#fitzgerald
These days I’ve been looking to the past, to all the women before me. The revolutionaries whose words helped shape the way I see the world; the way I see nature; the way I see simple, ordinary pleasures of life become extraordinary.
These days I let my pen flow freely across the page. I look to all the women before me for guidance because I find myself afraid to speak my own truth. They teach me with words how to live presently, never looking back because there’s no room for mistakes to reside here.
These days we’re on a first name basis. With wide-eyed clarity, all the women before me allow a short glimpse of them as they once were: bright young things full of hope with a cigarette loosely balanced between faded red lips and hands that move deftly over a typewriter. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and incense. I can almost smell it now but the vision is gone with the wind.
These days I seek out: Zelda; Sylvia; Anne; Emily; Joan; Virginia. To all the women before me, I have found you. They’re no longer a black and white still photograph or a short film reel. In those moments, they stay forever young etched in time from decades ago.
These days I welcome you all in my waking dreams. To all the women before me, you are not lingering ghosts being passed by unseen. You are not remembered for how you left this earth but for how, after all this time, you still remain unchanging.
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:50 AM UTC
I had my cake and I ate it too,
like all the time in the world that you took.
Adorned with cherries
and decorated with cream,
like the taste of my lips
that is only a thing of your dreams.
I thought I have once
tasted a slice of heaven,
only for it to rot away to
a thing from hottest hell.
I had my time and you took it too,
like my faith and my core that you shook.
Laced with grace
and the promise of salvation,
thoughts of your touch once felt
like a dream vacation.
I thought I have once
been granted patience,
only for it to burn down a hole
in my purest conscience.
But then I was sure I had it all,
the diamonds, the universe,
I had you, but then I also have a curse.
The parties, the best jazz age whiskeys,
these shall be enough to distract me.
The waiting, the wondering
are opulence I could no longer afford.
Like my favorite vice I had to abandon,
you are a glimmering borrowed gown
I shall never again don.
But then I'm sure I could do more,
the Philippine pearls, the world,
wrapped around my finger in a red cord.
The weddings, the finest wines I could buy,
these shall do good to get me by.
The patience, the pitying
are charities I could no longer give.
Like a prayer I utter in front of a new lover,
I am the luxury, the gold, all the fortune
you would never wager.
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 1:11 PM UTC
it was an era of candlelit dreams
we played my piano
harmonizing the evening's laughter
transfixed by starlight
and peppered with too much youth
to catch the fallen minutes
drifting as snowflakes
between our words
its remnants still leave a taste
of Parisian nights on the rim
of my glass - how you toasted
every hour as the sun bled into
the Seine and our blush faded
to overcast with upturned lapels
and footsteps receding into nightfall
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 7:11 AM UTC
On my pillow in broken English
And black ink.
A Fitzgerald quote dances in the breeze of the half-cracked window.
The clothes outside dangle
Hot and crisp from the City’s sun.
This city has its own sun
That beats down hard
Against the pavement.
Hearts beating hard
against the pavement
Of our souls and ribs.
If Fitzgerald was right
Then“they slipped briskly
into an intimacy
from which they never
recovered.”
Slipped and
fell.
Scars stain our hearts
And knees burn
Like the sun beats down
On the pavement
Of our memories.
But then again,
Perhaps it was Keats that had it right-
BOLD lover-
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter.”
Like you in my sweater.
Ode in a Spanish email
Plays on repeat,
Trapped in my head.
It’s that song that keeps be writing
About you
In this little book
Trapped in this little book
Like the etchings Keats admired
Trapped in the moment before
Their first kiss.
Forever trapped,
Lingering in their longing.
I’ll lick the wounds
Of paper cuts
From quickly turned pages
The sour blood of this longing
Tormented by time
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter”
Like a nagging child
Taunting-
Thumbs in ears,
Tongue out.
I wish my skin was sewn together
With the threads of that sweater
So you could wear me
Again
and
again.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
I heard
And my voice
Broke-
That was the end:
“Kennedy
Fell
From a criminal hand… ”
And
My hair
Stood on end.
I gave
A hostile reception
To that
News
on my own way.
I did understand
Kennedy is
A kind
And nice chap. And
He is
Reform’s
Eternal adherent.
In the morn
He lived
During lunch
He died.
Everybody
Lost comfort
At that instant.
“Kennedy!”
Pipes
Blew loudly
“Jo-o-o-hn!”
Dead marsh repeated
The word
Democracy’s
Pillar
Was cut down
Meanly.
Johny
Is quitting
The boundary
Of our world.
We will remember
These heroes!
Johny is
America’s glorious son.
He is among
Home foundations’ adherents,
Descendants
Will be proud
Of him
Under the sun.
{22.11.2015}
СЫН АМЕРИКИ
Услышал –
и мой
оборвался
голос –
«Кеннеди
пал
от преступной
руки…»
Дыбом
вставали
за волосом
волос,
По-своему
новость
восприняв
в штыки.
Кеннеди –
добрый
и славный
малый,
Вечный
сторонник
больших
реформ.
Утром
он жил,
а в обед –
не стало.
Все
потеряли
в тот миг
комфорт.
«Кеннеди!» –
громко
трубили
трубы,
«Джо-о-о-о-н!» –
повторял
похоронный
марш.
Столп
демократии
подло
срублен,
Джонни
предел
покидает
наш.
Будем
мы помнить
таких
героев!
Джонни –
Америки
славный
сын:
Ярый
сторонник
родных
устоев –
Будут
потомки
гордиться
им!
{22.11.2015}
Translator - I. Toporov
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 7:33 AM UTC
I hope you're okay. I hope you love what you're doing right now. I hope that you always make art. Not the stereotypical art of drawing, painting, sculpting, etc. but the art of drowning yourself in science or mathematics, the art of letting go of negativity, the art of breaking the rules, the art of reaching nirvana, the art of letting yourself get lost in the moment or just about anything that is considered art (if it's not but you love it and it makes you feel good, call it art). I hope that when you do something, you do it for yourself first. I hope that when you write about love you're thinking about yourself. I hope that when someone asks you to list down the things you love, you write your name first. I hope that when you find yourself crying, you look at yourself in the mirror and realize that tears don't suit your face. I hope that you always eat on time and don't forget about drinking water. I hope you read lots and lots of books. I hope you're always thinking about the world and its people and how it's still beautiful despite of the happenings right now. I hope you learn to say "no" to people when you need to and be firm about it. I hope you're happy and contented with your life. I hope that when you're in a dark dark place, you're not afraid to call your mom or your dad or even a friend to tell them what's going on (believe me, you can trust them to understand your place right now and never leave you). I hope that when you see people passing by, you see their story first before their faces. I hope that when you make something beautiful, you learn how to destroy it to make something more beautiful. I hope that every day is the best day of your life. Finally, I hope that you receive the warmest hugs, kisses and love from the people that matter to you and loves you back unconditionally.
F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "For what it's worth: it's never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you're proud of, and if you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start over." So live your life with an open mind and an open heart and when the going gets tough, take a moment to rest but don't ever give up. You can do anything. You're here to do it.
With hopes to see you living life to the fullest,
Sam
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
I saw my reflection in the glass that I lifted to my face. It was the
reflection of a drunken disappointment, and this red wine tasted
like loneliness and sad poetry. I don't know what you did to
me, but
Hemingway, Neruda and Fitzgerald all went down in history,
and I'm starting to understand why. Unrequited love. One more sip
and the next drunken poet is me.
-Sandoval
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
I met Lori at a beer pong table. She was tall. A trash talker. Beach blonde hair. Eyes blue, blue as the sky on an afternoon in July, when the weather was cool from a light rain. This was post-college—a house party, for young adults who wanted more from life than the typical 9-5. She wasn’t from NOVA. She was from Weston, FL. Her teammate was a guy she was with at the time—they ended up breaking it off and for a while she was dating Cam, a pro-bass fisher, a long distance relationship, but they loved each other. But at the table, I was competing with her teammate, later on I ended up mentally competing with Cam, which didn’t do any good except to make me chain-smoke jacks and drink bourbon. I had a girlfriend at the time—let’s just call her Voldy. My teammate was Lori’s best friend Erica. This girl had swagger; played beer pong like Dr. J, always got us roll backs. I was tall as **** for a Vietnamese American—still am tall as **** for a Vietnamese American (Don’t worry my guys, my family’s from the Southside)—and in college we had built a beer pong table, at a spot called the pink house. “We,” meaning my roommates and I: CJ, Trevor, and Samuel. The U.N. I had practiced daily, playing before class, playing after class. Height made a difference; some great basketball player once said you need to have game on and off the court. I wasn’t sure what court I was on when I was in that moment. Lori was more than appearance; more body language; more eye contact; more southern twang; and more astuteness, than a TED Talk combined with NPR, combined with The New Yorker, combined with Al-Jazeera and linked with Wikipedia on a ***** binge. I could talk all day about how she looked, how she dressed. But I told you what you need to know. She shot first, her right arm shaped like a swan, the type of swan that sits on a lake in the middle of a spring morning, the type of morning when the sky is blue with the eyes of a girl who has seen too much, been through too much, and has heard too much. She sank the shot. Her teammate roared. But all I could hear was Lori’s voice; soft as the piano notes played by Sakamoto’s right hand, loud as the piano notes played by Sakamoto’s left hand. Blu was not how I was feeling. Or maybe I was.
Because at this table I had to either take a loss,
or seal a win. I didn’t know what I wanted. But I wanted her. Wanted her, like how you wanted a postcard
from Santa when you were 5 years old, and it was opposite day. So you got the address wrong,
and the letter was never received. And your parents told
you to keep trying so you did, you did, and you did,
but you were young and naïve. You didn’t know
what was real and what was not real. And now I was
at a place in time, when the setting didn’t matter,
and the alcohol didn’t matter, and the drugs didn’t matter.
All that mattered was her.
Because when I shot that orange ping-pong ball,
I kept eye-contact with her eyes.
Blue, much more blue
than the water in the red solo cups we were playing with.
I wish it were water from the beaches in Florida,
beaches I could read a Salinger story on,
beaches I could rest on
beaches I could lay on,
lay and take in the sun
that rises above my soul
that aches for something more.
But Lori wasn’t Brett Ashley,
she was more Daisy Buchanan
than anything.
But does that make me Tom or Jay?
Jimmy or Nick?
I didn’t know and I still don’t know.
What I do know, is this;
the ball sank into the
first cup of the triangle.
Lori’s face went from cocky,
to frustrated, from frustrated
to relaxed,
from that
to a smile.
One that I remember, and one,
I won’t forget.
Because all I want to do is forget,
Take my memory and squeeze
the bad **** out,
twist the living **** out of it,
and burn it with a match.
Because she thinks I’m the one,
Who did her wrong, but it wasn’t me.
I put that on my integrity, even if my words don’t mean much to your ears: please listen.
I was inebriated, 3/4ths of the time we chilled.
So I didn’t know what was false and what was real.
You can check my temperature,
Because when you’re in my thoughts I get a fever
And hey, I shouldn’t have made a pass on your roomie
I should have thought before I texted, because now your trust in me has been affected.
We’re not talking. I can keep apologizing for what happened, but you don’t want to listen to a broken record.
I wish the bad memories would pass away and I guess they’re all in the past today.
Look, I don’t have a time machine
strong enough to change all the mistakes that I’ve made.
But take this as a time capsule,
this piece that I’m sharing. Like that piece we were sharing. The one that belonged to you.
The one I wish I could kiss again,
Because your lips touched it,
And mine never touched yours.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
You will read a trillion words in your life time, so why say that you'll never love another book?
F. Scott Fitzgerald once said you'll never know the same love twice, or something to that effect.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
A man in a flower shop… What a sight! He doesn’t know what to do, how to pick, where to look. Too many colors! Too many choices! I’m not sure what she likes…
What a weakness it is, to be a man next to flowers… Something so fragile and so beautiful, it makes him look stagnant in a world of much flow.
Then, in walks F. Scott… What are you?! You look mighty fine by this Rose. Do the thorns disrupt you? Do the petals leave you longing?
I thought you had a thing for Kichijoten-- in her Temple; next to the Sakura blossoms of Japan…
My, my. You can’t be part of the Lost Generation; I think you’ve found your place! As I look for mine by the Cattails and fresh Dahlias…
Have you seen these bunches of Baby’s Breath?? Sincerity only costs $3.95; it’s much more expensive nowadays… They don’t even play Jazz music here… What are you doing here, Fitzgerald? I know you aren’t here for the Hyacinths…
Has someone slain your heart again? My heart was slain many times, but everything happens for a reason, right Francis??
I know you have a thing for Gold, come check out these Daisies…and brighten your day. Don’t fret. Don’t fear. Loosen your heart and let it be free. I’m here. And everything is okay.
The Daisies? Really? Awful choice… I was only kidding about those.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
Writing is dangerous a sport
With far too many muscles left to pull
Not only in my body
Writing is far few abstract-I cannot think in words and I cannot label-the day I put it into words it's labeled
And that is dangerous a vote
Thinking is much cleaner yes, for now
They said that thoughts are safe
yet I don't think obscenities in public
And I don't feel obscenities in public
Two sane thoughts a day(required by law) they say will keep the writers away from Fitzgerald's and Virginia's-Poe is still fair ground
They said that diaries were safe, but we writers do not write in public
But sports are played to audiences and votes need to be a-gotten and we writers express our condolences for the death of writing and the birth of Athleticism and Campaigns
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
I
the corners of a room
where walls shake hands
paints meet but never bleed
or stretch across the angles in uniformity
illusions that my palms see through
as they move to flatten the creases
making little triangles between them and the cobwebs’ Eden
like unfolding my bed on the couch
the only comforter here after the lamps say Goodnight
before I tuck them in
and the colours give in
blend
II
my makeshift mattress made specifically
measured feet to face ashamed in wake
protruding shoulders sanded at the edges
obtusely protracting the day into a never-planned night shift
midnights
where the hard-numbers and for-sures fall for the vicious
vacuum’s seductions
a Succubus, is the lady moon
for a mind weary and wary of
absolutes
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC