Young Writers Society

april 18.

the art of passing over / 잊는 법

there is a man
who holds an organ
in his hands
subsequentially: he squeezes
as it struggles futily to
rest.

and the sound of muted comments to a television screen.


postcards are good for
fossilizing emotions and misconceptions:
thoughtless phrases and
you feel heat-stripped again
like a woman relying on
a single pre-used match
while fires are lit:
all the neighbors have smoke from firestacks.

water boiling
heat from beneath the fridge
the man sleeping beside you exhales hot breath
old scenes are tucked into unfinished, bookmarked novels
read six pages
when will it end when will it end

april 18.

the glass is broken but it is still a window

i am inclined
to scratch your face out of the photo
with a sharp . black . pen .
but this is not an action of erasure --
decades, decades later,
authenticators pierce paint with x-rays
to find failed treasures;
faces of failures of friends.

april 19.

Flowing

On the tenth day and
every day after,
the number 10 is a portrait of us --
you turned away,
and I am empty clear through.

april 20.

Shinkansen

At some point,
after a gentle roll out of the station
you feel your head pulled back into the headrest
and wonder when the train will stop speeding up,
and wonder how long it takes to make 300 kilometers an hour.
But by the time you find out, you will be far beyond
the station at which you meant to alight
and far beyond any tangible memory
of what it was like to steal side glances
when he sat by you to watch tv.

april 20.

Raising Sadness

I remember when it was only a sadness of three days
and had not yet learned how to walk;
I was dragged to my knees regularly as it begged me
to look it in the eyes.
At night before I fell asleep, in the dawn before I woke.
I remember when it was a sadness of seven days
and was just finding its voice;
and all other things were drowned out by the sounds of
its bleeding-throat screams.
At night before I fell asleep, in the dawn before I woke.
And now it is a sadness of eleven days
and it is walking a line of puberty;
it is considering walking away from me behind,
and leaving me wondering where it is now.
At night before I fall asleep, in the dawn before I wake.

april 21.

In a room with walls full of windows, no lamps

Sunday was spread across the floor . sticky fingers catching and shaking free – because of push-up pops in orange , branded . while the pine trees scraped the bottom of the sky and left white scratches that spread open like cracked fruit and flowed away in the wind. We had our toes up like cats in the breeze . lazy back and forth . pools of ice cream soaking through Sunday , and just the babiest fragments of notes trickled out from the back room / adult room / room with squirrels in drawers.

The feeling of dusk caught between the railings of the porch . grandpa sits next to grandma on the bench, watching the darkness bloom up from underneath fallen needles and the blueberry bushes , while aunts and uncles breathe in smoke from grills and call us when the hotdogs appear. Fish wrapped in newspaper on a day too hot to eat . nutmeg , allspice sprinkled and spilled . loud laughs and bean bag tossing back and forth and back and forth.

The fireworks start outside when bean bags , hot dogs, faces no longer appear, and some light up the sky . I could swear that under those sparks it is daylight again. Even corralled inside without mosquitos - so bright it was daylight again. Years later , when I no longer spill ice cream through my fingers or have Sunday to spread across the floor , a spectre smell of fish fry makes a knot in my heart , and I imagine that it is daylight again , that it can be daylight again.

april 22.

Finding the Strength to Say Goodbye

the greatest moment of my life
i stepped up to the pedestal
and hung the wreath around my neck
and said into the crowd:
god, i am worth it
and i am the artist and i am the clay

i spent years imagining loyalty
where it had never existed
i can imagine myself into majesty;
one thing he said was right:
i am the masterpiece.

there was a roar all around
and it was the sound of myself enwombed
with a rush of blood ever around;
the greatest moment of my life.

april 23.

slowing down

i will write
to you, for i am gone
but i will never again
spend
a cent to send it
to you and you would not be there
anyway

april 25.

revenge is not what i thought

hurt and angry . cracking glasses on edges of tables
pillows shred to feathers // dust // mist
up on a balance on two hands -- you tore at me,
i want the world to rage at you , but it is quiet.

hercules beetle in a small glass jar .
wings beat louder than
the watch, the ceiling fan,
the paintbrush against the tin paint can
-- louder .
i want out , when will this end ,
the animal wonders if it shouldn't just die . . .
but a sunrise comes

sweetest cake, sugared strawberries, succulent revenge
would be continuing to trust
and walking into another glass jar.

only if the captor meant to sting and sharp grin.
and what if he meant nothing at all?

april 26.

반복 될 듯

The stranger in the picture has
HIS last name and
HIS first name and
I claim it is the face and style
that draws me in
but I think he and he and I would say
I am just waiting for the chance
to vicariously hate myself
again.

april 27.

Because I never learned the names of paints

There are only so many ways to send smoke signals in grays
before ash gets lost to the clouds and it's useless anyway
So tonight I get lost in the smell of the high ceilinged room
you shared once with me - the one where you paint - and I claim
the passing smokebreak sky as a palette

I send up in eddies: lemon, permanent yellow, impermanent yellow,
fleeting as you were,
raw umber burnt umber burnt sienna raw sienna raw
words and wounds undressed no. 9 on silver no. 2
and back to ash anyway warm gray payne's gray
our particular gray mixed to a hue of
our particular gray day
and the tragedies that happened
when we ran out of mixing white and had to cover the canvas
in paled face at betrayal white , much less white
and more pink burned a tint toward permanent rose
because of the coals still burning
though it has been ages since we've tended them