julia-leung-1
American
i have an open heart and closed ears, because we need to hear with what's most important. i'm boring, mundane, redundant and monotonous, and it's a wonder you're still reading this. i am not a writer, however. it is a title i am not worthy of. i am just a being with the ability to piece words together to form a cohesiveness that breathes like silk and your grandmother's itchy knitted sweater - comfortable, familiar, and imperfect.
How is it,
you ask
and when we open our mouths,
instead you devour the words,
waving utensils,
knitting your eyebrows
like the crochet tablecloth.
Dinnertime conversations revolve
around loud voices
as we wipe our lips with
napkins –
tinged with
regret and bitterness
and sip from our glasses
filled to the brim with
liquid lava,
warmly trickling down our throats –
choking on sobs.
We eat off the plates that
contain nothing but
crumbs –
leftovers of our dreams,
and excuse ourselves while
shoulders slump
and the last bite of remorse
melts away
and when
the words have made the air
heavy.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
The sun sets and the bedroom doors
close and we are left
with fingers on our lips
and suppressing laughter
shaking our shoulders.
Yet the wind is warm and
so is your arm linked with mine
as we brush the callous grains away
quickly
together,
our arms moving
in unison.
Smooth and complete
with lines that
promise longevity
and light
hearted just like us,
you whisper.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
all you want are pretty girls
with painted lips and bright eyes.
girls with soft voices and
soft hands and soft hearts.
girls with their necks on yours
and hips on yours
and lips on yours.
girls one in a million,
but a dime a dozen.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
feel the rush of the wind against your cheeks,
and taste the arid air, suddenly interrupted by torrential downpours.
warm. wet. moist.
scintillating dewdrops in the midst of gray skies and hot weather.
fog masking our view.
coquette: her skin plump and soft, like peaches.
thin fabrics tinged with the slightest traces of sweat.
and the sweetest scent of summer.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
night falls again and
i’m racing against the clock and
for some reason, i’m losing.
quiet murmurs escape your lips and
the taste of persimmons and
strawberry lip balm linger.
dissipating slowly, your skin and
your voice and
your face.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
i wake up
to blinking messages
that i managed to ignore
because my lids were fastened shut.
i have a tendency to fall asleep
during conversations.
but i love tuesday mornings,
(this semester, at least)
because that extra hour
and a half
of sleep
keeps me going through the day.
i spent most of the morning
browsing through
missed connections
on craigslist.
i wonder,
maybe one of these are for me.
maybe i’ll find my soul mate.
or maybe i’ll get kidnapped.
three hour lectures
are the least favorite part of my tuesdays.
that
and math.
i don’t understand matrices.
but i’m too proud to ask for help.
i slept, though.
in art
because i couldn’t
seem to focus
on industrial design
or my
professor’s racist
and sexist remarks.
but at least the day’s over.
and i managed to get
home
right before it started
to rain.
law and order
is on.
maybe i want to be
a police officer.
just like
when i watch house,
i want to be a
doctor.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
my stomach has never hurt
so hard
from laughing because i’ve met
some of the best people
to share it
with.
it’s two in the morning
and we decide
perhaps it is time to start
the work that we should’ve
done ahead of time.
and in the morning,
we promise we’ll finish
but instead
we sit and laugh, again.
this time, inappropriately.
the professor’s watching,
and we aren’t getting our work done.
the mexican restaurant
ironically run by asians
is closed.
again.
i’m craving enchiladas.
so i make do with second tier
ones from gramercy.
they’re not bad.
but i prefer
the ones from the mexican restaurant
run by asians.
i sit bundled up,
half free-writing, half asleep,
and i take the person sitting in front of me
and use them to my advantage.
perhaps if i move my head
just a little to the left,
the professor won’t see me
nodding off to sleep.
(i just wanted a little nap).
but i resist
and we present
half-heartedly.
i don’t think we really cared
about the new chancellor
about bloomberg
and about joe torre.
the library brings a welcome change,
and i see a familiar face.
and we sit together
and we laugh
and before we know it,
it’s time for class.
again.
this time,
i make haste
to allow my eyelids to flutter
until they are cemented shut
as Descartes is explained to us
by our passionate
but flighty
professor.
i wake up in time
to be assigned into a group.
(what are we arguing again?)
something about the senses
and how to use them.
and whether we are certain.
i dislike debates like this.
i feel uncertain already.
and philosophy
makes me even more uncertain.
uncertainer. uncertainest.
the train ride home is a haze.
and i am glad to be home.
even though the living room
is missing
its lively chatter
half
from my parents
and half
from the television.
but they’ll be home soon,
and all will be right.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Sylvia speaks to me in tongues
That no one else understands.
And the words she whispers
Collectively poison me.
slowly.
She speaks of love songs
And of thunderbirds that
Do not return,
And I wonder if she was
Speaking about you
and me.
But Sylvia, unlike I, did not
Understand that there
Was more to life
Than diaphragms and
Of forgotten lovers -
she did not have you like I do.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 5:47 PM UTC
as silence escapes
your quivering, timid lips,
my valves desist (they are rebellious).
but like the dark birds
that depart to seek refuge,
(there is none) they return to proper order.
and again, i am
at peace with myself-
with the world and with your empty reflection.
it is my red chest
(not my heart) that pains me so.
and the hired help refuses to answer my calls.
postmortem, shallow;
used to define what is left
of the shell that sits, lonely, on my dresser.
i find no answer
for the questions you don’t ask.
yet your eyes cast down, as if i disappoint.
(let’s pray that this passes.)
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC
Acknowledge my smile, return it,
Yet love is still deferred by the glass planes
Of your ribs, guarding your heart from my greedy hands.
Like a serpent’s tongue my own seeks its home,
Behind my lips that belong against yours,
That taste of fruit from the garden of Eden.
I cannot help that glutton plagues me
Of the lust and love of your throbbing pulse,
Satiate my wanton needs and my aching veins.
Desperately, I cried, like the watchmaker,
Whose palpitations become erratic when he hath no business,
And when he cannot fix something so simple as the cadence of his own heart.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 8:57 PM UTC