Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sky Apr 2018
the artist himself
was a man, i noted.
there he stood in the doorway,
pale as paint.

his shoulders suspended
from the door frame,
his elbows hinged.

a scarecrow in spotless slacks
creased to abstraction,
and an off white shirt
half-tucked in, as if to ask:

now sweetie,
do you really?

and yeah,
the whiteness of the man.

he seemed to
pulse transversely
in a space full of white static,
a sort of sacred
secret
stately man,
an artist chaotic,
a Jackson *******-Jesus.

and his face is as white as canvas
he draws on
a cigarette that you hardly notice,
pinched inconspicuous straw between his
Jesus-lips
on his
Jesus-face.

his eyes only grazed mine for an instant,
settled on the wall above me and

"well now
aren't you cute"
Lee, Russell. Age 27. Brooklyn, NY.
Sky Mar 2018
Sing from your diaphragm, she would say to me
sing low, sing low.

I think of
the subway system of my body,
of mice and men,
its systematic chaos and
deep rumbling, as
long silver serpents ricochet off endo,
cardi,
metrium (repeat)
(endo, cardi, metrium)

I am the whale, I told myself.
I am the whale that swallowed the city
in all its alabaster glory and
underground *******,
the Joes and ***** that ride them.
Sky Mar 2018
Queens is home
the Bronx is school
and the city is where I go to die, I declared to my friends.
There’s more to lose than just your wallet and virginity in that city,
it’s a world where
hot, tight, smelly underground ******* beat
faster than human hearts, and
truer than true love.
Sky Mar 2018
don't get me wrong
it's not you that i'm fond of,
it's definitely not you.

in fact, it may be your
chino pants.
they are of
exquisite material,
the type with creases that make you fall
deeply in love

or, it may be the tips of your hair
the craggy peaks of
period 5 physics,
they stand rigid yet leaning like
Smooth Criminal

perhaps your calculator
it's the same color as mine
as you've pointed out

"ayyyyy i like your calc--"

-- nope
definitely not you.
Sky Jan 2018
A hostel, somewhere in Gangnam.

It was around 10, possibly 11
hot chicken in a box, and a man holding it.

A small man
thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****
He wore a light green vest or
rather, it wore him.

And each leg being 10 kilograms
each wing, about 8
and upon later inspection, there were
5 legs and 3 wings thus
74 kilograms, plus the box, then
76 kilograms and that
that
was the weight of his world, which he carried.

...

Her name is Soo-Ae, he said.

She is in the first grade and
can tie her shoelaces,
all
by herself

Ding,
the elevator.

The chicken stepped inside, and
so did the man.

Her name is Min-Ju, he said.

She graduated 3 years later,
but I waited.
For her, I could’ve waited
3 hundred.



(Room 3 hundred three, right?)
(Yes.)

3 hundred,
3 hundred one,
two, and
three.

...

But sometimes,
just sometimes, you see,
shoelaces can tangle badly
like umbilical cords

I’m sorry,
Doctor Lee had said as he
held her hands, shaking
hands shaking hands, shaking

Poor Min-Ju, he said.

Poor Soo-han, he said.



(Beer?)

(Uhm. Any green stuff?)

(Yes.)

(Thank you.)

(Here, I’ll

pour you.)

(Thank you.)



Most of the time,
Soo-Ae unties them herself,
or asks me like,
like
Appa?

swig
(one.)

but did you know, he asked

that the moment that a father gets depressed
is not the moment that he realizes
he cannot do it,
but is the moment that he realizes he must tell his
daughter
that he cannot do it,
and watch, helpless, as half the lights in her eyes
flicker and
die out.

swig
(two.)

Poor Soo-Ae, he said.

Poor Min-Ju, he said.

Poor Soo-han, he said.

(Pour me.
yes
that’s good.)



And
and when your hands start shaking,
like, like
shaking,
they become hard to untie,
those knots.

and everything.

Soo-Ae is no longer in the first grade,
and no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
Sometimes coming home very. late.

Where were you?
*******, you drunk.

Poor Soo-Ae.

Min-Ju is no longer three years younger,
And stays in bed, staring years.
Sometimes waking screaming sobbing.

Where is Soo-Han?
I hear him crying, where is he?

Poor Min-Ju.




Sometimes, big knots become
smaller, and smaller
and that’s when you know your life is over,
or that it’s time to get
new glasses, at least.

and
the liquor
stopped.

...

Do you know
what happens when a knot
cannot be untied?
he asked

My bleary eyes
went from liquor,
to cup.

And finally,
to my father’s hand.



You cut it?

...

No, he said.

...

You keep on trying, whether it takes
three hundred years, or
three hundred and one, or
three hundred and two, or
three hundred and
three.

You keep on
trying.

swig
(three.)

...

And that night, at a hostel
somewhere in Gangnam

my father.

thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****,

wore a sad expression,
or rather,
it wore him. my father.

...

My poor,
poor father.
about a chicken delivery man
Sky Jan 2018
Pursue the horizon, o you! o mine
No longer shall you wander the depth within
Where the years are cold, and dark and endless
And tuck the wool about your shoulders, now

No longer shall you travel alone, o mine
Lighten those eyes and springen that step
Lest you lose your way, and left, you pine
Those dark and endless years, most weary

Yonder you see (alas!) the blue horizon
O you, o mine, do not be disheartened,
do not lose your penchant for enchantments
For it is the horizon that is blue, and not you

And it is blue, for the sodden, downtrodden,
And merely, odd-end...
Is blue, regardless of you!
And you! regardless
rejoice!
Sky Jan 2018
Aren’t you cold?

I.
Me?

the wind swept up the solemn yellow leaves, along with my
solemn yellow feet,
and dusted off the crumbs of yester-was
and yester-would
from the hem of my puffer...

Well,
listen.

I hold your heart in my hand,
it holds itself in my palm,
my palm holds itself onto your heart…
Hold your eyes a bit longer and soon, you too,
can hold mine…

So, no.

(Silence. I shivered from the core, to no avail)

II.
Me?

Meanwhile, Amber October and Brown November lie like crumpled,
dryad carcasses beside my feet.

Hm, I said,

I lament!
the skin on my fingers have frittered away from
countless, dead hours
in colorless computers,
but alas, not from the cold.

(trite)

Hmm, I said,

the skin on my fingers
hangs like a nail.
Never have I thought an unwise flick of a wrist could render me an onion.

(Dear Lord)

A curt laugh, cheap,
cheap-cheap, like the swallows.

but yes,
I am
alright.

(Silence. We both shivered from the core, to no avail)
does he love me? no, he was just making small-talk.
Next page