Jedd Ong

Jedd Ong Feb 2014

I.

My teachers tell me
(Cockeyed and smirking)
That my looks
Can be deceiving.

Bastos ka pala?

And they're not wrong.

Disrobe me, and
You will find

**** and ash
Running up my veins,

Unvirgin pupils
Lapping up
Every last drop
Of that
***** joke.

II.

Oh, how the rain falls!

Well.

Jedd Ong Jan 2014

He had a childhood too

The statue runs
Swathed in white;
Naked.

Leaping from his mama's
Outstretched arms-
Still frozen
As he twists and shouts,

Her face flush with quiet pride
As he toddles on the carpet—

And everyone sleeps.

Jedd Ong Jan 2014

Untitled

Sometimes I wonder whether
The monsters underneath our beds
Have simply learned
To leave us alone

Fully knowing that the fear comes
Regardless.

Knowing that many times we scare
Ourselves into thinking
Once we dream
We will never wake.

That every night we hear
Sirens
And ambulances wailing-

Mistaking them for gunshot wounds
Buried deep within
Our chests waiting
To resurface.

And we dream of our stretchers.
Of if our arms
Will seamlessly tuck
Into
Our chests as we curl up
Beneath the smoke and
Rubble
Of to-
Morrow.

As if our sleep leaves open wounds
Left for them to
Sew.

It's getting late.

Jedd Ong Jan 2014

The meaning of the listless tree that resides outside my classroom window

I.
What I notice first
Is how taut the fisherman's pole is,
Yanking the line—
Like a joint before it splits
Sinew and bone.

II.
I am far from the riverbed.
Resting in my place are
Undiscovered
Nappers.

III.
As my eyes flicker,
The hallowed Lamps of
God light a path under my feet.

IV.
"'Cher, can I go to the restroom?"

V.
As I walk, the only thing
That strikes me is how still the young
Sapling is.

VI.
Wind slaps me in the face so hard
I wear a Breaker.

VII.
I spend two minutes prying open the sapling.

VIII.
Well, after I ****, of course.

IX.
Ernest Hemingway once said
To zone in on what exactly it is that draws you to something.

X.
Like the tautness of a fisherman's line, for example.

X.
Or her nimble fingers.

Jedd Ong Jan 2014

As You Are

They sing songs
Of desert gypsies
And chain smoking bulls,

Of mirages that kiss
Your throat
And linger quietly

Waiting,
While you quickly catch
Your crumpling breaths,

Drunken wisps
Of sandpaper snow
Flickering and coarse—

Palms warm to the touch.

Jedd Ong Jan 2014

St. Peter's Cathedral

The sutures of granite stone
Slip seamlessly and stand—

Ignorant of the storms that
Weather its skin—

Gold and diamond visage
Shivering—hollow—
Eyes refusing to glaze over—

Arms clasping the afflicted.

To the godly. Also experimenting a bit with some Dickinson punctuation marks.

Jedd Ong Jan 2014

To the Sea

The deeper you stare into
The flotsam,
The clearer our origin stories
Become:

We are shipwrecks.

Islands
Bro-

ken Like bread and
Doused in
Salted wines.

We are cupbearers,

Slaves
With rusted chains
That dangle
Loosely
From our ankles,

Shrouding our skin from the harsh
Freedom

Sun offers.

From a harbour, not a beach. More your story than mine.