Satan’s Daughter

va_dali_diner_pr_148_149_1608151836_id_1071940-e1522327799640.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My brother with the brows of a pale fire

My brother with lips the color of jaundice

My brother with black failing legs

Legs broad and floundering like stranded white fishes.

My brother with the lids of a desperate summer

With fingernails the shape of guitar strings

With nine fingers born out of sine waves and the other

saved for amputation.

 

My brother who is a clown

My brother who slaughters with his chin

My brother who chants the chants of Satan

whose mouth reeks of salmon and phenylalanine

with impunity.

 

My alien brother whose eyes differ by nondisjunction and whose

teeth fluctuate to temperature rising.

 

My brother of cancerous skin and glass-hearts.

My brother of lightning upon lighting in the middle of a black subcutaneous rain.

My brother the only hermaphrodite daughter of his many Fathers’.

 

the way we drink it

The first time we drank it

the incense cut our throats raw, diffused

up a concentration gradient of

sawdust & gaseous disease as she

said to me, tongue purple & jiggling:

“Under the dying sun our faces were

a shade of iron comparable to rain.”

She wrapped her little finger around

mine that were elongated by

the illusion that we engulfed

between lunch breaks & our upper lips.

She touched it with her tongue, gave birth to it

brooding beneath pale eyes & black

warring teeth. They disagreed often

but were loyal to her heart.

Edvard_Munch_-_Train_Smoke_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg

Outlanders

This is what i think about

palpitating under 2 am peace and steady cement:

Between the newspaper office

and home by a ceremonial mountain

is a place called summer; our skin liquifies

every time we trespass in floral ties and birth certificates

umbrella-blessed against harsh winds or sunshine.

we have a way of protecting ourselves,

dematerializing the way stars do against nights of neon and insomnia

stars fading like dreams of outlanders

severed, misplaced, lost to the winds of an oceanic summer—

and we, glassy-eyed and lovestruck

with sick humor and ceremony, lose our sleep

by the hooks of our noses.

music.jpg

Spring Views–a translation

I translated one of my favorite Chinese poems–Chun Jing (Spring Views) by Su Shi. Here’s the original poem:

 

花褪残红青杏小。燕子飞时,绿水人家绕。枝上柳绵吹又少,天涯何处无芳草

墙里秋千墙外道。墙外行人,墙里佳人笑。笑渐不闻声渐悄,多情却被无情恼。

Blooms fade as apricots sprout. Swallows spread wings, green waters entwine village houses. Catkins of willows taken by wind, to the end of the earth divine grasses abound.

Mirth within walls heard by those without. Pedestrian pauses, inside the maiden laughs. Laughter fades and no sound comes, sentimentality thwarted by the unsuspecting girl.

It’s impossible to capture the beauty of this poem in translation. The rhythm and much of the imagery is lost.