Yuyin: The remnants of a sound that stay in the ears of the hearer

I visit the place where my father grew up.

A tall, beige building,

ornate with red

and yellow tiles. A mosaic

of time passing from

another world I am

an intruder, usurping memories;

rapscallioning.

This is the closest

we will ever come to an embrace

I think, pressing my

forehead

to the passenger side window

(which is) sweating with cold.

My brother is balding

and I am embarrassed to

see him:

this is also a testament.

He is here out of habit; I am grasping for one.

I live on the other side of this Peninsula

but the space the separates my Brooklyn from

this Brooklyn

is thick and rippling,

like churning through an ocean

of uninterrupted butter.

It takes years for me to get here and

next time I will row faster,

I think of saying.

There is a Ginkgo tree leaning

into us

from behind the glass.

She is heavy with leaves like

canary

wings fluttering.

I cannot help but wish for larger hands

so that I might wrap them around her slender

trunk and shake them free.

I am too familiar with

the stench of

fruit, chalky pink, seeds like wrinkled

plums that rest between the

gravel and sidewalk.

Everything her turns yellow first.

Act III, COMPLETE DARKNESS. Naked.

You say
We are communicating through unrelated
acts of insecurity

I say
Kiss me, I am beautiful.

You say
I am a mountain goat in the poolhouse, bucking

I say
I am one thousand wild horses.

You say
Artichoke flowers, a book of thorns incapsulated

I say
listening, always.

You say
I appreciate you

I say
but what does that mean?

You say
until the tide comes in

and turtles freckle the shore like dark, glass plates

I say
you say nothing.

and you say nothing

1. MAHJ: To be beautiful after having a disease.

We are touching through plasma
like those
new un-poppable bubbles
gooey magenta spheres
as with chewing gum
that sticks to your fingers

Becoming closer poses the question:
What you are seeing: Feathers

all over the floor due to
cheap pillows

desperately,

I
Collect lovers like seashells
isn’t that what beaches are for?
Then mortar and pestalling
to create something evenly ground
It is always “that time”
but I am still keeping the cat

and in the end I will say one sentence
and it will be not the right one
because that is much more accurate

Cyclically

This is natural

as good as the gap between keys

my gut feels full of bricks again

like brimming with things not to say

Instead, I dream

of stuffing dead fish with lychee nuts

the entrails snaked along a subway platform

we are two women sloshing fingers--

not to forget our nails--

"The f-train is coming!"

all this in honor of friendship, I will suppose.

Isn't stomach material so different

than the lizard skin

of these fruit; We pinch through

Con sus cascaras rosas y brillante

(too beautiful for mine)

these are more real to me than

you are real, now.

I wish I had squeezed

the fish carcasses to my chest

watching their rubbery eyes bulge.

And in fistfulls

pealed,

grape-ish and translucent

all of it in disguise, and then

I become digusting

over you

anyway.

Unsolved Mysteries was on Television

I remember eating grapes in the living room.  Hot skin stuck to iced marble, knees

scraping against rough granite unders.  The lights were dim and fogged and we did not sit

close together      just like you to watch only

because the most efficient parts of the story are the only parts.  And I counted myself: there were

twelve for "Cada uva significa un segundo" I often remember without remembering why

as one connects freckles on the insides of her

dimply skin pursed under examination:

memories come to me like bruises

purple, sore and warm.

Making things more mysterious, I think: is that what you wanted?

Also Known as Strawberry Fields

They are selling Strawberry Globe Amaranth

at the farmer's market on Saturdays.

I hunger to tell someone this;

think about shouting it over

the television voice

bubbling out about

God Knows

in the living room.

If someone would just

Lower the volume!

Bright flowers;

Spike/fuzzy ruby cubes--

Please,

I am looking for something

like the pigeons in our window box

when it's raining.

And if I kissed the screen

I would feel caterpillars whispering;

I want lips like the fuzz-flower strawberries.

Wouldn't one kiss me then.

Sweet crackers,

I put everything into my mouth!

Like Wildflowers

or returning home

or finding socks in the bed:

you come to me in all the wrong moments.

Tonight I find you in a parking lot

walking home from the train station

a forest;

weeds peeking past pavement

[This burough so full of

accidental gardens]

and stop to investigate.

Through bent chicken wire,

black shapes twining and

looping in the dark; swaying

billows of grass.

I squint my eyes

to make out a

sooty feline crouched

as if blooming

between the Dandelions

and Queen Ann's Lace;

eyes like red beams and

slip under I

dig my knees into the dirt,

finding a sudden urge to hold

I wade through towards a clearing and

you

I find you there instead

limbs splayed.

Together

we stuff lightning bugs into our mouths

by the handful;

we eat them like peanuts.

Busy Signal

buttons, jammed

your telephone is

that where you've gone?

Mending and un-mending,

finally, I clip the seams.

I find myself somewere else

the machine reads:

Game Over, and then

puts another coin in

one hand on my--

We've stopped discovering eachother!

I want to scream,

but the reciever melts like cream cheese.

Come home to find

the cat is sleeping on your jeans;

the headline reads:

Saddest Movie Ever.

My mother made her

scrub the tiles white, teeth white,

hands and knees.

Not everything is worth sharing

In any cafe

You are touching me,
the word is saying.
The eyeball bats its lashes.
Stop holding me, the hand is saying,
leaving only sweat smudges.

When you look at me, and I feel
I feel—

that particles of air are incinerating
the hair of my forearms,
and that tiles are made of electric sand.

If I could help it,
I would be the giant fern in it's fern pot beside
that mouse in the corner
(yellow walls and uneven, circular tables)

As I see it,
we are both only good for hands on a table,
so I watch the mouse instead.

The mouse thinks:
there are too many computers;
not enough crumbs
and I agree.

An Excuse

"Your tomatoes are dying,"

my mother calls me on the telephone.
"Aphids," my mother says.

I come home to see her
the plant, I mean,

stems heaving and drooping.
"Didn't you watch her while I was gone?" I ask.
My mother keeps quiet

I finger her fuzzy leaves--

soft as the skin on a baby's ear.

I spend the day swathing soapy liquids

over her undersides.
My mother watches from across the porch.

the brown specks cling and twitch

about her vein-y reaches.

"I knew it was something

when green ones stopped coming,"

my mother says.

I eye the dying tomatoes:

(deflated. Crimson

and puckered).

and then my mother,

standing in the door way,

hip pressed into the sliding door.

We both flick our fingernails

when we are thinking

An act of Violence

A fruit vendor on Clinton begins selling only peaches.
I pass him in the mornings, on my way to the train.
Each day he smiles and yells from his silver cart:
"Sweet peaches!"
and I smile back.

Most pedestrians keep on; nobody here wants peaches.
Some will pause from time to time, bewildered by the uninterrupted mirage
of pink fruit:
"No apples?" a woman in a purple skirt-suit might say.
"Just peaches!" the vendor will exclaim, shaking his pudgy cheeks.

"There is no market here for you,"
I stop to say to him, on a Tuesday.
He cocks his head.
"If only you had grapes!" I say.
The vendor humphs:

"Just peaches! Always succulent, very sweet!"
He holds up a peach in his fist, and shakes it at my nose.
"No thanks," I say.

Time makes the vendor nervous.
"Once they only wanted peaches,"
the vendor stops me in the rain.
He grasps me by the wrist, so sudden, that a few droplets of coffee
spill from the paper cup I am holding.
"They left my poor bananas to rot!" he says.
I press my lips together tightly.
The vendor's trembling is frantic.
There are beads of sweat and precipitation clinging to his bristly mustache.

"I will take a peach today," I say,
loosening his hand from my wrist,
fishing through my pocket for
a warm nickel and dime.

The vendor scuttles to his cart,
collects three fleshy mounds between the fingers of his one hand
and stuffs them into my purse.

April 1, 2008

He handed me the zebra plant,

sweating--  
"It flowers," he was saying,

pushing it into my chest.

And then we were plucking apples
off trees in an orchard.

Fat trunks trembling, 

everything washed in purple, 

and tiny spirals of color 

pirouetting down the page.
When I closed my eyes we would stop spinning.

 

The worms
in the earth,
slick and wriggling,
the texture of overripe, cherry tomatoes
between two fingers.

The Girl Who Spewed Daisies

Something
something was happening--
She spit a sticky rosebud
out the corner of her mouth
like a sesame seed;
furrowing her brow
and brought the funnel to her lips.
She spewed daisies;
He was quiet.
We used to plant them in rows, she said, finally.
the bulbs, I mean. 
He looked to her from behind the kitchen table: 
Who will pour my milk now? he said,
shifting in his seat.
She was busy pressing on her puffed cheeks.
They feel like worms inside of me, she said.

This was a whisper.

One began to flower on a square of porcelain tile
and it was like ripples in red water.
He fished into a glass before him, with his finger:
for the last drop.
Don’t reach for me! she screamed,
swatting at invisible flies from where she was pacing

Kiss me, he called back.

Story

The Tree Man

The Tree Man is growing his roots. His wife and daughter have left him, and now, only his mother remains and he calls, "more water, I need more water," from the yard as he stands near the swing where he used to push Jessica.

It happened on a Sunday in late February, when there was no longer any snow on the ground in the El Dorado Hills of California and the Tree Man was watching television in his living room. His mother had been sewing in her blue printed armchair behind him and Marie, the Tree Man's wife, flipped omelets in the kitchen. The Tree Man stretched his leaf-ridden limbs out as he clicked away on the remote with a mossy digit. Where once had been toes, now he saw viny stumps twitching, and his bare calves, if you could call them bare, what with the amassing fur of lichen that had devoured his lean body whole, barely bent at the knees any longer. The Tree Man hated the news now, and the programs about murder mystery or average-Joe families; nothing of this world applied to him anymore. The Tree Man had tried to suppress his thoughts of the forest, his desires to be with the tall grass and poppy and grand oaks always. These things would understand him, he would find his mind reasoning, and then he would realize what that might mean: losing his Marie and his mother, his sweet Jessica with freckles and tiny hands. The Tree Man could tell that his wife had begun to lose patience in the way the pans and dishes clamored as Marie used and washed them. It hadn't been long since he had grown too large to sleep in their bed beside her and yet, he could hardly remember the sensation of cool linen against flesh or the scent of her black, glossy hair in the evenings after a shower.

"Breakfast is ready. Jessica!" Marie had called from the kitchen. The Tree Man watched as his small daughter flounced down from her bedroom, two stairs at a time and he smiled. Smiling was something he had begun the take great pleasure in doing, as it was one of his last unscathed features. The transformation had been kind to his face as of yet, his nose still strong and straight, his brows still full and dark. The Tree Man had once been a handsome man, and he knew this of himself.

"Hi Daddy!" Jessica said to her father. She hopped towards him and curled her pale arms around his fuzzy neck. Jessica liked how her father looked as a tree, she had told him. "Your belly is soft, daddy," she had said one afternoon, her hand to his stomach, while he was sitting on the couch in the living room reading with his shirt off. It had become difficult for him to wear shirts now-a-days. The Tree Man kissed Jessica's cheek and watched as she galloped into the kitchen and sat at the long marble counter onto which Marie had arranged several plates. The thick aromas of sausage and syrup wafted towards the Tree Man and he moved to stand slowly as his mother was passing by on her way into the kitchen.

"You alright, baby," she said, glancing down at him apology in her eyes. She was a short and sturdy for a woman of her age, with very few wrinkles, and she could have helped him stand if he had chosen to ask, but he didn't.

"I'm fine ma," he said. But the Tree Man was not fine. He was having much more trouble standing than he'd ever had before and he realized, after a moment, that the cause was his left heel. It had begun to attach itself to the carpeting in the short while that he had been sitting and each time he moved to lift his heel he could see the stretchy roots that had melded pull the grey carpeting upwards.

"Breakfast!" Marie called again, louder, when he did not enter the kitchen with the rest of his family and finally the Tree Man gave in.

"I can't," he said in a desperate voice. He could hear his mother and daughter clinking away with their silverware, their stools making little grunts against the tile floor as they pulled themselves into the table. Marie stomped through the airy door that connected the bright kitchen to the living room with its shades drawn, her honey colored irises ablaze. She took a long look at the Tree Man, who was still pulling at the carpet gently with his heel, and avoiding his wife's eyes. 

"You're ruining the carpet," Marie said finally, and left The Tree Man's breakfast plate at his side where he fumbled to lift it with his twig–fingers, returning to the kitchen with a sigh.

After ripping the Tree Man's foot from the carpet with help from his mother and Jessica, he moved himself outside. At first the Tree Man's roots were weak and slow to come and so he spent much of his time pacing so as took stay mobile; he paced while he read in the yard to himself or to Jessica in the afternoons, when she was home from preschool. As it was still early in spring and often was cold or raining, he would tell Jessica to stay on the porch with her parka buttoned to the neck and he would read loudly. Her favorite was The Napping House, because of the pictures and the napping dog, and he would read it, often with an umbrella wobbling in the crook of his bent arm, and then turn it so that Jessica might see the colorful illustrations from where she stood, elbows perched on the white balcony railing. When he would get tired he stood still, and allowed his feet to plant themselves a little and engulf themselves in the soil; his twig-toes would tingle with delight, and the furry branches that had begun to sprout from his shoulder blades would flutter. Marie and the Tree Man's mother had hoisted an old bench up to where he most liked to plant himself, near Jessica's tire swing, so that he could sit if he so pleased, though he scarcely did as it hurt his knees. Marie rarely visited him. He would see her white sedan as it eased into the driveway in the evenings when she was returning from work at the hospital and out of the driveway in the early mornings but only once did he see her face alone in the nights, when he was lonely and his mother and Jessica had long since gone to bed.

She had approached him as a ghost in the night, seemingly translucent at first and he was petrified. When she came closer through the cool-March darkness however, he was ecstatic to make out her fluid form approaching.

"You don't know me any more," she said, staring at him with her face close to his, so close that he might kiss her lips, dark as slices of plum, if he thought she'd let him. There was nothing he wanted more than for Marie to love him again. He did not answer.

"What can I do with a tree for a husband; a tree that never speaks to me, or cannot hold my hand?" Marie said, her voice growing urgent. The Tree Man looked at his wife and he wondered how this all came to be; how he could have become this man that was no longer a man and why it was that he could not find anything to say to the woman he loved anymore. The Tree Man did not remember the moment at which he had first begun to turn into a tree.

"I wish," the Tree Man said. "I wish—" but Marie cut him off.
"I wish for a lot of things, husband, but most of all, I wish not to be reminded of you anymore by the expression on this miserable tree's face," she said, and then stumbled back the porch steps and into the warmly lit house. This was the last time the Tree Man saw Marie.

The Tree Man's daughter came to say goodbye the next day.

"We're going on vacation, daddy," Jessica said, tilting her head at her father. Mommy says you're too tired to come," Jessica finished as if in inquiry. She wore a purple knapsack around her shoulders and he could see in her face that she didn't really understand that she was leaving. He bent down carefully and kissed Jessica's cheek without wrapping his arms around her. The Tree Man felt embracing had 
become too difficult with his cumbersome chest twined with rings of wood and vine. Where once the Tree Man had nipples were dark nodes.

The Tree Man let his soft roots grow more and more now that his wife and child were gone. His mother would come out to check on him many times a day and ask him:

"What can I cook for you, my son?", "What can I get you to read, my son?" But the Tree Man no longer wanted food, with his roots reaching into the soft and fertile soil.

"There is nothing I want anymore, I can no longer remember wanting," the Tree Man would respond and his mother would leave him again, walking slowly into the house, turning to look over her shoulder at her son again and again as she walked.

The Tree Man prefers to stand dormant now, meditating like the old, broad-topped tree to his side from which the tire swing hangs. He often has to remind himself, it was my daughter, Jessica's, just to know he is awake.

Now the Tree Man stands in his spot always. Replaced by the fragile roots that used to impede his step, are thick woody reaches that pull down from his hips and now even his chest. The Tree Man has lost his ability to separate his legs and since had his mother snip off what remained of his tattered shorts with kitchen scissors before they could burst. The Tree man can still turn his neck if he so pleases although he rarely does; soon he will lose this privilege too. The Tree Man's mother watches from the open living room window through her sewing circles and frowns at her son but does not come out many times a day like she once did. Only when he calls for water does she visit. The Tree Man's mother will walk to her son's spot slowly with a large, tin watering can and tip it to his roots and he will drink.

No Descriptions Please, I've got livechat

I do all of my hating in bed
lying next to you.
The two of us back to back,
like slices of peanut butter and 
jelly-less bread.
We are always lying, to each other

But this has nothing to do with you:
I feel close to no one.

And the socket between my ribs
is full of Poprocks.

I left my heart in Insert location here ;
I don't know what I mean.

Maybe all I need are softer pillows.

Planning my Escape

There are things in my basement, sniveling, and no one here believes me. Last night I crawled out a first floor window; scraped my shoulder on lead paint peelings. But they'd gotten to the night too; the sky hanging down, heavy as taught fabric, pregnant with light. In place of stars were pinpricks through which liquid brilliance had begun to spill. I slipped back inside before it could burst above me and sealed the window.

Picking up the Pits

There is nothing in my kitchen for you
save the stench of bleach,
which I bring to bed with me anyway:
Smell my fingers.

My father is in the attic, spitting cherry pits.
Once he spit one into my mouth;
it felt like a tongue, and I am embarrassed to say.

I am not a lover.

Please don't ask me any more,
this is never going to change.

I am giving you pebbles.
Take them in your hand and make a fist,
like jewels grinding against one another
as you compress.

That is how you make me feel.

Translations

Finding the carcass of a cardinal on the road—its blood blacker than asphalt, in the night—I remember my mother, who reminds me of her mother. "Que Jesus me la cuide y me la aga gordita y barigonsita," she'd say—and I'd think, just another part of me that isn't. Exchange the word: family; maybe that would make the difference. She'd say: Kiss the tiger's eye for luck, and I'd pop the glass bead into my mouth, roll it around on my tongue. From her mouth, floorboards don't creak; they croon.

My thoughts on Participatory Economics

We wear wool sweaters
in a cramped bar
(whose walls are painted red)
and sip
mead, which reminds me of
7th grade science class
and the meal worms
sifting them
out of dirt bins.

However, it,
clear as vodka,
isn't.

Tipping the glass back,
doesn't burn.

Thngs that are:

Smashed:

avocados, apples in autumn; apples on asphalt

bananas, blueberries, bread as pudding

clocks in the morning; cantaloupe, cantaloupe
coconuts, cocoanuts, cans of coke

disks, decisions; decisions and distances
dust bunnies in the attic
dandelions and doppelgangers

by elephants, by envy, by eloquence
Easter eggs discovered and eaten
entire ant farms and estranged tadpoles
ectoplasm into walls, walls by eruptions
egos and earthworms, earthworms


figs and fish guts, fascists, fatalists,
flap jacks on fenders and houseflies
foliage in fungus patches
fruit; fruit falling from fruit trees
french fries on pizza, sometimes into Frosties
framboise in brambles and fireflies on accident
a Flinstone vitamin on the kitchen floor
fur into furniture, into furniture

grapes into gafelta fish or grace
government and greed,
gladiolus for fancy salads; garnishes,
graham crackers, granola and griddle cakes,
into gossamer, wearing glitter—party goers
gords while gooseying, gardenias in the garden
gonads by golf balls, under gauze, into gauze
dropped bags of groceries; in Glad bags
glass figures and glasses, then glued, glow worms and
germs by germamphobes, under goat's hooves
goose eggs by weasels and goldfish bowls
gondolas under giants; statues of gargoyles,
guitars by gods, by God, by Godzilla

October 15, 2007

 Records in the Attic

Amongst creaking rafters
and cotton-candy clouds

I cannot un-erase him

Flipping, picking,
like separating cotton swabs

Seven countries
that I don't remember

etched in vinyl,
soft as fingerprints.

My mother said to me:
"You don't know you're human;
body hasn't failed you yet."
and adjusted her spectacles

I wanted to answer:
"You will walk me down the aisle one day."

September 27, 2007

Memory

When I dream, I dream about dying.
Day lurches open: Sweat between my thighs, cat-eyes
blinking out from the closet—
What if death is like being locked in a closet
rattling the door rattling.

Nuremburg, 19th Century:
The foundling explains to his teacher that
before learning to speak
there was no distinction between dream and day.

I recall an incident with moths:
"Don't. They are beautiful too," said a dark woman with soft hands.
She enunciated when she spoke.

The mind as an Iceberg—
Had a Dream Book
but it left in a cardboard box next to purple sketchers.

Last night, by car crash; Tuesday, by giant squid.
Once was a pile of arms and legs in a carpeted elevator.
We, floating up among the orb-ish stars, through a Godless sky.

As a child I used to see red snakes in the tool shed.
What tool shed?

May 3, 2006 (2)

A young woman keeps a pistol under her pillow.  Never used-she touches it each night before she falls asleep.  The boy who stands outside her window says nothing but knows its there.  From his belly, a bullet hole bleeds through a silk shirt. He watches as she paints her toes and scrubs her teeth; she pretends not to see.  When shes crawled beneath her sheets, she mouths to him, come in.

May 3, 2006

We are the same, says one friend to the other.  She touches two faces, she taps two skulls, she nods her head. The other replies: I disagree, and turns to the mirror and then to her friend and then to the mirror again.  And the first friend says, No, no.  You are me and I am you and we do everything we do. But there are two of us, says the second, confused.  She points into the mirror and looks towards her friend who is now walking away.  Come on, she is saying, We want to leave now.  And so she follows.

March 26, 2006

Misleadingly,
This feeling feels new to me
Like moored sailors with sea legs
and now my head is the crumpled laundry
all over this floor

Oh you again, hello--
and I know
the tighter I grip the sand
The faster it slips through my hands
So I'll carry you palms up to the sky
I'll walk slow and step soft.
I will not breath a sound
so long as you'll sit there still.
Your skin burns
the cold out of my fingertips

January 21, 2006

Waiting.

Head pressed hard against the pillow.

My heart in my ears;

I wish the steady drumming,

were coming,

from the pads of your feet

against the hallway carpet,

instead--

Your smell on my sheet

gathers upin my throat

and a few captive tears,

In the dark,

escape onto the cotton.

So this is what foolish feels like.

I am seven years old again,

Waiting for the tooth fairy

To seize the teeth beneath my pillow.