"bilingual" poems
somewhere between the fourth and fifth
load of laundry,
sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company
the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher
even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship
sheets
my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that I need a nap:
*“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”*
with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history
there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own
nap-ster master
<•>
p.s. and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Katie Price
Had a collection
Of last season's
Brassieres
Which she indexed
With the help
Of a sincere
Bilingual reindeer
Dressed in spandex
Who for some reason
Was single.
Taxonomy
Is so important to me
Said Katie.
So they were labelled
And kept in taxis
At disused angle grinder factories
Near the Tower of Babel
So posterity
Would be able
To analyse
The finer points
Of her physiognomy.
Quite an unusual praxis
And something of an anomaly
For someone like me
Wouldn't you agree?
Cross my heart
And hope to die
I agree.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by gang bang
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon
your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
White is the colour of my true love’s cherry cheeks,
White is the colour of my true love’s tantalizing teeth,
White is the colour of my true love’s foxy fingertips,
White is the colour of my true’s truly delicious dish,
White is the colour of my true love’s social scarf,
White is the colour of my true love's lyrical laugh,
White is the colour of my true love’s bilingual breath,
White is the colour of my true love’s playful pledge,
White is the colour of my true love’s flowery fragrance,
White is the colour of my true love’s decorated decadence,
White is the colour of my true love's delirious delight,
White is the colour of my true love’s sugared spice,
White is the colour of my true love’s secret shirt,
White is the colour of my true love’s purple pearls,
White is the colour of my true love’s shapely shoes,
White is the colour of my true love’s brooding Blues,
White is the colour of my true love’s wonderful words,
White is the colour of my true love’s dashing door,
White is the colour of my true love’s brilliant bedsheets,
White is the colour of my true love’s toxic treats,
White is the colour of my true love’s distant dreams,
White is the colour of my true love’s ring that glow gleams,
White is the colour of my true love’s guilty guile,
White is the colour of my bitter bile
For...
Black is the colour of my true love’s hardened heart.
©Rangzeb Hussain
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
I don’t speak many languages but I’m fluent in ***********
My tongue is bilingual in moans and *******
A professional cunnilinguist that teaches her to forget every word in the English language except for my name.
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 10:22 PM UTC
Shadows are real
they move when you don’t want them too
When you think your taking steps further away, and they slowly move closer towards you
Flash light and colors in your face, sending you signals
But I’m only human, don’t they know I’m not bilingual?
Or has the crack made me lucid
Feel the presence of the other side
Why did they choose to torture me?
Because I didn’t hide? Because I kept getting High?
Maybe because I was close
This devils dying to taste me, inching closer every time I crush his powder.
Making ticks on the clock louder, every minute of every hour.
Our connection was inevitable, I could tell how bad he wanted to break through
Enough for him to convince me,
crashing my car was how I’d get to you.
Your cheeky in the way you move
Fed on my weakness because you’d know I’d listen
But you’ve mistaken my blood shot eyes, for ones that glisten.
How could you think I’d be that easy?
I’m stronger than you realize, It insults me you mistook me for a phoney
You’ve been taunting me for years, how infuriating that your voices haven’t made me enough lonely
Your angry, losing patience in the divided line
But your poison kept me alive when it came down to my life and a telephone line
I’m a fool, not foolish. Near sighted, not blind
You made me weakest, gave false hopes on becoming yours and no longer mine
I’ve realized maybe you wanted me to meet my real demons
While they flashed red and blue in the taillight behind
I can’t decide if you wanted me at the bottom
As payment for my sins
Or gave me an opportunity to start solving all the real problems,
The ones from within.
I can’t find the right words yet.
I’m hoping this was our last dance
But I mean it when I say I met my maker
I know this time is my time, a real second chance.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 4:26 PM UTC
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields
I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose
I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out
but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister
I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor
I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun
I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back
I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible
I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels
I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams
I thought the painter
had it figured out
So I painted
I thought the pianist
had it figured out
So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys
I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out
So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer
I thought the Poet
had it figured out
So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Bobo's kitchen
in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life
Jake Mahaffey
Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
painting when being bilingual, the naked phonetics of the english alphabet, and the diacritics on the polish one, for example -sh- of the former and -sz- of the latter, but the painting is still entitled: trying to capture what was being said without lip-reading but by optics encoding the sounds, so that someone bilingual might decipher; and yes, dependent of aesthetics / orthography the -rz- versus the ż.
azog
szak gaum'dasz!
blog
kruto, goniś... gunwondersmargen'ś.
azog
mor'rzyrljisz?
blog
golumdo, sza zu lisz sza za duh.
azog
jam dysz! *** da kurz nak krza rzuk;
arz ga bejark gundabadul,
mar kam narm karszrz.
mulgaj! a'naj! ursdraj! tu pu nam - ah me c!
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Fear is a language all on its own.
Although broken, we understand soon
as we hear it.
No matter how well spoken
No matter how intuitive or savvy
We sabotage ourselves well after the
moment has passed.
I stepped outside of myself when I met
you.
Bilingual & open,
No matter how far you move or I.
I'll always remember you
I've memorized you in my heart
Where fear does not exist
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 4:39 AM UTC
Corina Junghiatu is a bilingual poet/writer hailing from Romania. She holds a Master Degree in Philology and Phychopedagogy and likewise she graduated from The Faculty of Letters and Philosophy in Bucharest. She speaks five foreign languages.
Corina has written and publishing two books of poetry: „Exile in the light” and „The ritual of a Sunrise”. She is Administrator and Publication Coordinator of Motivational Strips, editor of "Bharath Vision" website, and Chief Advisor of World Nations Writers' Union Kazakhstan. Corina has won many awards from international institutions of repute, for poetry.
Recently, Corina Junghiatu, together with 350 poets and writers from 80 countries, received a certificate of appreciation for her entire literary activity, on the occasion of the 74th anniversary of the Independence Day of the Republic of India. This certificate was was handed by the famous writer Shiju H. Pallithazheth the Founder of Motivational Strips, World's Most Active Writers Forum and Padma Shree Dr. Vishnu Pandya, President of Gujarat Sahitya Akademy, a government institution of the state of Gujarat (India).
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Suddenly it stops raining:
The woodpecker doesn’t mind,
he keeps on hammering lofts –
he’s kind of loopy. That’s his nature.
And that’s his beauty.
The poet doesn’t stop hammering
on his keyboard, always looking for
meaning, nonsense and love-at-first-write.
He’s kind of loopy too.
Shall we call him paperpecker?
That’s his nature. And that’s his beauty.
And the paper starts revealing all kind of things:
Bulls in china shops, bilingual pixies,
and look! – on the left a cancerous person
even finds lucky clover –
1up! if this were a video-game,
but life has more than three dimensions.
Hmmm… Let’s put some tea-lights
and drift-bottles into puddles.
Someone definitely will smile and reply.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
You make me worry about losing my memory.
Because right now I've reached a stage where I've forgotten to forget you,
so if I really did lose my memory I wouldn't just be losing my identity,
but also you.
And the problem is, I can live without knowing myself,
but wouldn't survive a second without knowing you.
You make me want to write poems.
My fingers crave to type endlessly until I've written more words than
the bible and the encyclopaedias A-Z combined into infinity,
but my brain numbs.
I'm bilingual but thinking of you makes me inarticulate in both, and
fluent in clichés instead.
You make me feel like a 16 year old...scrap that, a 14 year old,
falling in love for the first time, and I'm neither.
Lately I've been spending a lifetime editing photos of you and me,
on Microsoft Paint, adding hearts and stars and lipstick marks.
And tagging you in every quote, video, song and photo on facebook,
provided they have a remote connection to something romantic.
You make me want to break Pastor Aeternus ,
after 12 years of Sunday school, as a student and a teacher.
I want to travel between Testaments, arguing with prophets and saints,
trying to explain how you make me feel, crave, arouse.
Because each time we meet, even before we speak, or touch,
the demon within me is awaken, beholding the paradise in your eyes.
You make me want to ****** you, even after 4 months,
and 3 weeks, of a solid relationship.
To wear make-up and high heels, to dress up or down or... not,
provoking, tempting and coaxing to take a bite out of the same apple,
but deeper, tying you to the bed and taking you in a kitchen, just
to see that pure expression of bliss on your face.
You make me search the depth of my soul, the bottom of my heart and
every corner of my mind, for more love to give you, everyday.
Paint the future in any colour, shape or form, and when you're done,
place me in it, because I will always fit right in, just like when we spoon.
Someday, when we're standing next to God I will ask him to show you
the timeline, when he sent you from heaven into my life, because
only an Angel could make this fragile heart, fall in love again.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,
somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified
for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality
it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected
somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord
first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:
composite
the opposite
of
opposite*
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
he allows himself to rest,
forgetting his uncertainties
and just lets go
no mas puede llevar las cosas
que tiene que llevar
para vivir otro dia
to face the life of Everyman
challenged of his lusts
forsaken of companionship
oh hijo mio que vivía valiente
taking his first step into the void
duerme pa siempre
querido del mundo
and one of all man
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 2:20 PM UTC
(I live in Cali, Colombia)
1. My sketchy run-in with the cute gluehead.
2. You say you’re armed, my girlfriend says you can’t have my camera.
3. I guess I’m bilingual, but man do I feel stupid right now.
4. No, coworker, I don’t feel like sharing with you why I’m going hiena in the break room. (culprit)
5. What a pain that I don't remember your name.
6. I ate my brains for breakfast with onion, tomato, and toast.
7. If my daydreams were broad cast right now your boyfriend would probably hurt me.
8. You, my friend, are my friend.
9. Just dropped a drumstick 3 songs into our very first gig.
10. No sir I don’t want to buy that gun...oh...what’s that? You’d like the contents of my pockets?
11. My pleasant walk to wherever.
12. Clandestine house-party tonail clipping session.
13. My beard is doing a fantastic ashtray impersonation.
14. Beérjá vu.
15. “Um...did I really just say that?"
16. Gringo moment #247.
17. Well well welcome to ***** Wonka’s South American silicone factory.
18. Are my neighbors being cold because they know I puked in their front garden?
19. Everyone is staring at me...must be time for a haircut.
20. ”Is this who I’m supposed to be?"
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Metaphor for Metabolisms
and adventurers of culinary
conquests catering for those
with bilingual taste buds in
an Irish city called Belle Feast.
ps.
Bia is the Irish word for food.
Bia Rebel is a restaurant in
Belfast Ireland.
https://www.theguardian.com/food/2019/feb/24/jay-rayner-restaurant-review-bia-rebel-belfast-noodles-ramen
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 3:34 AM UTC
Hello friends! This is my first bilingual book.HAMMER @ ANVIL BOOKS released my book of poems as e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: //www.amazon.com/A-Feather-of-Fujiyama-ebook/dp/B 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr_1_1? s=digital-text&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1374938945&sr;=1-1
Special thanks to Vessislava Savova (translator) , Mercedes Webb-Pullman (Editor) , Adam Henry Carriere (Editor) , and my daughter Liliya Pangelova (illustrator)
All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to the Bulgarian Integrated Education Foundation, working to improve the lives of children and youth with special health and educational needs (including mild Down syndrome, autism / autistic spectrum, cerebral palsy, language-speech disorders, and hyperactivity) and their families.}
Thanks for your support everyone! I wish you happiness and good reading.
Bozhidar Pangelov
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
so the *** debate is raging
like a Californian
wildfire in the forests,
people are "presumed"
missing...
i'm sat watching
back to the future
(beats star wars, every,
single time:
the ****** is more obvious)
and then drinking...
i always wanted to
taste a lobster...
and listening to the best of
billy joel...
scratching my mustache...
BELGIANS IN
THE UK!
then fiddling with my bead...
my beard...
i have a beard?!i
**** i have a beard!
i took, fiddling with my *****
the wrong way...
after all ****** airs
have the same feel
as ***** hair...
a bit like cleavage...
so...
you're donningv
the buttock crack
up-front?!
funny, eh?
making fun of the phallus...
how about feeding
a Donnie Disney with your,
puppies?!
how about that?
***
if women do need
no men...
do what we do...
**** off anal-style...
we do the **** projective...
you cut out utilizing
the ******
look... 'appy bunnies"
if ai am about to turn
into a *****
the female right...
all the rights you require...
sure... have them...
but what sort of right
is it,
when there's no
existentialist argument?
go on... please...
make your dodo
and your
mixed-raced argument...
mono-racial is
the new neanderthal...
call it...
we're not progressive enough...
we're too ********
to mingle ethnicity...
call it!
call me halfway house
between down and
the ******
call it!
call it!
***** better call it!
(through gritting teeth):
call it!
i said... call it!
be your progressive "self"...
call it!
i'm ******** for not mingling
adequately enough with
crafting a trans-ethnicity populace...
neanderthal...
***** call it!
guess what... i love the laced
take on history via the Anglophone
re-reinterpretation
of Darwinism...
i love the neanderthal take on thiongs...
i'm bilingual, schizophrenic,
the sort of mongrel that...
has no place among
the duo-ethnicity... "mongrels"...
lucky you, lucky me...
i'm sorry... the F extends just so far...
two languages, orange man, bad...
but a congregation of
a dual ethnicity, green man, god,
and "the" good...
whatever suits your favor...
i should care,
i won't care,
i don't care,
i will, to never ever give a ****
about caring;
like god "said":
on your own;
i much prefer the freedoms
of the jungle,
than the restrictions of a zoo.
it's billy joel, "by the way"...
life will go on...
obviously a life much ********
than the intelligent people are used
to...
but... if that's what you allow...
then you're deserving it.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
the blatant frustrations of live feed editing.
enter the tablet, joystick free, one touch games,
quiet interesting that it’s so hard
to get a gaming addiction with such games
as candy crush soda, family farm,
bubble witch 2...
you will not see an adrenaline tornado on these
platitudes, no movie like involvement,
no plot... just time contraints, money constraints,
the adequate reflection of life: hey mort! when you coming?
hey forthnight debility cheque! when you coming?
(i too thought tetris originated in japan,
but it was actually of soviet design!
so in conclusion: games designed to be as reflected
by someone doing a crossword - i'm crap at
those, being bilingual is obstructive -
i'm in constant translation mode looking
for picturesque synonymity - or doing sūdoku -
which i'm not too bad at.)
a bit like that jesus debacle, so gott insisted on giving
proof of his existence to a baby... bad move...
the kid grew up in a bubble and thought he could do anything...
elijah just said to the priests: but if your god doesn’t exist,
what’s the point of having you? later he repented
on mt. sinai where god was but a whisper...
like the whisper of the dream of what rome was at first:
a republic. i believe in republicanism, i don’t believe
in that shamble that’s known as democracy, and is currently
the biggest export from america... exported to usurp
other nation’s republicanism - the elders of afghanistan
will never be modern family mr. jason wordsmith and
mr. jack wordsmith, raising an adopted / surrogate mother’s
kid... not in a million years... nor will revised buddhism
in western europe ever be original shinto of japan...
not in a million years... we’re not a monochromatic people.
back to jesus: there’s not one shred of christianity in
jurisprudence (philosophy of law /
etymology: prudence of having a jury) - but when you’re faced
with an enemy who’s a lawyer, and has connections...
and you’re a poor idiot who was forced into a paranoid schizophrenia
simulation for 7 years... you don’t set out to attack
and get compensation like that woman schopenhauer pushed
down the stairs... you set out to prove god -
and subsequently leave the ******* in his own waiting
line for karma - i hardly think there will be an oliver twit
in him to ask for some more.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Tú te estiras
llevando la luz matinal
mi copa rebosa.
-----
You stretch out slowly,
wearing the light of morning
my cup runs over
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
bicultural but not totally bilingual
kids will understand
the sheer embarrassment of having to copy-paste
what your parents text you
in their native language
into Google Translate
detect language
yes, to English, because it's the only thing
I truly understand
because I don't actually really know
what Mom's saying at the end
Do I really get the weight of each word she crafts
lovingly into characters I've learned
but words I don't quite string together
or meanings I don't quite grasp
I swear I do it's just I don't understand one hundred percent and if I could just
g e t those last few phrases
sometimes the entire paragraph she sends me
rather than rely on a gray text editor that spits back
in solid, black, unfeeling English alphabet
"Coming home is always welcome"
that's not my Mom's voice, with her smiling, sympathetic expression and
steaming rice and kimchi stew, warm laundry, and squeaky slippers
that's the translator mincing her words,
chopping and scrambling them into something
familiar to the brain but foreign to the heart
I know she means "I'm always welcome to come home"
but why
couldn't I have gotten that immediately
"I eat food well and I have to buy spring clothes."
No, Google, I'm sure
she means that I will eat her food well
and buy spring clothes with her
but machine learning algorithms aren't
perfect
not my mom
so how would I really know
I wish language could be copy-pasted into English in my mind
so that I didn't have to go through this
bland, unwilling, frugal third-party
that knows nothing about my culture
I am a copy-paste of my parents' DNA
in flesh and blood
so why is it that physically
I am connected
but mentally, intangibly,
I've lost connection
to the internet, and some features of Google Translate may be lost. Try again?
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 5:45 AM UTC