kitchen poems

Monday, June 24, 2002

I feel really fortunate -- guilty almost -- that I like my job. Maybe it's out of emotional necessity but I really think it's a good fit. (Note: I'm a social worker by training and I work as an Elder Abuse Investigator covering the south side and west side of Chicago.).
There is this picture in the Columbia College Magazine "Gravity" I came across which showed a senior lying down on his couch, his shoes kicked off revealing well worn bare feet, and the lines on his face and jowls implied that things weren't really that easy over the last fifty or sixty years but he was getting by. He was doing alright. Above his couch were a couple dozen framed pictures of his family and friends which were arranged in no apparent configuration other than they could all be seen at once.
He was watching Oprah.
This is what my motivation for my work boils down to: "Here, sir, just lie down and take a rest. Maybe take your shoes off if that'll be more comfortable. Do you want me to turn on your TV? What do you want to watch? Are you sure? I think the ball game is... OK, Oprah it is. I'll be here if you need anything. If not, that's OK but let me know if you need anything."
I don't know if this, in the long run, is a healthy reaction to the work I do or if it's the first step on the road to burnout but what's going on is -- for those of you up on your psychodynamic therapeutic concepts -- a textbook case of countertransference. Basically, looking at that picture I'm standing there in that room with my Lolo who passed away in '93 when I was in college and feeling all of my shortcomings as a grandson flood over me. All the times I should have been there for him. Talked with him -- let him tell me his stories over and over again. Laughed with him -- over what, I was never sure; maybe just because he was laughing, I, too would laugh. That even though I was away at school (not even a half hour away, if that), just to let him know that I was still with him.
My fear is that he did not feel that. My fear is that I may be lying to myself; that he felt abandoned because he was -- by me.
(My Lolo loved watching Jeopardy!, although I'm not sure how well he understood the game which he knew as "the...the...pardy!").
At any one point, my caseload is between 35 to 40 people. Some cases get closed for various reasons but I'm constantly getting assigned new people. But each one is an opportunity where I can try to make it up to him and maybe after I do this for a few years, I will. Or maybe I'll come to terms with it fifty or sixty years from now while I'm lying on my couch with my shoes off, thinking back on my life with the TV on in the background.

Sam del Rosario 6:16 PM

Friday, June 14, 2002

June 19, 1982
My soon-to-be wife,
I know I ‘m placing a great strain on you, having to worry, and a week before our wedding day. I am very excited to present my factory ideas to the plant managers, and teams. I am positive that my presentation will bring a manufacture solution to the automobile production industry here in Detroit. My mother was very skeptical about me flying out here, away from you, and chanting her Chinese superstitions of bad luck before our wedding day. I feel very safe and lucky with the jade pendant you gave me before leaving. Every time I place my fingers on it I am always thinking of you, and how anxious I am to get home to you and start our new life together.
It was very hot today and the people of Detroit seemed to be sad and gloomy. I don’t blame them considering half the people lost their plant jobs. I read in the paper that these lay offs are now being described as Detroit’s “new poor.” I have a lot of sympathy for them passing by in the streets with a look of despair. It is as if the city has lost its friendly welcome smile.
I passed a lot of laid off individuals on my way to the Chrysler plantation. I had a big smile when I met with the managers and the teams. The plantation was enormous and full of power with rising smoke from the stacks, welding and rivet noises, and forklifts hustling about. The machinery on the inside was very old, and had looked like they had not been replaced since World War Two! Imagine that. I tried to display a positive attitude with all the workers, but felt intimidated by their stares and silence toward me. It felt cold and uninviting. It felt as if they did not want me to be there at all. The managers and teams were collective, and reserved, and wanted me to get right to the point. So I did, and gave them the layouts, designs, and production statistics that will improve a rapid production, and higher percentages. There was no reaction. They thanked me for my time and I excused myself leaving the plant. I did not know whether to smile, cry, frown, or laugh. I felt a weird confusion engulf me that I could not grasp.
After the meeting, I met with Harold and Pete, my old school buddies, and we went to a local bar. The bar was unique with a serene welcome to it. It was exactly what I needed to take my mind off the reaction of the teams at the factory. Unlike our bars back there, this one had pool tables, fancy dancing lights that lit up the corner ceiling, cool neon lights, velvet chars, and even a small room you can smoke cigars in. I noticed a huge painting of Henry Ford standing next to his Model T automobile above the bar blending in with the dim afternoon light. He appeared to be confident, strong, and very well groomed. I started envisioning my face replacing his and feeling a great sense of resemblance. I was starting to believe that with my hard work and effort could help the city’s people find their smile again. I could make the difference with my ideas and produce more employment. I suddenly came back to reality by the distant laughter from children outside reminding me of that glorious day when we can hear our own children laugh. They also had a jukebox playing classical jazz that released saxophone tunes orchestrating with the laughter. I started to sway with the amplified sound and pictured us dancing to such sounds on our wedding day. I watched the bartender clean his wine glasses with his towel and place them carefully next to each other forming a little army within ranks. They sounded off with pleasant “pinggggg” noises.
Harold and Pete treated me to more drinks as we laughed and talked about old times and new times. They were so happy when I told them about our engagement and our wedding date. Harold suddenly jumps up and says, “What are we waiting for, we have a bachelor party to start!” They grabbed me and started dancing. My confusion, intimidation, worries, and impressions had left me. I might have been drunk, but was excited again. We made plans to go to Highland Park for my last night, and bachelor party. Don’t worry; I’m in good hands with Harold and Pete. They will take good care of me. Besides, I have your jade pendant around my neck to guide me and bring me good luck. Until that day we are finally forever, I always love you.
V. Chin

jeremy policarpio 2:43 AM

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

By far, the best cookies ever produced in the Common Era are President's Choice Raspberry Temptations(tm). You may be wondering why Raspberry Temptations(tm) taste so good. You need not look farther, gentle reader, than the side of the package for the answer: "It's because we went back to the traditional ingredients -- fresh creamery butter, raspberry juice concentrate and all natural flavors." It goes on, invitingly: "So go ahead, give into temptation and re-live the memory."
They're kosher, too. (Possible answer to the crisis in the middle east?!?!?)
But I'm learning now, a few hours after I had one -- just one, mind you -- that they leave the bitterest aftertaste in your mouth. It's probably because they're so sweet. Serves me right. But damn!, they're the best fucking cookies in the world.

Sam del Rosario 3:33 PM

i wanted to paint it. burn it into memory with permanent black ink and exact timestamp. tattoo it on my back. hologram it to my forehead.
picture of the park bench. the bus stop. the view of the lake. a fresh spring morning. tree-lined sidewalks that stretch on forever down the road. newspaper delivery trucks. soft whispery wind. green smell of fresh grass. the pale yellow light from a rising sun. a water fountain left running. joggers at the horizon. clear sky and white clouds. birds crickets and squirrels. the sound of the bus stopping. the long fingers on my shoulders and lace between my palms. the casual words 'see you later' 'have a good day'.
look into my eyes
kiss me goodbye
and act like you meant every unsaid words.
go ahead and thank the academy.
i am the perfectly shot scene wound up on a cutting room floor.
not relevant enough to make sense in your movie. incoherent.
perhaps someone will make a short out of it...
a satire or a dark comedy.
and i'll put it on replay, paint it to memory,
make a legend, perhaps an internet meme, out of it..
and leave people wondering why it was so underrated.

misery chick 1:54 PM

Monday, June 10, 2002

for me this day will live in infamy.
i wanted to love love like neruda. i didn't know it meant i'd have to lose it as he did.
today i cried with guttural voices unfamiliar to me. inner thrashings of a wounded animal. i should've been ashamed. i still don't care.
because i gave her everything i could. my eyes, my hands, my body, the sound of my throat, the beauty i can't understand, the painful stories i only remember when i'm reckless, my past, my future, me.
all of my love.
less than one month ago i held her close on a dock in santa monica bay. i kept her warm. watching the most beautiful sunset i've ever seen. we watched the orange sun until it sank beneath rocky hills that curved around the beach. i commited it to memory. i wanted to paint it. allowed it to seep through my pours and into my soul and mind like honey. it was meant to be my happy place for times i am sad.
even beauty can have a sense of irony.

john park 4:51 PM

[*note: john and i are turning this into a brokenheart club if you happy ones don't start posting!]
hurt loves misery over company
we swallow bitterness and become pop-song writers.
my pen moves for nothing but words about emotional pain, anger, resentment and sarcasm...
for always wanting things i can't have.
happy people have happy thoughts and enjoy happy company.
misery people have misery thoughts and seek misery company.
to heal the pain you have to feel the pain
and i keep pressing the bruises on my skin
keep stabbing myself in the same wound
over and over and over and over again
moved on for a bit, started to miss the sore, and i come back
rip open the scab and make it bleed -- one more time:
(imaginary)
hey.
hey. what's up?
long time no see.
yeah.
so i heard you're back with her...
yeah.
are you happy now? is this 'for the best' again?
no answer.
blood dripped from my freshly picked wound under the old scab. torn pieces of skin sends shrieking pain to register in my brain. it's going to take another week or two to heal again. and the bruises i press keeps getting greener and greener.
perhaps i crave the pain.
it hurts; it makes me angry.
anger makes art, creates misery, keeps me company.
hurt loves misery over company.

misery chick 2:14 PM

today i've lost the most beautiful feeling i've ever held in my arms.
i feel a shade of gray. smoke that's heavy and folded and sinks to the ground.
california was brilliant, but on one of those calm blue midnights i learned one of the most difficult things in my life: sometimes love isn't enough.
my sternum feels heavy like a magnet
being pulled to the floor
hurt loves misery over company. sometimes growing is hard. during turmoil my sadness is almost overcast by the realization i have no friends here i can talk to--no friends i consider close enough. and that's almost overcast by the sadness i feel when i realize how little i care.
i feel myself growing sour. i'm afraid.

john park 4:28 AM


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, June 24, 2002 I feel really fortunate -- guilty almost -- that I like my job. Maybe it's out of emotional necessity but I really think it's a good fit. (Note: I'm a social worker by training and I work as an Elder Abuse Investigator covering the south side and west side of Chicago.). There is this picture in the Columbia College Magazine "Gravity" I came across which showed a senior lying down on his couch, his shoes kicked off revealing well worn bare feet, and the lines on his face and jowls implied that things weren't really that easy over the last fifty or sixty years but he was getting by. He was doing alright. Above his couch were a couple dozen framed pictures of his family and friends which were arranged in no apparent configuration other than they could all be seen at once. He was watching Oprah. This is what my motivation for my work boils down to: "Here, sir, just lie down and take a rest. Maybe take your shoes off if that'll be more comfortable. Do you want me to turn on your TV? What do you want to watch? Are you sure? I think the ball game is... OK, Oprah it is. I'll be here if you need anything. If not, that's OK but let me know if you need anything." I don't know if this, in the long run, is a healthy reaction to the work I do or if it's the first step on the road to burnout but what's going on is -- for those of you up on your psychodynamic therapeutic concepts -- a textbook case of countertransference. Basically, looking at that picture I'm standing there in that room with my Lolo who passed away in '93 when I was in college and feeling all of my shortcomings as a grandson flood over me. All the times I should have been there for him. Talked with him -- let him tell me his stories over and over again. Laughed with him -- over what, I was never sure; maybe just because he was laughing, I, too would laugh. That even though I was away at school (not even a half hour away, if that), just to let him know that I was still with him. My fear is that he did not feel that. My fear is that I may be lying to myself; that he felt abandoned because he was -- by me. (My Lolo loved watching Jeopardy!, although I'm not sure how well he understood the game which he knew as "the...the...pardy!"). At any one point, my caseload is between 35 to 40 people. Some cases get closed for various reasons but I'm constantly getting assigned new people. But each one is an opportunity where I can try to make it up to him and maybe after I do this for a few years, I will. Or maybe I'll come to terms with it fifty or sixty years from now while I'm lying on my couch with my shoes off, thinking back on my life with the TV on in the background. Sam del Rosario 6:16 PM Friday, June 14, 2002 June 19, 1982 My soon-to-be wife, I know I ‘m placing a great strain on you, having to worry, and a week before our wedding day. I am very excited to present my factory ideas to the plant managers, and teams. I am positive that my presentation will bring a manufacture solution to the automobile production industry here in Detroit. My mother was very skeptical about me flying out here, away from you, and chanting her Chinese superstitions of bad luck before our wedding day. I feel very safe and lucky with the jade pendant you gave me before leaving. Every time I place my fingers on it I am always thinking of you, and how anxious I am to get home to you and start our new life together. It was very hot today and the people of Detroit seemed to be sad and gloomy. I don’t blame them considering half the people lost their plant jobs. I read in the paper that these lay offs are now being described as Detroit’s “new poor.” I have a lot of sympathy for them passing by in the streets with a look of despair. It is as if the city has lost its friendly welcome smile. I passed a lot of laid off individuals on my way to the Chrysler plantation. I had a big smile when I met with the managers and the teams. The plantation was enormous and full of power with rising smoke from the stacks, welding and rivet noises, and forklifts hustling about. The machinery on the inside was very old, and had looked like they had not been replaced since World War Two! Imagine that. I tried to display a positive attitude with all the workers, but felt intimidated by their stares and silence toward me. It felt cold and uninviting. It felt as if they did not want me to be there at all. The managers and teams were collective, and reserved, and wanted me to get right to the point. So I did, and gave them the layouts, designs, and production statistics that will improve a rapid production, and higher percentages. There was no reaction. They thanked me for my time and I excused myself leaving the plant. I did not know whether to smile, cry, frown, or laugh. I felt a weird confusion engulf me that I could not grasp. After the meeting, I met with Harold and Pete, my old school buddies, and we went to a local bar. The bar was unique with a serene welcome to it. It was exactly what I needed to take my mind off the reaction of the teams at the factory. Unlike our bars back there, this one had pool tables, fancy dancing lights that lit up the corner ceiling, cool neon lights, velvet chars, and even a small room you can smoke cigars in. I noticed a huge painting of Henry Ford standing next to his Model T automobile above the bar blending in with the dim afternoon light. He appeared to be confident, strong, and very well groomed. I started envisioning my face replacing his and feeling a great sense of resemblance. I was starting to believe that with my hard work and effort could help the city’s people find their smile again. I could make the difference with my ideas and produce more employment. I suddenly came back to reality by the distant laughter from children outside reminding me of that glorious day when we can hear our own children laugh. They also had a jukebox playing classical jazz that released saxophone tunes orchestrating with the laughter. I started to sway with the amplified sound and pictured us dancing to such sounds on our wedding day. I watched the bartender clean his wine glasses with his towel and place them carefully next to each other forming a little army within ranks. They sounded off with pleasant “pinggggg” noises. Harold and Pete treated me to more drinks as we laughed and talked about old times and new times. They were so happy when I told them about our engagement and our wedding date. Harold suddenly jumps up and says, “What are we waiting for, we have a bachelor party to start!” They grabbed me and started dancing. My confusion, intimidation, worries, and impressions had left me. I might have been drunk, but was excited again. We made plans to go to Highland Park for my last night, and bachelor party. Don’t worry; I’m in good hands with Harold and Pete. They will take good care of me. Besides, I have your jade pendant around my neck to guide me and bring me good luck. Until that day we are finally forever, I always love you. V. Chin jeremy policarpio 2:43 AM Wednesday, June 12, 2002 By far, the best cookies ever produced in the Common Era are President's Choice Raspberry Temptations(tm). You may be wondering why Raspberry Temptations(tm) taste so good. You need not look farther, gentle reader, than the side of the package for the answer: "It's because we went back to the traditional ingredients -- fresh creamery butter, raspberry juice concentrate and all natural flavors." It goes on, invitingly: "So go ahead, give into temptation and re-live the memory." They're kosher, too. (Possible answer to the crisis in the middle east?!?!?) But I'm learning now, a few hours after I had one -- just one, mind you -- that they leave the bitterest aftertaste in your mouth. It's probably because they're so sweet. Serves me right. But damn!, they're the best fucking cookies in the world. Sam del Rosario 3:33 PM i wanted to paint it. burn it into memory with permanent black ink and exact timestamp. tattoo it on my back. hologram it to my forehead. picture of the park bench. the bus stop. the view of the lake. a fresh spring morning. tree-lined sidewalks that stretch on forever down the road. newspaper delivery trucks. soft whispery wind. green smell of fresh grass. the pale yellow light from a rising sun. a water fountain left running. joggers at the horizon. clear sky and white clouds. birds crickets and squirrels. the sound of the bus stopping. the long fingers on my shoulders and lace between my palms. the casual words 'see you later' 'have a good day'. look into my eyes kiss me goodbye and act like you meant every unsaid words. go ahead and thank the academy. i am the perfectly shot scene wound up on a cutting room floor. not relevant enough to make sense in your movie. incoherent. perhaps someone will make a short out of it... a satire or a dark comedy. and i'll put it on replay, paint it to memory, make a legend, perhaps an internet meme, out of it.. and leave people wondering why it was so underrated. misery chick 1:54 PM Monday, June 10, 2002 for me this day will live in infamy. i wanted to love love like neruda. i didn't know it meant i'd have to lose it as he did. today i cried with guttural voices unfamiliar to me. inner thrashings of a wounded animal. i should've been ashamed. i still don't care. because i gave her everything i could. my eyes, my hands, my body, the sound of my throat, the beauty i can't understand, the painful stories i only remember when i'm reckless, my past, my future, me. all of my love. less than one month ago i held her close on a dock in santa monica bay. i kept her warm. watching the most beautiful sunset i've ever seen. we watched the orange sun until it sank beneath rocky hills that curved around the beach. i commited it to memory. i wanted to paint it. allowed it to seep through my pours and into my soul and mind like honey. it was meant to be my happy place for times i am sad. even beauty can have a sense of irony. john park 4:51 PM [note: john and i are turning this into a brokenheart club if you happy ones don't start posting!]* hurt loves misery over company we swallow bitterness and become pop-song writers. my pen moves for nothing but words about emotional pain, anger, resentment and sarcasm... for always wanting things i can't have. happy people have happy thoughts and enjoy happy company. misery people have misery thoughts and seek misery company. to heal the pain you have to feel the pain and i keep pressing the bruises on my skin keep stabbing myself in the same wound over and over and over and over again moved on for a bit, started to miss the sore, and i come back rip open the scab and make it bleed -- one more time: (imaginary) hey. hey. what's up? long time no see. yeah. so i heard you're back with her... yeah. are you happy now? is this 'for the best' again? no answer. blood dripped from my freshly picked wound under the old scab. torn pieces of skin sends shrieking pain to register in my brain. it's going to take another week or two to heal again. and the bruises i press keeps getting greener and greener. perhaps i crave the pain. it hurts; it makes me angry. anger makes art, creates misery, keeps me company. hurt loves misery over company. misery chick 2:14 PM today i've lost the most beautiful feeling i've ever held in my arms. i feel a shade of gray. smoke that's heavy and folded and sinks to the ground. california was brilliant, but on one of those calm blue midnights i learned one of the most difficult things in my life: sometimes love isn't enough. my sternum feels heavy like a magnet being pulled to the floor hurt loves misery over company. sometimes growing is hard. during turmoil my sadness is almost overcast by the realization i have no friends here i can talk to--no friends i consider close enough. and that's almost overcast by the sadness i feel when i realize how little i care. i feel myself growing sour. i'm afraid. john park 4:28 AM