Category: Poems & poem-like things

If you’ve frequented those cafes where lately the cappuccinos
are topped by swirls resembling dragons from fantasy novels,
you might have heard it said that Godzilla lives in the center
of the earth. And if you happened to order a Reuben sandwich
with a side of pickle, you might have been told that certain
brands of sour chili pickle get their distinct flavor from salt
harvested from those places Godzilla’s feet have touched.
I used to think this was just the kind of story that’s spit
out of gumball machines with no real gumballs— just hollow
rubber spheres that hide little strips of paper on which some
poor soul chained to a basement wall in what used to be a fortune
cookie company is still writing fortunes (or are they cries for help?)
that are not fortunes, but banal sayings like “Life is what you make it”
or “A good heart is the center of the family—” which by the way
is also hogwash, since we all know that mitochondria are
the engines of the cell. but never has any science existed
that could predict whether you’d wind up in a dysfunctional
family or in one that wore identical smiles and color
coordinated clothing for special photo shoots each new
season of the year. But recently I put a gumball into my mouth
and bit down on a claw of bristly dark green jade. It tasted
simultaneously of roasted coconuts and the sea. 

actively proactive for the self

bootstraps are for tying

call a spade a spade, won't you?

don't pay full price but

eat all you can 

first one to finish

gets the girl and a pre-nup

happy is an old-fashioned state of mind

i don't know that there's anything to be

justly miserable about 

keep your own people in check but

love me those noodles and coconut juice

my mama's apple pie and sugar donuts

nobody's business but my business

o say can you see how beaten and

purple the skies at night how un- 

quietly the colors protest but i

rob you blind and still you love me

suspension states are indefinite 

taxes and other lucrative sources of wealth

u better believe the hype or else

vainglorious (alleged) victors?

we don't see ourselves as

xenophobic

you are xenophobic we aim to be

zillionaires

The way the river looks on windy days 
(we live a block away): white-capped, 
indigo-lined. Along its horizon, 

birds make V-formations, like someone 
inked them fast. The blur— illusion of
the years. To the left, rows of ship-

to-shore cranes resemble those all 
terrain armored walkers in Star Wars. 
These are, of course, for large

container ships hauling cargo to
the international terminal. I know time
sometimes is like a wading bird standing 

perfectly still on one leg in the shallows. 
Other times it is the clean dart of its beak, 
spearing a target beneath the surface. 

Yesterday my therapist told me I should go 
ahead and lean fully into my grief (this too 
has its own understory), so it might 

loosen by degrees. It's waterlogged, tight 
as a monkey's fist or heaving knot for casting 
rope from ship to ship or ship to shore. 

When I was in first grade, I used to have 
recurring dreams in which I hovered a few inches 
above a sheet which turned into a quiet billowing 

sea. I don't have them anymore, only the images 
fixed in memory. But I recognize the attitude: 
listening for a hush that isn't complete 

silence— filled instead with insinuations 
of sound and movement. Isn't this too 
a kind of reading, and the rippling a kind 

of poetry? Yes, I think these are some forms 
that help us. Or spirits, if that's how you want 
to name them. Dreams, for sure. But there's 

got to be something in you which knew it wanted 
to turn its face in that direction, which wanted 
to follow. How else could we have gotten here?   

"For one human being to love
another... the work for which
all other work is but preparation."
                 - Rainer Maria Rilke



Isn't there also something to be said 
about the romance with paper and ink?
Deckled edges and folios, marbled end

pages; the almost-lost art of penmanship, 
letter-writing, sending postcards through 
the mail. I know a writer who collects old 

pens, vintage typewriters, ink blotters— 
the paraphernalia of the writing life before
technology's takeover. Pens overlaid 

with vermeil and mother-of-pearl; smooth 
stainless steel with heft enough to press 
the nib onto the surface of paper. His wife 

is an art restorer. Carefully touched to layers 
of grime on canvas, cotton-tipped wands, in time,
reveal the understory. For both, reward comes from

a light hand guiding the effort through the medium. 
I've always wanted to move in the world like that, and
my language with me— do you know what I mean? Not

plodding through heavy murk forever, but startling 
alive at contact with shapes as they show themselves:
their rust and edges, the material of their bodies.

~ after Carlos Bulosan and Norman Rockwell



Dust and heat, dirt roads. Fields where

     every farmworker you'd see was bent to the soil: 
 
           iceberg lettuce, garlic, beans, all picked by hand. In

Delano, grape workers led strikes at ten vineyards. For 

     each box packed, they demanded twenty-five cents more.

           Immigrant wages in the '20s— lower than other workers.

Divide and conquer, scapegoating, name-calling, beatings.

     Eggplant and curly kale, arugula and strawberries;

           in every smoothie and on the flesh of apples, in-

dentations of that past. Easter tables bedecked with tinted

     eggs, spring peas, asparagus, and ham; and at Thanksgiving,
 
           impeccable tablecloths for a showcase of plenty.

Deliver us from a world which makes invisible the human cost of labor,

     endorses the privilege of some by taking away the rights of others.