellow ogre screams to the top of his Greenlander lungs, "@#$^^&&)," shattering all the electronic equipment including the representative from South Africa's glass eye and Col. Powell's hearing aid. I find that not only is everyone now just beginning to notice this yellow ogre, but that he is now speaking in Oriental (Or was it Asian). "Excuse me M-M-M," he stammered (He has a terrible lisp and stutter, " W-Wh-Where are you you you y goingd?" I said they are from Isreal, and they've solved racism. Yellow ochre? I wish I knew Latin, or whatever the root of this word is because I have not a clue. Let's go with yellow, maybe ochre is a darker shade? Sunflower color, no darker than that. A Van Gogh painting, his favorite color. The temperature is in the 80's. It's warm and the air is light. The sun shines through a storm window into the room that has only one chair. The air feels like a soft blanket, covering every inch of your body. Too cool to burn, but warm enough to melt chocolate - a woman's best friend. But they melt in your mouth, not in your hands because you would never hold them long enough to melt. Ochre. Ogre. Yellow oak tree. That cheesy karaoke song. Tie - ing Ribbons. Why? A strip of badly bleached hair that has been burned by the sun. My fashion gear is the keenest in the whole forest of the whole kingdom and I will grant you any wish you desire. You are in luck my loyal sprite! My consults can bring you from the doldrums of plainness to elation of central attention. I cannot tell you my secret for it is mine alone but I can tell you my talent comes from a magic pagmina of an enchanting chade that around only once and you are the most proud and beautiful and poised even if your face looks like you've had a bad life. It draws ugly adn converts it into this shade that radiates radiance. Notice how it shines on me! So be a dear and step away as I change into something less flattering...

patrick gaurano 7:01 PM

burnt sienna
hidden amber glowing in the deepest darkest woods to shine only for souls who dare seek its hue, hidden in the hallow caverns across the murky creeks that separate this reality from the distance of unforeseen futures. slowing burning bark, sizzling steam in subtle waaters meant to wash away its color. it wreaks of smells meant to stain and the burning wreanch of stenchs—loose autumn leaves burning in the distance—vibrant skies when anger grows old—the scent of young mold that holds the nose in the air—hair that’s been kissed by the earth and rubbing red soil of savannah lands into hands demands a certain scream—primal calls beckons the earth spirits to plunge souls quickly into brown bodies ready to receive like communion day—body of god to lips unhindered by divine light.
--
grainy earth accidentally chewed in the mouth of childhood. the smell of a shadowy fireplace fleckling light like warm dances onto cabin walls. Smearing earth browns on my face before a tribal battle. smearing 3 fingered patterns of brown and read on each cheek, across the forehead. kissing the earth after a forest fire. crinkled shells of leaves skittering across my past my shoes. standing still and becoming autumn.
--
someone stop me, I’m on fire. it is 5:36pm as the terrain shakes hands with the sunset. I have but one neice in this life and she will grow to hate white people, too. A brushfire can be seen in the east, a store from the west. I am standing on the timeline, one foot in each zone, wondering which is worst to witness—an impending store or a cleansing of nature. I want to evoke the animal me. the mortar board and diploma me. the video game character. but this precipice has such an untimely view, at such ungodly heights. I find this phobia of passing. when will I handshake this valley before me and when will the stares play first chair violin at my funeral for forgetful weather. There are no timezones here. kiss the shadow as it does a rain cloud, for god is coming and the fire is among the plains.
--
a warm cup of pumpkin soup that’s been overcooked. it’s yet again thanksgiving season. leaves and old, dried up corns used for decoration on the front porch. pumpkin pie. it’s hot inside, too much spices in the room. my nose is starting to get itchy and I sneeze before anyone touched the pie. it’s the east coast atmosphere. leaves somehow lost their clor.. what’s that word again? The green stuff that helps bring in oxygen so the tree survive. anyway, those things go away in fall, leaves turn color, fall down and lose their meaning for existence in this world. it’s beautiful but melancholy.
--
yep, it’s burnt all right. slightly singes and smells of it too. I don’t want to be blamin’ you all right off but but this shit’s gonna have to be addressed sooner or later and thesooner the better. if ya catch my drift. I’m not even mad. I just want whatever it is to take moral and ethical and physical responsibility for this incident. [silence] it appears that I am not lmaking myself clear so let me try and phras it this way “ ALL OF GOD’S CREATURES DESERVE TO BE TREATED WITH RESPECT SO WHAT YOU DID—AND I AM NOT NAMING NAME OR NAMES—WAS NOT FUNNY, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT. [Silence] People. I loved that bird and sure I can smell burnt feathers and fowl. she will have her revenge on any or all of you. I’m serious. stop laughing, any or all of you. y’all suck.
--
fire roasted leaves, rolled and burned into breath. inhaling the earth. setting it free. cinnamon sticks turning in tea. footsteps carrying paths. chocolate stains. coconut hair. a young black boy with burned skin. his foster mother couldn’t handle him. decided to dunk him in boiling water. 11 years old now. he can’t run like he used to. dead skin rips. he hates putting lotion on at night. angry and abandoned. he lashes out. the others make fun of him. whisper “burnt” to piss him off.
--

anida esguerra 5:47 PM

Tuesday, February 05, 2002

whew!

Sam del Rosario 11:43 PM


about it's fresh. it's raw. it's kitchen poems freewrite.
prompt "write where it hurts" archive connects reading list memento excercise the collective aa writers workshop - nyc mikekim miserychick	Monday, February 25, 2002 Midnight Blue. it has no time zone. as rebellious as Indiana. like the eyes of a fry cook @ friars. like the wall coverings on the south end of the Blue Note wall. as rebellious as Miles Davis without the watch. free as jazz. Coltrane holding Ella's hand. a puff of smoke. a sugar daddy's money club. a seventeen year old's favorite graphite hitter. a sweet spot on an afternoon game in the hands of an expert. when willie mays saw the record book. it observes no time zone. the sky before battle. a cat's dog collar. a painted manhole cover in downtown. that look she gives. north avenue beach in May. the car you lost your virginity in. a cloud over a cow. a mad hatter looking for a timepiece. the true color of the red pill. Midnight blue. Vangough's first starry night painting-the one that's not as famous. Total Darkness fills the sky and the only lights were let in through the stars, reflecting off the river which in turns ride the town some sort of path out of the darkness. This pen's ink (blue block)<-- not totally midnight blue. The color of a queen's dress that compliments the multi-million dollars diamond neckwear. It has no ending, it's the color of the limit of the universe. Goes deep and doesn't splash. A mystery well that no kids are allowed to play near. There's a monster hiding behind the midnight blue. You go in there and you'll never come out- stuck in the monsterland for the rest of your life. Life begins at midnight blue and ends at sunrise. My thoughts swirl around in the chair but snap together in the framework of midnight. So close to yesterday but not that far into today - you almost feel like you could go back if you didn't want to go forward; if things were just a little uncomfortable just yet. My favorite hiding place is somewhere in the corner of my mind. The shadows of my fears and the walls are painted a midnight shade of BLUE. (Cue: Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue"). Colors dance, colors sway- they encroach and envelop. They grab you and tell you, "You feel this, so shut the fuck up and sulk." when it's barely morning. barely night. between hope and loss. when dreams or words bridge gaps. i walk. unable to sleep. the thoughts clear, legs guide. it is cool. it's easy to dwell. it's easy to run. away. into familiar pathways i see possibility. at times i can open up the sky caught in between the worlds of twos. the owl howls to remind you the omen is set in gear- like clockwork. the night reminds you the day is coming soon. The day never lets you forget the night is closing in. The land is always slipping in the sea. And the water always finds a way onto the most inland grounds. The people are also split into live perpetually stuck in between reality and fantasy, dreams and daily grinds and spaces and fillers. we stick as balls of over watered rice in a cooking pot- that need to have each grain stick further closer together- my mind trails off into thoughts I think would lead me to streets paved with nightmare consciousness. Until the strip of asphalt in the distance is noticeable closer than my arm- but it's dark and I've lost my eyes so the walls feel closer as if squeezing me into a narrow flat strip of self. motionless I am floating in the night which winds up being a deep blue flask of the moon's tears and I begin to breath it into my lungs and it moves through me as easily as light and after its initial shock, I feel as if my life if beginning again. The impossible gap in the movement of life. The death of a nation and its birth. The impossible split between Indian Independence and the birth of Pakistan. Kashmere Soldiers patrolling their walls, sitting against the sand while watching the bright red pulse as they breath in their tobacco home. First night after a hurricane destroyed the town grocery store. Dinner mints after a meal you wonder if you'll ever forget. Countless slaves looking up into the sky, so beautiful though they are about to collapse from exhaustion, hearing the hounds. running. running. running. The walk home after mustering the courage to kiss you first girl. Softball skies in junior high. marlon esguerra 6:35 PM Wednesday, February 06, 2002 exquisite corpse exercise: YELLOW OCHRE sand. creamy sun. mustard. add a little white to thin it out. lay pastel colors on top and make patterns, make a story, an indian illustration of buddha, of how he gained enlightenment. ringlets of hair like snails keeping him warm. flowing clothes, flowing prana, energy flow. dangling ears that gave up materialism. large cranium. hands in mudra. life is suffering he says. Fainting, Faded - the pale yellow skin women who work in the fields - Straw hats weaved by grass splintered for craft - plump skin women who fade into the landscape bending down to be with the rice fields existing as laborers in the day. By night they are mothers and grandmothers, daughters and aunties. Life in the light is a thin veil, life in the night is a heavy cloak. Bending and bending - they wither and root themselves deep into the ground. Pear shaped fruits - seeds of seeds - the hallow rattling of the gourds that make rain music to shake away the demons that hide underneath grass thatched homes where you can find happiness for a very minimum price. Mustard seed ground by peasants who only speak the indigenous language but can't read it. Peasants and out of work laborers standing against the wall, staring at passerby, in the sand-dust heat of mid-day. Eating bread with no water to drink. The smell of burnt spiders. The belly of roaches and black ants. A worm writhing in the sand. Gunpowder backfired on a young dead boy's face. Smoke from the burning of autumn leaves. Fumes of red. The dawn of the horizon after a sleepless night of pain. I am at a U.N. Conference on racism, when I am met by a fellow ogre. Although I am quite deft at all bipedal languages on earth, his eludes me. He must be from the contingent from Greenland. Israel is beginning to head for the door when this yellow ogre screams to the top of his Greenlander lungs, "@#$^^&&)," shattering all the electronic equipment including the representative from South Africa's glass eye and Col. Powell's hearing aid. I find that not only is everyone now just beginning to notice this yellow ogre, but that he is now speaking in Oriental (Or was it Asian). "Excuse me M-M-M," he stammered (He has a terrible lisp and stutter, " W-Wh-Where are you you you y goingd?" I said they are from Isreal, and they've solved racism. Yellow ochre? I wish I knew Latin, or whatever the root of this word is because I have not a clue. Let's go with yellow, maybe ochre is a darker shade? Sunflower color, no darker than that. A Van Gogh painting, his favorite color. The temperature is in the 80's. It's warm and the air is light. The sun shines through a storm window into the room that has only one chair. The air feels like a soft blanket, covering every inch of your body. Too cool to burn, but warm enough to melt chocolate - a woman's best friend. But they melt in your mouth, not in your hands because you would never hold them long enough to melt. Ochre. Ogre. Yellow oak tree. That cheesy karaoke song. Tie - ing Ribbons. Why? A strip of badly bleached hair that has been burned by the sun. My fashion gear is the keenest in the whole forest of the whole kingdom and I will grant you any wish you desire. You are in luck my loyal sprite! My consults can bring you from the doldrums of plainness to elation of central attention. I cannot tell you my secret for it is mine alone but I can tell you my talent comes from a magic pagmina of an enchanting chade that around only once and you are the most proud and beautiful and poised even if your face looks like you've had a bad life. It draws ugly adn converts it into this shade that radiates radiance. Notice how it shines on me! So be a dear and step away as I change into something less flattering... patrick gaurano 7:01 PM burnt sienna hidden amber glowing in the deepest darkest woods to shine only for souls who dare seek its hue, hidden in the hallow caverns across the murky creeks that separate this reality from the distance of unforeseen futures. slowing burning bark, sizzling steam in subtle waaters meant to wash away its color. it wreaks of smells meant to stain and the burning wreanch of stenchs—loose autumn leaves burning in the distance—vibrant skies when anger grows old—the scent of young mold that holds the nose in the air—hair that’s been kissed by the earth and rubbing red soil of savannah lands into hands demands a certain scream—primal calls beckons the earth spirits to plunge souls quickly into brown bodies ready to receive like communion day—body of god to lips unhindered by divine light. -- grainy earth accidentally chewed in the mouth of childhood. the smell of a shadowy fireplace fleckling light like warm dances onto cabin walls. Smearing earth browns on my face before a tribal battle. smearing 3 fingered patterns of brown and read on each cheek, across the forehead. kissing the earth after a forest fire. crinkled shells of leaves skittering across my past my shoes. standing still and becoming autumn. -- someone stop me, I’m on fire. it is 5:36pm as the terrain shakes hands with the sunset. I have but one neice in this life and she will grow to hate white people, too. A brushfire can be seen in the east, a store from the west. I am standing on the timeline, one foot in each zone, wondering which is worst to witness—an impending store or a cleansing of nature. I want to evoke the animal me. the mortar board and diploma me. the video game character. but this precipice has such an untimely view, at such ungodly heights. I find this phobia of passing. when will I handshake this valley before me and when will the stares play first chair violin at my funeral for forgetful weather. There are no timezones here. kiss the shadow as it does a rain cloud, for god is coming and the fire is among the plains. -- a warm cup of pumpkin soup that’s been overcooked. it’s yet again thanksgiving season. leaves and old, dried up corns used for decoration on the front porch. pumpkin pie. it’s hot inside, too much spices in the room. my nose is starting to get itchy and I sneeze before anyone touched the pie. it’s the east coast atmosphere. leaves somehow lost their clor.. what’s that word again? The green stuff that helps bring in oxygen so the tree survive. anyway, those things go away in fall, leaves turn color, fall down and lose their meaning for existence in this world. it’s beautiful but melancholy. -- yep, it’s burnt all right. slightly singes and smells of it too. I don’t want to be blamin’ you all right off but but this shit’s gonna have to be addressed sooner or later and thesooner the better. if ya catch my drift. I’m not even mad. I just want whatever it is to take moral and ethical and physical responsibility for this incident. [silence] it appears that I am not lmaking myself clear so let me try and phras it this way “ ALL OF GOD’S CREATURES DESERVE TO BE TREATED WITH RESPECT SO WHAT YOU DID—AND I AM NOT NAMING NAME OR NAMES—WAS NOT FUNNY, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT. [Silence] People. I loved that bird and sure I can smell burnt feathers and fowl. she will have her revenge on any or all of you. I’m serious. stop laughing, any or all of you. y’all suck. -- fire roasted leaves, rolled and burned into breath. inhaling the earth. setting it free. cinnamon sticks turning in tea. footsteps carrying paths. chocolate stains. coconut hair. a young black boy with burned skin. his foster mother couldn’t handle him. decided to dunk him in boiling water. 11 years old now. he can’t run like he used to. dead skin rips. he hates putting lotion on at night. angry and abandoned. he lashes out. the others make fun of him. whisper “burnt” to piss him off. -- anida esguerra 5:47 PM Tuesday, February 05, 2002 whew! Sam del Rosario 11:43 PM