ReGenesis Chapter 1

(This is one of those fragments that I have no idea where it wants to go. Could be the beginning of a short story, a play, a prose poem, a new cult, who knows. Comments welcome.)

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And God saw that it was good. But God was lonely. And God said, It is not good for God to be alone, so He created man and woman in his own image, in the image of God created He them; male and female created He them. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moves upon the earth. And so they did and filled the whole earth. And God saw what He had made and, behold, it was very good. Then man and woman became arrogant and told each other that God was dead. So God died. And man and woman were lonely after God’s death. And they said, It is not good for man and woman to be alone. So they became God and created man and woman in Their own image, in the image of man and woman They created them; male and female created They them. And They saw what They had made and, behold, it was very good.

Poetry is

the music silence makes

Dream #2: Again I dreamed...

Again
I dreamed you were a child again

Dreamed
you depended on me for everything

I was your parent
I
not your daddy or mommy
I was your parent

You put your tiny hand in mine
as we were walking down some steps
slowly
easy does it
take your time
and then you fell
and you cried
and I died
for a second
then I tore into you
searching for signs
you could be broken

You laughed
You thought it was funny
I was angry
but I didn’t want to yell at you
like your mommy always does
like my mommy always does
I was your parent

On a moonlit night

(This poem was written many years ago when I first fell in love with Emily Dickinson and was my feeble attempt to imitate her lush, intimate voice that transforms even the most commonplace objects into magical things)

At night I sit by my window
imprisoned by shadows cast
by the blinds in the moonlight.
In vain try I to break free
with a file, a saw, even sticks of dynamite
yet long and gloomy the bars did stand.

My eye turns upward towards the moon
a gleaming orb spraying
silver dust that coats the
furniture of my living room.
It is you, I swore, you who have
imprisoned me.
Go back to your castle
there behind the clouds
and leave me be
free in the darkness

Father's Day

I sat in my car
at the parking lot
of the Target store

with a Father’s Day
card I had just bought
for you

It had a lovely message
on the cover
and inside

words like ‘love’ and
‘gratitude’ in cursive form
words I never would

say to you but
are nice things
to have

in a Father’s Day
card. But I wanted
to write a personal

message. Something
from my heart. Something
honest

So I wrote
Dear Pa
on the blank side

of the card and
I stared
at the blankness

-Father's Day 2005

Bridge

Children of immigrants are the bridge, we say.
They connect the alien land of their parents
to the alien land of their adoption.
We say that as if we are according them
a great honor.
As if we aren’t trampling on them, every time
we want to get to the other side
for whatever reason.
As if they aren’t the first things we burn when
we are fed up with the other side
for whatever reason.

Untitled #1

When I am away from you
I am a torrential river of words
When I am face to face with you
words leak from me
dripping down the drain
one awkward drop after another

Haiku #1: On seeing a contrail

An airplane slowly
draws a razor blade across
the skin of the sky

Scenes from Interstate 280

I.
At 70 miles an hour
I can swallow the torrent
of mountains and trees
and not spill
a single drop

II.
The pasture rolls and tumbles
and crashes into my face
like a wave that carries
in its wake a few grazing cattle
and a giant satellite dish
that is too big
for my shell collection

III.
The sun sits
like an old-timer
on the tops of
the Santa Cruz mountains
and blows clouds of
rust-colored smoke
as he dips
his tired legs
in the silver lake

and watches the trail
of ants on their
weary journey home
at 70 miles an hour

IV.
A herd of clouds stand
grazing at the tops
of the mountains
Evening comes
and they lumber
across the freeway
to where I do not know
but I’m sure as hell not
stopping for them

Boy on a bus

The boy sat; quietly, immobile
slowly drowning in an oversized blue jacket
his pant leg straining to reach the black shore
of his fake Adidas sneakers
but failed, exposing the white sock
that continued screaming for help
though all hope was lost

A girl got on the bus
and sat next to the boy
Her boyfriend, a
freckle-faced
sandy-haired
sandal-wearing
lip-ringed
punk of a boy
sat next to her
playing with her golden hair
all the while carrying on
an indistinct, incoherent
and utterly forgettable conversation
that teenagers are wont to do

The boy stared; quietly, immobile
at the golden slippers
next to his black Adidas
Without turning his head
his eyes sailed up her black pantyhose
past the knees
to where it disappeared
underneath the brown skirt
to a place of mystery and mythos
a place where men through the ages
slew dragons
rescued maidens
crossed oceans
murdered natives
a place known to the conquistadors of old as
el dorado

On and on he navigated
up the summer dress
in the winter’s warmth
of San Francisco
Dusts of gold on the dress
spurring our conquistador on
that mad quest to the mother lode
He climbed that final mountain
That stood between him and his treasure
and there he stood; quietly, immobile

The treasure he could never touch
with his bare hands
forever buried in the brown of her dress
with just enough lying above ground
taunting our poor hero

Long he stared; quietly, immobile
Until she and her boyfriend
broke up over another girl
and she swore that
all boys are jerks
Until she fell in love
with her professor in college
and married him without graduating
Until she divorced him
over some student
and she swore that
all men are boys and
all boys are jerks
Until she married another
and then another
Until luck or love or statistics
caught up with her
and she married the man
who knelt by her death bed
and drenched their fused hands
with angry tears and swore that
god is a jerk
Until the last passenger got off the bus
and the driver went back
to his Chinatown home
to a warm meal and hot sex
and no one noticed
the blue jacket