Your eyes are red from crying. She asks you what's wrong and you shrug her off. You do not want her to know you've ever shed a tear. She has laughed at you before, she will laugh again. Besides, men don't cry. Or is it just strong men who don't? Great men? So you go into the hot shower and cry until you can no longer breathe. You hurt, and hurt, and hurt. The pain seems eternal but no one seems to care.
You put mousse in your hair. "Have you been crying?" She asks laughing. You look at her in anger, as though you could kill her with your eyes. Anger is acceptable, though others say it surprises them, say it's wrong. But that is how a man reacts. Tears are another story. You shake your head; you cannot cry.
When you were younger you couldn't have cared less what people thought. You would have cried in front of them. But you soon learned the error of your ways; you soon learned that would be the worst thing you could do. Inside you are screaming, your soul tears itself apart. But outside you are smiling. Your mask shrouds itself in what you hate the most: false happiness.
You approach the TV, you can't stand the melodramatic soap opera playing on it. It makes you want to kill the characters. They are so horrible, so mediocre, yet others think of them as real, even respectable. Boy, people can be so stupid. There's nothing that helps. It hurts, but no one can know. You cannot show weakness to anyone. They don't respect your strength, your intelligence, your decisions, your life as it is. You cannot give them reason to pity you, to disrespect your character even further. So you act as though you had no love in you, except for that one person. You act as though you do not care. You show yourself evil, desperately angry.
You are angry, that you are. You are desperate of course. You believe you deserve to be punished for your weakness. You believe that you'd be better off dead, yet you are afraid of both death and retribution.
So you cry once a year, during commemoration holidays, in the privacy of a warm shower. You suck it up every day, go to work, deal with stress, deal with truth, deal with lies. You act as though you're made of teflon when in truth you're made of glass. You suffer from a love that kills. You act as though you're angry because violence is the only solution you've ever known, the only one allowed the strong. And you want everything to be destroyed, and you can't wait for this world to end. Maybe, just maybe, then all things will be better. But maybe they'll hurt more.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Tea Steams the Mirror
Tea steams the mirror
Outside cherry blossoms fall,
Tea's taste dissipates.
The warrior sets down his teacup, forgetting the rest of the world. He sheds his old skin, sheds his old life, changes without perceptible proof. He yells, the teacup shakes in place for an eternity or more. Out of the shadows step figures that no one else sees, but the warrior knows them. He is convinced of their truth. He must defeat these manifestations of darkness; these horrifyingly beautiful monsters that seem to melt from the walls, rise in the steam, rain on the windows. He must defeat them or die trying.
The warrior steps forth from the shadows clad in new armor that is lighter than air yet stronger than rock. An impish shadow clings to his own, ready to sink its green teeth into his own shadow's neck. The warrior turns back, his eyes are ablaze. His shadow remains in its place. A harsh, grating song plays itself on his sword. A glint of light brightens the room. His shadow cowers in the corner; the imp laughs an impish laugh. The warrior remains in the calm light of night. A soft breeze caresses his back.
Fancy footwork is married to combat techniques. His hands move with the speed of a god's. The sword follows its own trail of shadows and sweat, striking with vertical slash over the impish demon-spawn. The warrior returns to his starting point now, sheathing his sword. He looks out the window. Pretty cherry blossoms float in the wind. Aromas of past love and past hate mingle, creating new demons for the warrior to fight.
He jumps up and kicks, three, four, five times before landing again. He strikes at the wind, his long hair comes undone. A jumbly mess blocks his eyesight, the salty pain stings his eyes. He looks out the window, it has begun raining, more demons descend. The warrior is tired, he's now breathing hard. His tea has grown cold but the steam from his fights clouds the mirror with pain. He looks beyond the dark fog, wipes away sweat from his brow. He snarls at the one staring back. He's tired but ready to start fighting again. And again. And again. The fight lasts a lifetime and he stares straight in the eyes of the worst man he's faced. And he smiles, because he has kept him at bay. No longer does this man control him but the warrior controls himself.
The warrior lifts up his sword, summoning the powers of heaven to earth. He strikes hard, rippling the floor. He is transported, he is transformed. He cuts the heavy evil in the air around him, he ends the fight. The demons are spent, his worry is gone. For now. He kneels on the floor, eyes toward the cherry tree and he breathes. He breathes in the good, he breathes in the bad. He keeps it inside, tries to decide. He absorbs the truth, he embodies the good, and with one final yell, the bad he expels makes the room tremble and rings all the bells.
Outside cherry blossoms fall,
Tea's taste dissipates.
The warrior sets down his teacup, forgetting the rest of the world. He sheds his old skin, sheds his old life, changes without perceptible proof. He yells, the teacup shakes in place for an eternity or more. Out of the shadows step figures that no one else sees, but the warrior knows them. He is convinced of their truth. He must defeat these manifestations of darkness; these horrifyingly beautiful monsters that seem to melt from the walls, rise in the steam, rain on the windows. He must defeat them or die trying.
The warrior steps forth from the shadows clad in new armor that is lighter than air yet stronger than rock. An impish shadow clings to his own, ready to sink its green teeth into his own shadow's neck. The warrior turns back, his eyes are ablaze. His shadow remains in its place. A harsh, grating song plays itself on his sword. A glint of light brightens the room. His shadow cowers in the corner; the imp laughs an impish laugh. The warrior remains in the calm light of night. A soft breeze caresses his back.
Fancy footwork is married to combat techniques. His hands move with the speed of a god's. The sword follows its own trail of shadows and sweat, striking with vertical slash over the impish demon-spawn. The warrior returns to his starting point now, sheathing his sword. He looks out the window. Pretty cherry blossoms float in the wind. Aromas of past love and past hate mingle, creating new demons for the warrior to fight.
He jumps up and kicks, three, four, five times before landing again. He strikes at the wind, his long hair comes undone. A jumbly mess blocks his eyesight, the salty pain stings his eyes. He looks out the window, it has begun raining, more demons descend. The warrior is tired, he's now breathing hard. His tea has grown cold but the steam from his fights clouds the mirror with pain. He looks beyond the dark fog, wipes away sweat from his brow. He snarls at the one staring back. He's tired but ready to start fighting again. And again. And again. The fight lasts a lifetime and he stares straight in the eyes of the worst man he's faced. And he smiles, because he has kept him at bay. No longer does this man control him but the warrior controls himself.
The warrior lifts up his sword, summoning the powers of heaven to earth. He strikes hard, rippling the floor. He is transported, he is transformed. He cuts the heavy evil in the air around him, he ends the fight. The demons are spent, his worry is gone. For now. He kneels on the floor, eyes toward the cherry tree and he breathes. He breathes in the good, he breathes in the bad. He keeps it inside, tries to decide. He absorbs the truth, he embodies the good, and with one final yell, the bad he expels makes the room tremble and rings all the bells.
DGW
Jake has been at the computer for centuries. He does not look a
day over thirty. Winters have come and gone, people have passed away.
Some have died, others passed their souls to another body. Jake seemed
to stop aging by age twenty-nine. He remembers snow, alright, that
soft, dust-like white substance which always brought terrible cold
weather with it. He also remembers when it disappeared. He remembers
the initial floods, the subsequent droughts. He even remembers when
people used the word "rainforest." No one but he recalls what that word
meant.
Jake sits and types. The view outside his window brings forth a
few tears. The mosquito-ridden puddles populating Old Downtown stink of
putrid melancholy. The old, abandoned buildings cough up an eternal
smoke. The river is finally a river. It flows with a vile mix of tar
and death. Jake remembers snow again. The first time he saw it, the
time he visited what used to be called New York during that strange
winter season. Then he saw it again, for decades, over the ancient city
of angels. People used to say it would disappear in the big earthquake
of '49, though of course they did not know it would happen in '49 then.
But the city, like Jake, was a survivor.
He wishes rain were still the way it was centuries ago.
The way precipitation was, as a norm, either liquid or frozen water.
Sometimes a condensed thing, a beautiful, sad thing called "dew." But
not ash, definitely not ash.
Jake believed those men everyone dismissed as nuts when they
talked about the warmth, no the Heat. Yes, he believed the stuff about
the Heat. Other people scoffed at the idea. Many of them died soon
after the first manifestations of GW. That is how it was known now, GW.
In the tradition of the four wars. People referred to the historical
floods and droughts as GWI and GWII. Jake thought it made light of the
situation.
And then the Cold came from the Heat. Many people
died, murdered by the Cold because of the carelessness of others.
Jake sighs, he coughs, clapping his chest. He spits a viscid
green substance that is not exactly phlegm. He shuts down the
computer. He has finally finished his three-hundred-fifty page novel.
No one will read it. People do not read anymore. Those old structures
known as schools have disappeared; and what were once known as letters
have been replaced by stick-figure pictographs. All the computers in
the world have been destroyed; all but one.
Jake has not left his building for the past two-hundred years.
The last time he walked out his door was to meet his friend Owen after
one of the many snowstorms had caused a power outage in Owen's side of
town.
Jake looks out the window, eyes watery; he sees Owen at the
Japanese noodle house where instead of enjoying their steaming bowls of
ramen-miso soup, the friends lost each other forever. Jake cries; that
was the day Owen met his demise.
The DGW Corporation, an offshoot of the CIA/FBI/NSA conglomerate
known as CBSA, had him "whacked," as they put it. He was a believer in
the GW. They were deniers of it. He had called them on it several
times. He knew they were to blame. They were to blame for horrific
crimes against humanity. Owen made it public. They made sure his death
was kept a secret. As far as anyone but Jake knew, Owen had never
existed.
Jake packs a few antiques into his jacket pockets. CDs, things
once known as DVDs, he owns an ancient digital camera. He sells these
things underground, in what used to be the subway stations. Decent
people rarely visit such places. Those who buy Jake's wares are strange,
insane folk. They think they can rebuild the future by learning from
the past. Some of them still own some thing called a CD player. A few
own a television, something that Jake says was a valued commodity at one
point. But none own a computer. Some know Jake owns one, they can feel
it. No one dares ask him about it. His eyes betray a primal, animal
instinct to survive. They have heard he killed his own
best friend to make the CBSA think he was on their side.
Jake looks back at his antique IKEA desk before shutting the door
to his apartment. He fixes his beanie as he walks down the stairs. No
one here understands what the NY stitched on the front means. No one
remembers the ancient city as it once was, no one remembers the baseball
team or, for that matter, what baseball was. No one but Jake.
The wind outside scourges his lips and skin. He hates windburn
almost as much as he hates sunburn. He did not remember how much they
would both hurt, though. He looks back at what was once a great center
for sporting events, especially that thing called basketball. The
Stapling, Stapler, no Staples, Center it was called. It is now abandoned four
years. It had a hundred year stint as a refuge after the two-month
hurricane of '51, 3051 that is.
Jake passes rusted cars, abandoned buses, and ancient trains on
his way to the old Central Library. It has been closed for ages, but
Jake knows how to break in to read the ancient wisdom kept safe in its
books. He is reminded of those who mocked the notion of bicycles as an
alternate mode of transportation. Then they scoffed at the idea of
using horses again. Now walking is the only mode of transportation.
The air becomes heavy, Jake has trouble breathing. He reaches the
ancient mahogany door. It seems locked. He strikes the door with a
palm attack from his days as a fighter. It opens to allow him
in. The only tree he has seen in two hundred years greets him. It is a
giant peach tree he remembers upon seeing the blossoms and the fruit.
It is cold inside the library. No, not cold, just not as hot as
it is outside. Jake walks under the tree. Looking up he sees that it
has started to rain. Soon the rain turns to sleet, then to snow.
Tears well up in Jake's eyes. Then he smiles. He smiles at the sight
of the snow-covered peach tree.
Many years later when the useless library is about to be torn down
to make way for a new air/water purification facility Jake is still
standing under the now dead peach tree. His smile frozen in time.
day over thirty. Winters have come and gone, people have passed away.
Some have died, others passed their souls to another body. Jake seemed
to stop aging by age twenty-nine. He remembers snow, alright, that
soft, dust-like white substance which always brought terrible cold
weather with it. He also remembers when it disappeared. He remembers
the initial floods, the subsequent droughts. He even remembers when
people used the word "rainforest." No one but he recalls what that word
meant.
Jake sits and types. The view outside his window brings forth a
few tears. The mosquito-ridden puddles populating Old Downtown stink of
putrid melancholy. The old, abandoned buildings cough up an eternal
smoke. The river is finally a river. It flows with a vile mix of tar
and death. Jake remembers snow again. The first time he saw it, the
time he visited what used to be called New York during that strange
winter season. Then he saw it again, for decades, over the ancient city
of angels. People used to say it would disappear in the big earthquake
of '49, though of course they did not know it would happen in '49 then.
But the city, like Jake, was a survivor.
He wishes rain were still the way it was centuries ago.
The way precipitation was, as a norm, either liquid or frozen water.
Sometimes a condensed thing, a beautiful, sad thing called "dew." But
not ash, definitely not ash.
Jake believed those men everyone dismissed as nuts when they
talked about the warmth, no the Heat. Yes, he believed the stuff about
the Heat. Other people scoffed at the idea. Many of them died soon
after the first manifestations of GW. That is how it was known now, GW.
In the tradition of the four wars. People referred to the historical
floods and droughts as GWI and GWII. Jake thought it made light of the
situation.
And then the Cold came from the Heat. Many people
died, murdered by the Cold because of the carelessness of others.
Jake sighs, he coughs, clapping his chest. He spits a viscid
green substance that is not exactly phlegm. He shuts down the
computer. He has finally finished his three-hundred-fifty page novel.
No one will read it. People do not read anymore. Those old structures
known as schools have disappeared; and what were once known as letters
have been replaced by stick-figure pictographs. All the computers in
the world have been destroyed; all but one.
Jake has not left his building for the past two-hundred years.
The last time he walked out his door was to meet his friend Owen after
one of the many snowstorms had caused a power outage in Owen's side of
town.
Jake looks out the window, eyes watery; he sees Owen at the
Japanese noodle house where instead of enjoying their steaming bowls of
ramen-miso soup, the friends lost each other forever. Jake cries; that
was the day Owen met his demise.
The DGW Corporation, an offshoot of the CIA/FBI/NSA conglomerate
known as CBSA, had him "whacked," as they put it. He was a believer in
the GW. They were deniers of it. He had called them on it several
times. He knew they were to blame. They were to blame for horrific
crimes against humanity. Owen made it public. They made sure his death
was kept a secret. As far as anyone but Jake knew, Owen had never
existed.
Jake packs a few antiques into his jacket pockets. CDs, things
once known as DVDs, he owns an ancient digital camera. He sells these
things underground, in what used to be the subway stations. Decent
people rarely visit such places. Those who buy Jake's wares are strange,
insane folk. They think they can rebuild the future by learning from
the past. Some of them still own some thing called a CD player. A few
own a television, something that Jake says was a valued commodity at one
point. But none own a computer. Some know Jake owns one, they can feel
it. No one dares ask him about it. His eyes betray a primal, animal
instinct to survive. They have heard he killed his own
best friend to make the CBSA think he was on their side.
Jake looks back at his antique IKEA desk before shutting the door
to his apartment. He fixes his beanie as he walks down the stairs. No
one here understands what the NY stitched on the front means. No one
remembers the ancient city as it once was, no one remembers the baseball
team or, for that matter, what baseball was. No one but Jake.
The wind outside scourges his lips and skin. He hates windburn
almost as much as he hates sunburn. He did not remember how much they
would both hurt, though. He looks back at what was once a great center
for sporting events, especially that thing called basketball. The
Stapling, Stapler, no Staples, Center it was called. It is now abandoned four
years. It had a hundred year stint as a refuge after the two-month
hurricane of '51, 3051 that is.
Jake passes rusted cars, abandoned buses, and ancient trains on
his way to the old Central Library. It has been closed for ages, but
Jake knows how to break in to read the ancient wisdom kept safe in its
books. He is reminded of those who mocked the notion of bicycles as an
alternate mode of transportation. Then they scoffed at the idea of
using horses again. Now walking is the only mode of transportation.
The air becomes heavy, Jake has trouble breathing. He reaches the
ancient mahogany door. It seems locked. He strikes the door with a
palm attack from his days as a fighter. It opens to allow him
in. The only tree he has seen in two hundred years greets him. It is a
giant peach tree he remembers upon seeing the blossoms and the fruit.
It is cold inside the library. No, not cold, just not as hot as
it is outside. Jake walks under the tree. Looking up he sees that it
has started to rain. Soon the rain turns to sleet, then to snow.
Tears well up in Jake's eyes. Then he smiles. He smiles at the sight
of the snow-covered peach tree.
Many years later when the useless library is about to be torn down
to make way for a new air/water purification facility Jake is still
standing under the now dead peach tree. His smile frozen in time.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Priority Seating for Elderly and Disabled Passengers
"So, how's your Japanese class going?" Yesenia says. "It's fine," I say, "wonderful actually, I love it." "Cool," "can you read that?", she says pointing to a sign in Korean. "Umm, no, not really" -"oh"- We are on the 207 bus going down Western Ave. toward Pico Blvd. We did not take the 357 because it does not stop close enough to her house. Our talk of what we will do at the Westside Pavillion is interrupted by a shrill voice.
"You seen what she just did?" a young girl sitting in the front says. A sign abover her reads: Priority Seating for Elderly and Disabled Passengers.
"You seen how she went step all over my new shoes, damn bitch, prolly cain't see 'cause of her crooked eyes." She smiles. I am still trying to make out what's going on.
"Who, girl?" her friend says, murder in her voice.
"This old bitch in front of me. See?" She laughs.
"And she ain't even say 'scuse me? You should tell her off."
"Yeah. But her ching-chong ass prolly ain't gonna comprehend my vocalary. You know she only speak Chinese."
I look over at the girls sitting in the front and see that the lady who has caused the commotion among them must be in her late 70s. She stands. She smiles when the leader of the pack looks at her.
As we near our stop I hear the girl demand that the old lady apologize for ruining her "brand new boots" with "old, smelly slippers."
"I'm sorry," the old lady says as she tries to move away.
"Yeah, you best be sorry. I should get you to clean my shoes, too. But you ain't worth it, you prolly ruin them more."
The bus comes to a halt and people begin to descend. I make it a point to get as close as possible to the elderly lady and the girls.
"Excuse me" she says as she gets off the bus.
"Nah, it ain't excuse me, hoe. It's "step aside bitch." the girl spews, laughing.
I turn, look the girl in the eye, and say: yeah, step aside bitch! Recovering from her intial shock she screams, then says "Ain't no Mesican goin' tell me what to do." I turn back, look at her again, smile, then say: "I'm not Mexican."
She grunts, she grinds her teeth and clenches her fists. Yesenia and I get off the bus. She starts to make obscene gestures with her hand before the bus departs. I smile and wave back. Then the bus leaves. Yesenia and I cross the street to take the next one on our route.
"You seen what she just did?" a young girl sitting in the front says. A sign abover her reads: Priority Seating for Elderly and Disabled Passengers.
"You seen how she went step all over my new shoes, damn bitch, prolly cain't see 'cause of her crooked eyes." She smiles. I am still trying to make out what's going on.
"Who, girl?" her friend says, murder in her voice.
"This old bitch in front of me. See?" She laughs.
"And she ain't even say 'scuse me? You should tell her off."
"Yeah. But her ching-chong ass prolly ain't gonna comprehend my vocalary. You know she only speak Chinese."
I look over at the girls sitting in the front and see that the lady who has caused the commotion among them must be in her late 70s. She stands. She smiles when the leader of the pack looks at her.
As we near our stop I hear the girl demand that the old lady apologize for ruining her "brand new boots" with "old, smelly slippers."
"I'm sorry," the old lady says as she tries to move away.
"Yeah, you best be sorry. I should get you to clean my shoes, too. But you ain't worth it, you prolly ruin them more."
The bus comes to a halt and people begin to descend. I make it a point to get as close as possible to the elderly lady and the girls.
"Excuse me" she says as she gets off the bus.
"Nah, it ain't excuse me, hoe. It's "step aside bitch." the girl spews, laughing.
I turn, look the girl in the eye, and say: yeah, step aside bitch! Recovering from her intial shock she screams, then says "Ain't no Mesican goin' tell me what to do." I turn back, look at her again, smile, then say: "I'm not Mexican."
She grunts, she grinds her teeth and clenches her fists. Yesenia and I get off the bus. She starts to make obscene gestures with her hand before the bus departs. I smile and wave back. Then the bus leaves. Yesenia and I cross the street to take the next one on our route.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Poetry Series (8): Haiku Afternoon
Gunshot, screeching tires.
Out front orange blossoms float.
Tender tears stop time.
Bryan Maldonado
Out front orange blossoms float.
Tender tears stop time.
Bryan Maldonado
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Immigration Crisis?
Próspero had just arrived from Puebla. He was going to spend his day off, the only free time he'd had in weeks, at the Museum of Natural History. It was free today after all, and the entrance would not be free for another month. He wore a pair of tattered jeans and a new white T-shirt. He was much taller, and much darker, than the friend who accompanied him. He smiled as he passed my brother and me on his way to the North American Mammals exhibit. Sacrifice did not seem lost on him; his hands were rough and calloused, his arms had been ravaged by the California sun.
"So, what do you think of the march?" his friend said "Should we go back?" At this, my ears perked up. I had been wanting to join the protesters myself, but uncertainty about some issues held me back.
"No, we went already. Besides, if there's like 5000 people, they're not going to care about two more. When have you ever heard them say 'there were aproximately 5,002 people there?' "
Próspero made sense. He asked what I thought and I was unsure how to respond. I had thought about going I said, and would likely join the other march at about 4:00. We said good-bye. I spent the rest of the day at the museum with my brother and his wife. I did not join the other march later on. We went home by five; at about 6:30 I tried to get a workout at the new TaeKwonDo school close to my house. It was closed, as was the small store next to it. Most likely in support of the protesters.
Later it was made known that police had attacked a group of protesters with tear gas, use of their batons, and brute force. Among those attacked were many teenagers. The news was sad, though I was glad I had not been involved. It seems some guy started throwing things and for the misdeeds of one suffered many. Was it overly-simplistic interpretation on the part of the police? A drunk, unpatriotic man? Obviously throwing things at the police is not the driving force behind most people's manifestations. Nor should the deeds of one person be cause for police brutality.
I came home at night after spending some time in the library, thinking about the effects of today's events on the future history books. It seemed rather small, especially when compared to last year's. Last year's march effected a change of tremendous magnitude. It circumvented a horrible, destructive, inhuman law. Last year I participated in the march for a little while, but only after work, as we were advised in very covert ways by the superintendent that disciplinary action would be taken against us should we choose to participate in the day's activities.
At home I tried to reflect but was unable. I thought of Próspero and his friend. Maybe they were home watching some telenovela, frittering away their time. Or maybe, just maybe, they were immersed in thought, trying to find ways of making things better for themselves and for others. Thinking about the well-being of the land.
"So, what do you think of the march?" his friend said "Should we go back?" At this, my ears perked up. I had been wanting to join the protesters myself, but uncertainty about some issues held me back.
"No, we went already. Besides, if there's like 5000 people, they're not going to care about two more. When have you ever heard them say 'there were aproximately 5,002 people there?' "
Próspero made sense. He asked what I thought and I was unsure how to respond. I had thought about going I said, and would likely join the other march at about 4:00. We said good-bye. I spent the rest of the day at the museum with my brother and his wife. I did not join the other march later on. We went home by five; at about 6:30 I tried to get a workout at the new TaeKwonDo school close to my house. It was closed, as was the small store next to it. Most likely in support of the protesters.
Later it was made known that police had attacked a group of protesters with tear gas, use of their batons, and brute force. Among those attacked were many teenagers. The news was sad, though I was glad I had not been involved. It seems some guy started throwing things and for the misdeeds of one suffered many. Was it overly-simplistic interpretation on the part of the police? A drunk, unpatriotic man? Obviously throwing things at the police is not the driving force behind most people's manifestations. Nor should the deeds of one person be cause for police brutality.
I came home at night after spending some time in the library, thinking about the effects of today's events on the future history books. It seemed rather small, especially when compared to last year's. Last year's march effected a change of tremendous magnitude. It circumvented a horrible, destructive, inhuman law. Last year I participated in the march for a little while, but only after work, as we were advised in very covert ways by the superintendent that disciplinary action would be taken against us should we choose to participate in the day's activities.
At home I tried to reflect but was unable. I thought of Próspero and his friend. Maybe they were home watching some telenovela, frittering away their time. Or maybe, just maybe, they were immersed in thought, trying to find ways of making things better for themselves and for others. Thinking about the well-being of the land.
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