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Erica Chen Mar 2014
In my hand, a
boreal owl has died -
Waiting for the spirit to

The softness of her feathers,
the beauty of this other form
of life. I look

White and perfect.

Shelter. It sounds so handsome.
Comforting, (real), true -
and yet it is a little wall between a
person and all the rest.
So little there.

The fragility of crystal after crystal can
be my killer.

One small thing plus another equals
a power greater than any shelter humans can

Without electricity.
I am surrounded

by comfort. All of a piece -
myself and the world. Close to
one another.

Boundaries are gone.
Distance has changed.
The rock above are closer

than before. The trees in the
moonlight, the horses so close
I can see the ghost of

their breath.
A scatterin' poem from "Snow" by Linda Hogan, published by "Orion" - Spring 2011.
Erica Chen Jul 2011
When going out he would wear handcuffs
in case he committed a crime. A mistake,
or rather, a misunderstanding. In rusty
vintage handcuffs, in an age of Unschuld,
his hunger for the white statue lies bleeding.

The dingy leather jacket still smells like his
old basement, and reminds him of every
whisper at those hurtful, mindless
nights - you cannot wash out the blood. It ends
with a diminutive scream.

                                                              ­                               An angry old man with a Walther pistol, going nowhere,
                                                                ­                                   going everywhere, breathes out Visage-Beatha, a box
                                                                ­                                                 full of Ashes, snores when the bullets run out.

Chin up, chest out, do what a soldier do the best,
would you?    Look ahead, turn left -
               Wait, wait, please!
    …                       Give ‘em a mask,
                                       they’ll tell you anything

The last piece of skin fell off his back when he
heard his bones crashed. An empty sleeve too.
Open his mouth, look for a rightful darkness -
but hey, who said that ****** never hurts?

They remember, you know, remember dying,
remember being dead, and die again.

There’s no _ left in her eyes,
(you can’t tell just by
    lookin’ at them anymore),
only the star on her left shoulder
Still remains the frame.
A cold laugh.

The orange juice spilts.

Outside the purple chapel, he smiles into the local
dirt, like a cupcake, looks for a vermin of walking to beat.
To him, after all, Jesus means no more than a name either.

Yet his heart still pumps with Ecstasy at every April, and when
he scratches the tattoo on his chest, (which looks no
less than an idea),
he looks for the handcuffs.

And those hair never grow back.
A rough draft of a poem I am intending to work on for a long time.
Still thinking on a title, my friends called it "the **** Poem".
So be it.
Erica Chen Dec 2010
Smoking a cigarette, she slowly opens her eyes. I wish not to see, if here's what it must be presented to me. The bathroom is steamy and warm, but the water is running cold in the hot tub. She doesn't remember how long she has been here, she doesn't remember what had happened before, she doesn't remember to remember. As she murmurs to herself -
  I hate God.

  The wonder of life could be faded so easily, the
scent of her skin, the touch of her smile
, the loss of
  one family's forever beloved, our family.

  A daughter, a sister, a piece of out heart.

  It's what you live on, you know, mother can't stop
, the agony, the emptiness, father hardly speaks,
  life goes on, I still feel her, after she's gone.

  A tragedy, a mistake, a hole in our soul.

  No, it has nothing to do with bad luck, it's just death,
you know. She stops breathing, her body gives in, and she
  watches herself leaving the room, the world -

  as she's sailing to the other side of her eternity.

  It all began with a piece of bread, she never lates for
, a beautiful morning, and the radio was playing,
  we never heard her, she loves music.

  **** this, now what about the livings?

  Now, what about the livings? We moved, not necessary
, from the home of our heart. It would be easier
  for mom and dad anyway, I've never meant to leave.

  "Don't be afraid, be free, you're now our only."

  I was sent away, along with a part of my sister, who was
supposed to be a part of me too
, and started a new life.
  That's how they call it anyway, it's really cold -

  in this side of the country, this side of my life.

  It doesn't bother me a bit, I wouldn't let it, I have my way
to remember my sister. I've talked her back to life, she's just as real
  as she used to be
, in school, at home, anywhere.

  In life, in death, in the coldness and the stillness.

Look, it's snowing! Yet my heart has never been so warm, maybe, I
, we can seek back our happiness after all. Maybe it has never
left, just like Martha, as I am watching my parents skating through
  the ice, and remembering -

  *She's gone, but not forgotten, she's only one breath away.
After the short story *the Skater*, by Joy Williams.
Erica Chen Aug 2010
Nothing really happened in my life,
never a kiss in the rain, a starless night
by the lake, nor a farewell note under
my pillow. Even so, I got paper flowers for
getting out of the way in Valentine's Day.  

I don't know you, but you've never been a Stranger to me.

You weren't him, were you? You don't
know nothing about me, do you? You
don't even care, you don't have to.
But you break into my life anyway, and
keeping a Smile on my face ever since.

How could you know me so well without knowing me for real?

And I wish you were here with me,
Holding sweetly together, you could
kiss my tears aside. Yet there you
are, not knowing anything, eating
your breakfast with my Goodnights.
To a British Sweetheart
Erica Chen Aug 2010
Up and down
No more spinning
Like a perfect crime
Around the corner
Mud on his shirt
Staying with the
Reeds flowing back
the Prettiest thing in the world
He’s a thinker

So I ran to him the other day
He was looking up the Milky Way
He said It’s precious
But what can you see
Or hear or smell or feel it’s real

He’s a thinker on my way
He’s a thinker of our day
He’s a thinker don’t be surprised
He’s a thinker of our life
He’s a thinker

Quite small
Jump into me
A little bit dry
So let me milk you
Well I gotta admit
the ******* of it is
As simple as we used to be
I am a thinker
You don’t know me

A drunk silly little Irish cat
He’s gay and he used to be my pet
Listen, one day he told me
He’s gonna walk away
From my broken roof that he can’t stay

I’m a thinker on your way
I’m a thinker of your day
I’m a thinker don’t be surprised
I’m a thinker of your life
I’m a thinker

Straight up
Here come the dreamers
Colour their insanity
Behind your paradise
Well in this filthy world you live
No-one really gives a ****
They won’t listen until you died
Wasted in Black and White
You’re the thinker

You let them kiss your pretty face
And ***** you with their ***** says
You’re naked and you started to smile
With tears fallin’ from your eyes

You’re a thinker on my way
You’re a thinker of our day
You’re a thinker don’t be surprised
You’re a thinker of our life
You’re a thinker
This is the Lyrics of a little folk song I wrote long time ago.

When I was young and still believe in Rhyme.

Erica Chen Aug 2010
It’s the middle of the day,
and I am drunk. Without a
drop of Alcohol, not a smell
of any Wine. The sense of
being sober completely give
in once I have him in mind.

I’ve found myself miss you a lot today.

I thought I heard the gunfire,
the deep crack on his smile, I
thought I saw it, when the
bullet took the temperature
away from him, I can feel,
my earth is crashing down.

You’re the best dream I’ve ever had.

Be not afraid of the Death, he
said, we’re born to be ruined.
They would curse you for the
leaving, but what can they do
– to **** you again after you died?
He grined, with tears in his eyes.

Contagious, contagious, contagious
I am writing a Series Poetry about " the 27 Club " people.

And of all, Kurt Cobain is the one I feel Connected the most.
Erica Chen Aug 2010
It has nothing to do with the manipulation,
she said. I don’t mind living under a
Shadow, by a thread, or a loaded gun.
It’s the openness that angers me, you
know, they seize every secret inside
my most intimate idea, and scoff at it.
Even something covert like missing you.
I think I am losing it...
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