Floor

Floor

My shoelaces flopped

to pink carpeted floor,

lazily. I realize

I don't need rabbits,

holes. All that jazz

echoes in my fingers,

works the laces

Where the shoelaces loop

and knot, there's dark

stains and frays. My fingers

tend to avoid grime.

Grandpa

Grandpa

I pulled down

the planes on strings.

My dad, under his mom's

careful watch, boxed

the miniature war

machines labeled, "Hulan's

Work." One of the hooks

on the ceiling snapped. I

couldn't avoid the B-26 Marauder

plummeting. Grandma shouted

obscenities at her son.

I felt the loss

throbbing red on my

face. My dad, red with shame.

At First Sight

At First Sight

I was selling out

my faith. In his arms,

he held me. Too tight

to feel threatened. By him,

our crimson love-

seat. Burgundy cloth

unraveled

at the corners. He worked

at home, I was away

until dark. I finally saw

someone else. Worse

happened. People met

everyday, people forgot.

Mother

Mother

My mom slams another

medicine cabinet, empties

her last migraine pills,

and starts vacuuming.

Vigorously pushing

and pulling in

my room, a dirty t-shirt

discarded on the floor

gets sucked up, caught.

“Damn it!” The vacuum

wheezes in high pitches,

coughing the dirt back

onto my bed, into my closet.

“Clean this up! My life

would be easier without you

giving me these headaches.” I

grab my keys and leave. The sun

ahead reminds me of summer

beaches and Sunkist orange juice.

I listen to my engine in waves.

Thanksgiving Poem Collection

Turkey

My apron covered stains

on my dress. "Cut above thigh."

The cheap Marie Calendar

cookbook laid open

at the section for turkeys. I started

to prepare for stuffing. With dead

legs stuck up in delicious protest,

greasy, buttered fingers slipped

into frozen cavity. My husband came

home early. He took over his cooking,

breaking off one of the legs

and sticking it in my oven.

He flipped on the television,

yelled at the game; the kids

kept quiet in their rooms. The turkey

burned in the kitchen. I

threw away the apron,

exposed my stains.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Home Field Advantage

At last, supper

was over. My head

lurched in a somersault

catch of my Nerf football,

a front lawn touchdown.

My mom applauded. No one

dared to breathe

when dad, former QB,

passed the ball to me

with no fictional seconds

left. Over my head, my hands

made contact. Dad called me MVP.

I slammed the pig-

skin in the end zone.

It bounced from the gutter

into the sewer. Dad put me

in time out. The Turkey Bowl

loomed over my head. My dad.

outside on his hands and knees, reached.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Family Portrait

It's Thanksgiving. I'm going to cut myself

a piece of turkey. My cousin leans

on his old station wagon, smoking.

A pack of Kools in his jacket pocket.

Kauri Lipskin licks her gums

and asks for a light, kisses

with ashen tongue. Inside, my dad cusses

at a football game he sees on TV.

All I see is a dark reflection

of a morose ex-coach in a recliner, shouting

at his black and blue uniformed team. I was

never one to remember names. As a kid,

my mom packed leftovers in Ziploc bags

labeled "For the birds." The rest of the family

never understood, but she laughed at herself.

Back in the kitchen, the Ziploc bags are gone

and the leftover fowl is in the garbage.

My mom shouts at me for taking too long

to clean the table, waking my grandad,

who traditionally falls asleep during dinner. I

walk around the table, pick up plates,

counting chairs and dishes.

Eight forks, knives, spoons. Nine chairs. Empty

air becomes crammed with a knock

on the door. My uncle wobbles to the handle.

Little Jimmy Brooks brought cookies. With alcohol

on his breath, Uncle Frank flips him the bird

and pushes Jimmy outside. I hear a flush.

My sister peeks from the bathroom door,

slams it shut and runs the water. In my room,

now drenched in night, I listen to padded footsteps

and a deep cough pacing before

my older brother's door.

An animal's dying screech as the door opens

and footsteps fade into a dusty breath.

My brother's bed and my dad's leg

creak like the rafters did,

supporting unwelcome weight. I sleep.

Through December, my family remains.

It's Christmas. I'm going to hang myself

a family portrait.

Fair

Fair

I visit the L.A. County

Fair with my family.

I get a dollar

for how old I am. "No, Dad,

I can't have fun

with only fifteen dollars." I leave

to go to the bathroom. I close up

the porta potty, notice myself

in a mirror; scratched, vandalized.

I look damn good. I piss

and leave. A lowly game barker

catches my attention. He wants me

to throw some balls

and spill him into water. I

pay the man fifteen

and chuck. The balls

miss. My family laughs

behind me. My father puts

a knife he bought in his back

pocket. He says he got it for my brother,

but I know he wants to give it to me.

He pulls it out, smiles and shows

me. "A piece of shit."

"Metaphor poem"

Rebel Without a Corndog

Outisde of Supercuts,

James Dean walks up

to a wall and pulls out a bag.

It reads: Hot dog on a Stick.

I shift in the plastic chair

and look at my mom inside. Out-

side, sweat on our brows,

sweat on my palms.

Corndog in his hand.

The heat becomes fog. My eyelids

open, shut, open. I can see

my mom inside, her hair

being lopped off. A tap

on my shoulder; blue-eyed brunette

in red leather hands

me a hot dog.

I don't see my mom inside.

Behind me, a slap over

my head, the corndog

out of my hand

into my head.

Forever dipped in my brain

matter: James Dean, a stick

and a hot dog.

"'A Sort of Song' echo poem"

A Song of Sorts

let the song weed under

the notes

and the snake

be of scales. do re mi, f-sharp

interlude, quiet to breath,

breathless

-- through lips to trumpet

the noise and the people

compose (no ideas

what to play) Jazz!

Saxaphone is my bras that spits

the rock.

"I have lost"

Wreck

I have lost my hand on the wheel of my 94' Camry.

I have lost the hallucinated, watery, wavy asphalt laid before my by overweight, lazy construction workers.

I have lost the line line line line pattern in my left periphery.

I have lost the sense in my feet to push down on the brakes and avoid the cactus running towards me, his arms sticking out in preparation for a tackle.

I have lost some of that crimson gold contained in the safes of my veins, oozing from two untrimmed nostrils.

I have lost that feeling in my chest, that beating on my ribcage that lets my brain know I'm still ticking.

I have lost sight of the brown-blue-black colors surrounding me in a haze of foggy gray.

I have lost that clicking in my head that tells my mouth to inhale the dry air pumping from the a/c.

I have lost a few brain cells when the hood of my car greets the cactus in a metal-crunching bear hug.

I have lost several more brain cells when that cactus runs past the hood and through the glass to embrace my awaiting face.

I have lost my tongue when the airbag slaps my chin upward, clamping cracked teeth on that thick pink meat we use for kissing.

I have lost my brain entirely. Fleeing from its imprisonment of my skull and on the lam next to a rock thirty feet from the wreckage.

I have lost consciousness hours ago.

"I remember"

My Mom

I remember my mom before the divorce. I asked my mom if I could see a psychiatrist and she said she wasn't sure how she felt about it. I asked my mom if I could go to an optometrist and she said "We'll see." I asked my mom why silence speaks volumes and she gave me the 's' volume of the encyclopedia. I asked my mom, "Why" and she said, "Equals mx+b." I told my mom that my girlfriend thought androgyny was sexy and she said, "Well then, you're her man...or woman." I asked my mom where I should see myself in ten years and she said, "In a mirror." I told my mom that I was into large girls and she said I should open up an Elephant Bar with only voluptuous waitresses. Like Hooters with tusks. I asked my mom what was for dinner and she screamed, "I've had enough of you! I'm going to go into the kitchen, grab a knife, and cut myself…some ham." I asked my mom why I had no siblings and she said, "Well, I've thought about it, but I've aborted the idea." I asked my mom why dad left and she gave me the 's' volume of the encyclopedia again. I asked my mom if she loved me and she called me a fag. I asked my mom to meet my girlfriend and she said, "She's probably full of bologna." I asked my mom why she never gives me a straight answer and she made another joke about my sexual orientation. I tried to tell my mom a joke: "Mom, when did the Asian go to the dentist?" she said, "When he was scheduled." I remember my mom before last Christmas.