Thursday, September 13, 2007
an act of love has only in it
total clarity like a cloudless night
an act of love has no judgement
like the wings of a hummingbird
an act of love holds the wisdom
of a million broken hearts
an act of love holds a universe
of emotions like a blink holds light
it gives up on nothing and nothing
can contain its expansion
it is the only virus in our experience
that was meant to be from inception
january 31, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
his mane flutters about his neck.
in the near distance,
he smells her scent.
he is pulled in like water
down a fall though
his genes tell him it is danger.
she crouches in the low grass,
thinking she can't be seen.
she sees an irresistible sight,
an opportunity that can't be passed up.
already she salivates,
already tasting an easy meal.
he stares into blades of ochre
and stalks of burnt umber,
sees the glow of her yellow eyes
she thinks he can't see.
he stomps his hoof
on the hardened soil,
throws up dust like whisps of smoke.
she thought she saw fire,
she knows she saw smoke;
it can't be real.
it's just a riderless horse, lost.
how hard could this be?
how dangerous is a lone horse?
far above beyond both sets of eyes;
beyond the common senses
of earthly creatures not of god
olympians chuckle in their mirth.
september 12, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
My great-great-grandfather Nguyen Duc Dat.
My grandmother had a tattered and torn wallet sized photo of him and asked if I could do something to salvage it. It took hours of minute repainting but today, I finally finished. Prints are to be made and sent back to the family altar back in Vietnam
Sunday, September 09, 2007
but there is this melody in my head.
there is a woman's voice in my skull;
she murmurs phrases in my dreams.
for night that comes without warning
there is an phantom songbird.
there is that voice again, a moan;
she tells me a tale, makes me shudder.
he watches himself from outside of his skin.
he stares intently, thinking there is a light in
it just must be hidden. he sidesteps away from
the shadow of the trees looming behind him.
the trees of life he almost expects to abandon –
the way he feels.
the feeling inside of his chest.
it's what happens when you constrict
time and space by the force of emotions.
reality is distorted in the same way that
large bodies in this universe distorts space.
how does he deal with this?
how does he deal when he himself is the cause
of the distortion? did einstein think of this?
what if he called stephen hawking now?
what would he say?
it's happening again; the thoughts.
he remembers that he is supposed to breathe.
three slow deep breaths and he remembers he is sitting
on a cushion on the floor of this small room.
with three breaths as if each were a brushstroke,
he lets the cascade of thoughts splash over him
and realizes they are just thoughts.
*this is a repost of a piece that was in prose form earlier