cou[rage] for the r[love]ution

I

Am a little bit clumsy

I bump into walls

And knock over things

While daydreaming and meandering along

I

Am often in situations

That could be read as

Mildly embarrassing

But I just don’t see them that way

If I

Was less clumsy

And moved with more grace

I

Might be too perfect

Too awesome

Too wonderful

To live in this imperfect world.

So I

Will trip

And bump

And fumble

And giggle

My way through this world

Because I

Am just wonderful enough

To stumble my way into your heart.

my father thinks

foryearsonlyfish:

             that someday, this writing business

will be the death of me

                                   and he should know: born in China during the Cultural Revolution,

                         his hands still shake with stories     about what Mao did to poets he didn’t like

                                                              how they were buried alive, half-eaten by dogs and starving men

                                              in the rice fields that fed the nation

my father thinks

                              i should write my poems on rice paper,

                 soak them in cool water,

                                                                                         and swallow them whole

                                        some things,

                                                               we just don’t talk about

some things         are better unremembered 

my father knows:

                           some languages

                                              are dangerous to dream in

                         and this is why                    i only learned to speak good english

                                                           so my dreams could pass inspection, if ever

the Red Guard      or Immigration Canada      come knocking at my door

                                                      what’s the use

                                                                         in talking about what’s over and done

                                                         the past is the past

                                    it can’t be helped

father, i think     i left my lips in a dream

                       cause when i’m awake, my fingers just can’t stop talking

about my throat full of feathers;

                                      the voice of my truth is a bird with clipped wings

                                                                                         who refuses to stop trying for the window

                                      keep your head down

                                                  and don’t rock the boat; work hard,

                                         that is what we do to survive

         father, do you remember the day i was born,

                                                         you told me once that i slipped out of mother as silent as the grave

                                                                                         an umbilical noose around my neck; maybe

                                                                      some vengeful god out there disliked the poem

                                                                                                  of my tiny body, no bigger than a loaf of bread.

                             learn to be patient, son.

 wait and be still.  and know

                                        that our time will come.

 it may be    that my time is now, father

                             who can say if your strange daughter-son will outlive you?

                   you lived through Mao’s crimson nightmare    but i can’t stop dreaming

                                                 about a land whose heartbeats

                                                                                               whisper my name

could you bury me in the rice fields of our village, father?

                                     would the stalks grow through my skin, sinew

                      orifices, bones?  is it possible then that my poems

                                                          would be fit for public consumption, that my poems

                                              might speak our people’s language at last, that

                           this writing business might then

                                                                          bring something

                                                                                                      to life?

language

brightlightsloudnoises:

i’m out
of
words

i’ve just
got a
feeling

i don’t think
it’s possible to
write it

i’ve never read it

but
you carry it
somehow 

witches got a bad rap, chorus

We are the witches from the west

Brewin’ only the best

If ya don’t pay attention we’ll lay your asses to rest

So don’t fuck with us, cause we be badass witches

We can even shapeshift to be badass bitches

So don’t fuck with us, cause we be badass witches

Tight like the seams on Frankenstein’s stitches

happiness

they say the secret
to happiness
is to relinquish desire

i desire
to have rough sex
drink whiskey
set off a bunch of fireworks
play some kind of instrument very loudly
and pass out in an empty field
under the stars 

i’m pretty sure i’d be happier doing that than not doing that

(via heyjealoussea-deactivated201205)