i am rejected by one world, then the next.
one technology and twice that one in two days.
he loves me not.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
(DOT @ the end of a sentence) number 108
That feeling you thought you only get when you run long distance,
it comes back
and takes refuge, no, (R-E-V-E-N-G-E)
all the (yes, i learned this in Botany) lactic acids burning in your negative sixpack.
it comes back
and takes refuge, no, (R-E-V-E-N-G-E)
all the (yes, i learned this in Botany) lactic acids burning in your negative sixpack.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Salut, Mr. Wind!
Hello again, the wind caresses and twirls the slender string from my white paper cup filled with green tea.
he asks, Why are red and green Christmastime?
christmastime is all year round,
i reply.
he asks, Why are red and green Christmastime?
christmastime is all year round,
i reply.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Touch The Disco Ball Skyyy --revision
Beat the one's who love me the best... oh how could they be liars?
These are lyrical melodies from the song "Beat (Health, Life And Fire)", whose chanteuse, Thao Nguyen(and The Get Down Stay Down) boozily exude all that is pleasing to the ear. Thao's song doesn't really have anything to do with this blog, or maybe it has everything to do with it, i'm just being indecisive right now. Heck, let's get to it shall we: This is a description of being at an American Discotheque, The Club, A Disco Disco, Whatever the orange you want to call it. All I know is people congregate here (Popscene, Loft 11) in groups or singles, and dance their long legs off.
Warning: This blog may induce dry mouth and/or insomnia.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Yesterday/Today, About 10:47 PM. Sway quietly. Twist your shoulders.
OneTwo, Right, OneTwo, Left. Side Step.
No one is dancing.
They're all waiting,
brains dancing dizzily,
spinning over and sideways
-while bodies act nonchalant.
Waiting for the moment of rightness, of righteousness, HAIL MARY, PRESS YOUR HANDS TOGETHER AND PRAY TO ALLAH: now do the bellydancer hip thrust.
Only my goofball friends and I dare to be the first chicks miming robotically, doing the "white-girl-dance" to the second song [(((obviously some sort of 80's one hit wonder turned indie)))] Everybody's in a state of mind where they can move at their own pace. Pacing. JAM. jamming. JAM. your jamming now. it's okay to be you. it's okay to look like a fool.
Everyone's foolish. Except for the (please excuse my stereotype here but..) ghetto White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant-HighSchooler, this cretin had the audacity to take his nasty hand (which has probably been to unsanitary realms called "You don't even want to know Where"), this imbecile, who's oversized Hanes T-Shirt glares the words What does that smell like?, basically ejaculated onto my friend's rear.
Thank Mao Zedong, she was wearing jeans! For Cheetos-sake! Next time, remind me to bring mommy's fly swatter.
Leg of Lamb, Turkey Thigh, Cousin It, Skinny Female Dog, all slowly begin to tap their shoes. Girls/Boys flexing, similar to when the Haitians danced the rain dance.
ARMS RAISED HIGH, Touch The Disco Ball Sky
close your eyes,
open them,
JUMP, STAND STILL,
& twist like your grandfather did in the 50's after a few martini's with a punch!
More than adrenaline,
the speed is so fast it stops, the room shakes.
Clubs are earthquakes in microcosm.
Fear takes over, but tis the good kind of fear.
A EUPHORIC FEAR CONSUMES.
your body.
your hands...fingertips and the tips of your toes.
Dystopia and Utopia, yes, they co-exist, here, together,
in discordant harmony.
Veneral disease-ridden,
vacant beer glasses knocked off tables--->shards shatter >and stab >the >wooden floorboards.
The best moment entails: A beautiful modern-day Jesus and his bearded disciples doing the Irish step dance to Daft Punk melodies streaming from the speakers like assorted-mixed candy from a multi-colored pinata at my 10th birthday party.
Lets go over and interact, I tell Veronica.
Noooooo, she replies.
What an introvert, I think and don't tell her.
You're one too, she hears my thoughts.
But then..... M.I.A. Paypaaar Plaaanezzz set in aural motion. We was dancing 19-ninety-nine-if-it-was. Yesireee Bobs.
then BOOM, my friend Ella sucksFace w/ Mr.ItalianAsianPersuasion. "They licked each other's broad mouths clean," someone tells me a day later. I need to pee. They tell me he was ugly, I don't believe them. Then Gen draws me a picture and I reply, You're lying. (no one is that ugly) What's your name? Ella, she responds. Give me your number. (eighttwofourthreenineninezero), she gives him a fake one.
"You look sad," ----a Chocolate Chip/Nutella-skinned collegiate says to Veronica, while their attempts to create untouchable friction aren't working. SORRY, JE SUIS DESOLEE MONSIEUR! Try your body rub with some other ingenue. Maybe you'll get "some" with the buxom beauties on stage, they do smell quite delicious don't they? Mr. Nutella walks onto his next victim. ciao Veronica! twas nice groping you! she replies, "Later then!"
"Do you want a drink," ThirtysomethingMan asks my great friend Kenya
"No, but you can give me the daterape drug so I can take it with water later, you know, to avoid the "daterape" aspect and just enjoy the drug," this is what Kenya wanted to say, instead of walking off and dismissing Mr.VermiciousKinnid with a simple, "No. Thank You."
As for moi, besides the really InnocentDancing,GlassesWearingIndianDudefromIndia! or Mr.LoneRangerRedSuspenders! - there was no one there.
How can you feel solitudous in a place so teeming with people?
It was something not-so new, no-so-silent, yet abosolutely mesmerizing
I hated every minute of it
No, that would be a lie....
These are lyrical melodies from the song "Beat (Health, Life And Fire)", whose chanteuse, Thao Nguyen(and The Get Down Stay Down) boozily exude all that is pleasing to the ear. Thao's song doesn't really have anything to do with this blog, or maybe it has everything to do with it, i'm just being indecisive right now. Heck, let's get to it shall we: This is a description of being at an American Discotheque, The Club, A Disco Disco, Whatever the orange you want to call it. All I know is people congregate here (Popscene, Loft 11) in groups or singles, and dance their long legs off.
Warning: This blog may induce dry mouth and/or insomnia.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Yesterday/Today, About 10:47 PM. Sway quietly. Twist your shoulders.
OneTwo, Right, OneTwo, Left. Side Step.
No one is dancing.
They're all waiting,
brains dancing dizzily,
spinning over and sideways
-while bodies act nonchalant.
Waiting for the moment of rightness, of righteousness, HAIL MARY, PRESS YOUR HANDS TOGETHER AND PRAY TO ALLAH: now do the bellydancer hip thrust.
Only my goofball friends and I dare to be the first chicks miming robotically, doing the "white-girl-dance" to the second song [(((obviously some sort of 80's one hit wonder turned indie)))] Everybody's in a state of mind where they can move at their own pace. Pacing. JAM. jamming. JAM. your jamming now. it's okay to be you. it's okay to look like a fool.
Everyone's foolish. Except for the (please excuse my stereotype here but..) ghetto White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant-HighSchooler, this cretin had the audacity to take his nasty hand (which has probably been to unsanitary realms called "You don't even want to know Where"), this imbecile, who's oversized Hanes T-Shirt glares the words What does that smell like?, basically ejaculated onto my friend's rear.
Thank Mao Zedong, she was wearing jeans! For Cheetos-sake! Next time, remind me to bring mommy's fly swatter.
Leg of Lamb, Turkey Thigh, Cousin It, Skinny Female Dog, all slowly begin to tap their shoes. Girls/Boys flexing, similar to when the Haitians danced the rain dance.
ARMS RAISED HIGH, Touch The Disco Ball Sky
close your eyes,
open them,
JUMP, STAND STILL,
& twist like your grandfather did in the 50's after a few martini's with a punch!
More than adrenaline,
the speed is so fast it stops, the room shakes.
Clubs are earthquakes in microcosm.
Fear takes over, but tis the good kind of fear.
A EUPHORIC FEAR CONSUMES.
your body.
your hands...fingertips and the tips of your toes.
Dystopia and Utopia, yes, they co-exist, here, together,
in discordant harmony.
Veneral disease-ridden,
vacant beer glasses knocked off tables--->shards shatter >and stab >the >wooden floorboards.
The best moment entails: A beautiful modern-day Jesus and his bearded disciples doing the Irish step dance to Daft Punk melodies streaming from the speakers like assorted-mixed candy from a multi-colored pinata at my 10th birthday party.
Lets go over and interact, I tell Veronica.
Noooooo, she replies.
What an introvert, I think and don't tell her.
You're one too, she hears my thoughts.
But then..... M.I.A. Paypaaar Plaaanezzz set in aural motion. We was dancing 19-ninety-nine-if-it-was. Yesireee Bobs.
then BOOM, my friend Ella sucksFace w/ Mr.ItalianAsianPersuasion. "They licked each other's broad mouths clean," someone tells me a day later. I need to pee. They tell me he was ugly, I don't believe them. Then Gen draws me a picture and I reply, You're lying. (no one is that ugly) What's your name? Ella, she responds. Give me your number. (eighttwofourthreenineninezero), she gives him a fake one.
"You look sad," ----a Chocolate Chip/Nutella-skinned collegiate says to Veronica, while their attempts to create untouchable friction aren't working. SORRY, JE SUIS DESOLEE MONSIEUR! Try your body rub with some other ingenue. Maybe you'll get "some" with the buxom beauties on stage, they do smell quite delicious don't they? Mr. Nutella walks onto his next victim. ciao Veronica! twas nice groping you! she replies, "Later then!"
"Do you want a drink," ThirtysomethingMan asks my great friend Kenya
"No, but you can give me the daterape drug so I can take it with water later, you know, to avoid the "daterape" aspect and just enjoy the drug," this is what Kenya wanted to say, instead of walking off and dismissing Mr.VermiciousKinnid with a simple, "No. Thank You."
As for moi, besides the really InnocentDancing,GlassesWearingIndianDudefromIndia! or Mr.LoneRangerRedSuspenders! - there was no one there.
How can you feel solitudous in a place so teeming with people?
It was something not-so new, no-so-silent, yet abosolutely mesmerizing
I hated every minute of it
No, that would be a lie....
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
What happened? How did you feel? Why? Keep on writing.
IN THE BEGINNING, man screwed himself into a hole, while The Lord Our Saviour DECIDED SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS Would Forever Be A Woman's downfall.
Why the silence after the noise? (My skin is tingling and I want to scratch it out so bad. When I move my jaw, I can hear dry earwax squish within my eardrum.)
Vapid, everything be vapid: cold kitchen countertops, desolate wooden chairs (you can see through their spines), champagne glasses carry no champagne.
Everybody went home. Life, does it really go on?
I suppose (you may or may not agree) (like I give a ratsbutthole) --- but I suppose this lifecycle merely represents demure deja-vu.
Coming, and going, and twirling through los laberintos like it was just one fantastic, frightening --- start to finish--- game board.
Dearest Refugees, To Whom It Always Concerns, My Beloved Earth:
I write to you because I love you. Not the love you feel from eating one large bucket of onion rings and an extra large thai tea boba…
Please forgive me for never hitting you when you were bad.
Don’t drive home. Don’t go, she says.
There is no meaning. Everything is just,
is just,
is just
a bajillion little pixels that form pictures on television.
Why the silence after the noise? (My skin is tingling and I want to scratch it out so bad. When I move my jaw, I can hear dry earwax squish within my eardrum.)
Vapid, everything be vapid: cold kitchen countertops, desolate wooden chairs (you can see through their spines), champagne glasses carry no champagne.
Everybody went home. Life, does it really go on?
I suppose (you may or may not agree) (like I give a ratsbutthole) --- but I suppose this lifecycle merely represents demure deja-vu.
Coming, and going, and twirling through los laberintos like it was just one fantastic, frightening --- start to finish--- game board.
Dearest Refugees, To Whom It Always Concerns, My Beloved Earth:
I write to you because I love you. Not the love you feel from eating one large bucket of onion rings and an extra large thai tea boba…
Please forgive me for never hitting you when you were bad.
Don’t drive home. Don’t go, she says.
There is no meaning. Everything is just,
is just,
is just
a bajillion little pixels that form pictures on television.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Baby Jesus Day Part DOS: The "Dysfunctional" Bunch ( not Brady bunch) @ Christmastime
Today is the day of my momma's father's side's annual Christmastime jubileeeeeee.
I wonder who will ring the doorbell first.
Will it be Auntie Sour Smile? Who (in my opinion) secretly pictures our family sinking in small wooden boat upon the raging waters of her sea of vengeance; furthermore, I call her Auntie SOUR SMILE because everytime I hug her, she gives me the look of one who has just bitten into a very sour, very acidic granny apple.
Nah. Maybe the first person to press the little white button next to the door will be Cousin "Life's Unfair"; this bizzznitch is byfar the greatest enigma of Uncle and Aunty Affable's three procreations. In private cars, where his 'rents aren't, he broods to the point of HYPERBOLE. I have no freedom, he whines, They don't give me any freedom, he wines, I need to smoke, he says, I'm gonna quit before school starts, he promises. In public, we are dazzled by his witty banter. He is our family clown. But back to private, he says, he wants to be free, he says, I've tried to kill myself, he speaks to me from the passenger's seat of my mother's silver Honda as we drive on the freeway, trying to be free.
Waitoneminute.
Somebody's behind the door, knocking. It appears to be a woman of some (White Angry Saxon Pretentious) sort. Oh, sorry for the quick judgement. After talking to this woman --- elle llama "Kat"--- I discovered she is just a family friend who acts minor but important roles within independent films, she tells futures as well... but most importantly she bakes a mean ass (pardon my German) batch of chocolate/white chipped cookies and dates wrapped in bacon. My belly bulges as we speak.
I wonder who will ring the doorbell first.
Will it be Auntie Sour Smile? Who (in my opinion) secretly pictures our family sinking in small wooden boat upon the raging waters of her sea of vengeance; furthermore, I call her Auntie SOUR SMILE because everytime I hug her, she gives me the look of one who has just bitten into a very sour, very acidic granny apple.
Nah. Maybe the first person to press the little white button next to the door will be Cousin "Life's Unfair"; this bizzznitch is byfar the greatest enigma of Uncle and Aunty Affable's three procreations. In private cars, where his 'rents aren't, he broods to the point of HYPERBOLE. I have no freedom, he whines, They don't give me any freedom, he wines, I need to smoke, he says, I'm gonna quit before school starts, he promises. In public, we are dazzled by his witty banter. He is our family clown. But back to private, he says, he wants to be free, he says, I've tried to kill myself, he speaks to me from the passenger's seat of my mother's silver Honda as we drive on the freeway, trying to be free.
Waitoneminute.
Somebody's behind the door, knocking. It appears to be a woman of some (White Angry Saxon Pretentious) sort. Oh, sorry for the quick judgement. After talking to this woman --- elle llama "Kat"--- I discovered she is just a family friend who acts minor but important roles within independent films, she tells futures as well... but most importantly she bakes a mean ass (pardon my German) batch of chocolate/white chipped cookies and dates wrapped in bacon. My belly bulges as we speak.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Sultana of the Gardens
(background: I WAS SITTING ON A BENCH IN SFSU'S "SUN GOD" COURTYARD AND A SEASONED LOOKING WOMAN----WHO LOOKED LIKE THE CAMPUS GARDENER---- WAS DIGGING IN THE DIRT WITH HER SMALL SHOVEL.)
Like an armadillo f or ag i n g ANTS,
hunkered
down near the bushes,
a strong oldwoman,
whose shoulder-length silver hair,
so straight it was almost Asian,
drapes over a pair of copper eyes.
She sinks into a dog position,
on all fours,
left palm bloated against flat asphalt,
right hand seizing necks of unwanted,
overgrown,
thorny partners from the bed of Chinese Hibiscus,
gently tossing these weedy femme fatales into big white buckets.
The sun's sweltering heat radiates around her,
but she remains cool in the shade.
Clothed in a faded turquoise jumpsuit,
which was dropped off at "Snow White Drycleaners"
about a week ago
because her boyfriend's rugrat decided
polyester jumpsuits make for great fingerpainting canvases.
"I wonder what I'll make for dinner," she daydreams of foie gras and
baguettes.
Like an armadillo f or ag i n g ANTS,
hunkered
down near the bushes,
a strong oldwoman,
whose shoulder-length silver hair,
so straight it was almost Asian,
drapes over a pair of copper eyes.
She sinks into a dog position,
on all fours,
left palm bloated against flat asphalt,
right hand seizing necks of unwanted,
overgrown,
thorny partners from the bed of Chinese Hibiscus,
gently tossing these weedy femme fatales into big white buckets.
The sun's sweltering heat radiates around her,
but she remains cool in the shade.
Clothed in a faded turquoise jumpsuit,
which was dropped off at "Snow White Drycleaners"
about a week ago
because her boyfriend's rugrat decided
polyester jumpsuits make for great fingerpainting canvases.
"I wonder what I'll make for dinner," she daydreams of foie gras and
baguettes.
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