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Apr 2018 · 418
brownstone of my body
Sky Apr 2018
'brownstone of my body,' i had declared
privately my first confession. somewhat
intimate. and as my voice quivered like
name-tags on teenage trees, i hoped you
found me endearing in your brazen ways.
i come off as naive, to your unblinking gaze:
passive, unimpressed, and mostly unfazed.
my small pink feet are soft and raw against
your weathered knees. and you say my belly
is too mellow with its paper-doll creases, flesh
too easily torn by your cut-brick corners, face
too childish for your middle-aged games. but
my thighs are like your alleys, leave no space
for nonsense, is my whole as is my part, if you
can love me for my thighs, i will be content with
something along the lines of 'my brownstone
loves me for my thighs, my thighs
have no alleys and i would have it no other way' and
I would ask no question as the blossom of my tender body is
pinched between your fingers and rolled into a
tiny pink cigar, stamped out before ever being lit.
and i would never ask, is this (ever) womanhood?
draft version
Apr 2018 · 244
What Do Poets Do?
Sky Apr 2018
the water
rushes and swells
tumbles like chaos
off the ledge  
into your palms
chaos, perfected
Apr 2018 · 2.0k
Goose-Goose
Sky Apr 2018
met up with an old friend
Goose-Goose

says he wants to be an artist
born starving,
he says he
wants to be an artist
born starving

his hair,
bleached bone
and bitten-up
brows
looking like a
lead sketch
"am i high-brow yet?

cause i'm

high

but not really, know what i
mean, mean things.

like art,
the girl next door,  
and life. yeah
this
this
******* life
that i'm all about.
to change!"

"to change?"

"yeah,
watch me
GO GO GO
like a ******'
MAGIC--"

"--marker-lookin ***."

"oh"
Poor Goose-Goose is a marker-lookin ***
Apr 2018 · 383
here we are again
Sky Apr 2018
turned 25 and thought
gotta go back,
high-time for home

(home-time for High)

took the bus, route 31
to the
moral-less high-ground

(text my sister)

"no ID, aware, i'm going"  

look up. and
here we are again, big city
New City  
south-side, home despots
licking baby bottle pop
soda-can sidewalks

little brown brother
drinking Fanta with friends
smoking hot-***
at Chang's
like apostolic gang
(gang gang)
High's homecoming
(southside Chicago)

inspired by NCT's new song "Yestoday"
go see English lyrics vid
it's lit
Mark's verse
Apr 2018 · 527
don'tpretend
Sky Apr 2018
girl, don't pretend.
all dressed up in your
drag-me-downs
going Holly in Las Vegas
doing Molly by the Grand

girl, don't pretend.
one day you wake up at Kevin's
the next you wake up at Devin's
you do your make-up for Heaven.

yeah he loves Loosey
'course he do
he loves her
but how about you?

girl, ditch the Gucci
and the *****
and the boujee
folie a you

and don't pretend
to do
the things
that you don't do
lest, I leave you
ya hurd
Apr 2018 · 1.6k
toronto rain
Sky Apr 2018
your eyes,
waxy and chromatic
seeped through my clothes and
soaked my skin,
bent my bones and
dyed my concrete spine
blue magenta.

forgive me, forgive me
my revolving-door mouth,
my pendulum heart,
my clammy hands.

my religion is jazz but
i swear to God,
I'm Roman Catholic.

and so I brought you some tulips,

cause I can't lose you
to New York.
baby give me a chance
Apr 2018 · 186
kid nice
Sky Apr 2018
"yo kid nice!"

Nigerian taxi-driver
peers through the grimy mirror,
fluffy pink snake-eyes bounce
behind tinted glasses.

Ogoga Taxi License
'Simon Okeke'
Expires 02/04/44

i opened my mouth
the car jiggled
nearly bit my tongue.

i tried again.

"him?"
nod towards brooding young male
comfortably man-spreading
three-fourths of the seat

"yeh"

"oh ha, he's not my kid."

I turned to him.

"sorry, your name?"

his head slowly tilted
eyes met mine
with a fantascopic sort of
flick-flick-flick

"you can call me
kid nice."

and his eyes
told otherwise
Apr 2018 · 254
meditation class
Sky Apr 2018
look, you're
overthinking.
again.

let's try this for once,
ok?

just a simple
exercise

just try
try not thinking, just--

--up, you just thought! just--

--hey you thought again, how about--

--you just--

--wait stop--

--hey st--

S T O P  I T !
thinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthi­nkthinkthinkthinkthinkthink...
real struggles
Apr 2018 · 1.1k
Seoul boy
Sky Apr 2018
Seoul boy
nice kid, eighteen, from the East
took on the east side
and the west side

story goes,

his mother knew
"much dings"
and his father knew politics, so
"less dings"

his mother was a woman of
words,
spoke of feminists,
spoke of progress,
read many books and
spoke goot engeulish,

"and your job?"
"No, that is your father question."

huh?

his father was a man that
WAS,
ran for a lot and
stood for a lot and
looked far ahead and
above of his head but
never really

seem to
stop? Seoul boy thought,
of Times Square. Times Square.
TIMES SQUARE
everyday, out there
selling shirts that say
"wo-I-NY"
and umbrellas
when it rained.

(and yes, it rained
in the city of dreams)

soft-lookin' kid
hard cash,
best friends with the
homeless "trash", so-called.

"urban campers,"
"friendly locals!"
"fairly loco?"
"lotsa cOcO."

huh.

Seoul boy, working at a
Greenwich pharmacy

first-time paycheck
first-time real job
first-time AC
first-time man ask me

out

there, somewhere
out there.

what?
your home.
my home? yeah.
no. wait what?

this is home
even gay man knew.
even homeless knew.

even Seoul boy knew.

"best place I am live,
'till die."

he said

"best place is
the New York City."

he said
Apr 2018 · 158
the artist
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.
Mar 2018 · 163
on staying here pt.2
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.
Mar 2018 · 2.9k
on staying here
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.
Mar 2018 · 183
nice calculator
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.
Jan 2018 · 256
BU (for father)
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!
Jan 2018 · 221
he was making small-talk
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.
Jan 2018 · 199
Rose-Lipped Lady
Sky Jan 2018
Outstretched is her palm,
forget-me-not pink,
gaily contrasting with her whitish silhouette and
honeyed lips,
so taciturn by nature

Perhaps it is that gently pursed habit that so draws me in,
the scent of promise and the
taste of paradise

She fascinates me
Dancing with men after most men have gone to sleep,
she later waltzes with the moon
until mortar and pestle have been
reduced to
skipping-stones

Her dress celebration,
Her laughter champagne,
Her manner a Sistine rendition,
“Joy Of Man’s Desiring”

When her lips do part,
not a single sweet sound emerges,
but the muted C sharp of a thousand golden sirens,
inspiring mutiny in men everywhere

And if blood is thicker than water,
honey is thicker than blood, so it is honey
which runs through her trickle veins!

Ludicrous? Perhaps. yet, O Lady
the corners of your sweet lips and fair face to me
betray promises of music,
of moondust, of honey, and

of romance, most devastating
about a boy
Jan 2018 · 203
On the 7
Sky Jan 2018
Somewhere
in the middle of New York
a white-and-blue,
Pacific island:

...
sitting on itself,
prim and low
as if waiting for someone important, but
not wanting to seem so.

sitting on itself,
as if waiting for someone,
many boats go by
(no, not that one...)
(not that one, either...)

sitting on itself,
small and proper
proper and small...
(**** is wet)

sitting on itself...
I wonder How long
has he been sitting there like that,
won't his
feet be cold?
**** be wet?

The lonely island...

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

sit close but
not too close, as if
friends.
in the past few lives but,
not in this one (yet)

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

quietly for a moment
then turn to him and say,
with sparkling Pacific angel eyes
turn to him and say,

"The world needs you, Steve."

And Steve would continue staring off into the distant, blue horizon where
there's not much, save for a
distant, blue horizon
...

but pigeons are not gulls,
gulls are not pigeons.

and the Hudson River
is 315 miles long.

"My name isn't Steve."

— The End —