In the night

under the sheets
knowing my friends
won’t call me today
or maybe not tomorrow
(or, if they do it’s rare)
I just lose my, lose my, lose my, lose my-self
start doodling out my thoughts in abstract mass
and I think that’s when you ring my door bell softly
hoping to come in, stay clean, say anything
but I just feel too secure
to let in a prior boo-boo
and it’s safe to assume that you might try again
but you leave again
with non of my plans ever being disturbed._—

We teased each other

in good fun until I became a poison to your dream of longing
you wanted forever, I said one day never
and that pushed you into a film of stuck=up depressed
I am sorry; I was being so selfish but I wished you had asked
because the signs may have gone the other way
but it’s a poor excuse because you don’t talk to me anymore
and I miss having you like my afternoon tea or nifty lunch so sacred to a regular soul
for friendships are needed, but your heart bleeded and I am at a core
bled me dry you said then tried to wrap a band-aid on naked lung hell the image is grotesque but you persisted on this graphic line and expected no consequence
hell, I am not impressed
but will you forgive and can I forgive because if malice was not intended and the world was not disjointed maybe a kiss at a different timed tongue may have sufficed
but this world that harvest rubies cannot console the coal until it diamond racketed
so instead I tell the lonely graphite that it has use for even if we are no longer bedfellows we are still a memory label and stitched in a quilt of our preferred design and made whole as a beehive stung honey coat etching on the rafters of raw, unrefined slow elegance._▬

Your heart was once your friend

You are saddened by an amber frost
it froths and spins a lot in a dash
and putting forth a night petal
you wanted to see colours come out of it

It, that it, that was once your pal in arms
your comrade to sign off
instant message and massage the bones
you are confused
because it hurts now and sometimes skyrockets
into some fast, hazy lane
philological, psychological becoming so detrimental
and you say saying it out loud that I don’t wanna hurt
this mental play exhibits dirt and dearth and death of reason comes along
hand in hand

my body needs a friend not a fuck
I am trying to hurt less now
but my heart won’t let me
reminds me at intervals
how lonely I look
as I pass mirrors
with only my shadow to assist
the definition that I exist
it’s like a double bed with a bone in between
crowding the lungs,  my heart can’t breathe
harken it’s broken sigh and a soft cry that I despise

I am not being moody I just want to be loved
don’t you?

selfish crash of a being you doped up high on affection
so your narcotics deny my satisfaction
I want to walk around and scream and yell in an open grassland near a beach
that’s my love — love that I treasure — I crave it on my lips not sealed only with a dainty kiss — hear the mellows and bellows of the twinging-tinging blades of grass — do they dance only for an opal when ether can be scanned into a ring around the middle, my rib cage needs that fleshy jewel

my love is yet to be realized._▬

African-American Classics

nice looking graphic novels by the looks of it 😀

Blogging for a Good Book

classicsVolume 22 of the Graphic Novel Classics series contains twenty-three stories and poems written by famous early black authors and poets, including Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, and W.E.B. Du Bois, among others. Each tale is then adapted and illustrated by notable contemporary black writers and artists including Jeremy Love, who wrote and illustrated the stunning Bayou graphic novel (review here), Trevor Von Eeden, who wrote and illustrated the two-part graphic biography The Original Johnson about the early boxer Jack Johnson, and Mat Johnson, who wrote the graphic mystery Incognegro (review here). With such a talented group of contributors, I had high hopes as I turned the pages of the first story, and I was certainly not disappointed.

Without a doubt, the stories are still as powerful today as when the words were first put onto paper. Sometimes sober, sometimes funny, and always heart-searing, even without…

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Report Card Days

I dreaded report card days. I was one of the worst grades imaginable. I was mediocre to lowscore and it hurt deeply because my mother would come along and many a times it felt I was disappointing her. When I was younger my grades may not have been perfect A+ but it was palatable and at least savory like a low,you afternoon snack like some samosas  or small sandwiches but then it got poor . Poor, as in raw and threadbare and awfully tasteless or taste out of sorts as though you swallowed snot or bile. I think what I got upset at was my Mom. She used to be upset too but at tmimes she started things a out me that weren’t true or divulges factoids about me that I didn’t want to know like how I watch lots of anime (that time anime wasn’t that popular and I was a very unpopular kid).  And she starts on saying that how I had this insatiable desire to watch television or the “box” as she fondly or euphemistically stated. I got internally embarrassed and any that she mentioned these things. These things were not me and I was  very, severely hurt that I had to put up with these. 


At this time I understand though I didn’t then. My Mom was probably embarrassed too. And maybe at that time about me. I mean here she is spending so much time ,energy, money on tutors to help me out but I was learning nothing. And everyone around her used to imply that I was retarded. So, it must have been really hard on her to contain all these sad emotions and then suddenly come up and see this thing at school that everything feels like going to a waste.

When I was in school I wa hated thus I felt alienated and people were really mean to me. At home I felt alienated too so I decided not to care. I don’t think my close ones understood the gravity of of the situation. Nor else I guess they would do something.. Because when you get an F in being a person it hurts a lot and you become disinterested in other things thus a Friend in error everything else.

the gripping

You are bound to me in little hyphens

And the terrible odyssey of your clothes coming off

I mean that fabric that encases you

Warm mouthed kiss turned into a firefly gamble

And the ether of recognition planted a serenade

Caught I’m the dubious nature of vices you hurt yourself

Made angst your poetry;masochism your pillar of truth

Because without pain there is only a levity realitYou

Boredom betrays your reality so you want to punish it

By punishing yourself; because you must be boring too

To welcome thus right? Don’t be hasty to judge, even yourself

You are more than a vice, more than aproblem instigator

Remember love, especially for yourself._-

Freeing the Female Orgasm

Important lessons

Stories From the Belly

Spoiler Alert: Details from Episode 6 of Showtime’s Masters of Sex are revealed in this blog post. 

There are a lot of orgasms happening on the TV show Masters of Sex—mostly in the name of science. At a hospital during the late 1950’s, women and men are climaxing in their bodies both solo and together so that the two lead characters, William Masters and Virginia Johnson, can study their sexual responses.

You would think that with so many people climaxing, no particular orgasm would stand out. Yet in Episode 6, one female woman’s sexual release was so profound, I had to write about it.

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Pain-Envy and Other Afflictions of the Fauxletariat

Your family may say a lot about you


femme fatale
Bedriska, my grandmother, was an elegant, aristocratic Ilsa Lund type who was the kind of woman a man would do anything for. The kind of woman who would’ve made him do it, too.

My mother, Jirina, or Georgie as she calls herself in America, is gorgeous and vivacious. She is a Bond girl with a thick accent and a touching sweetness. A woman with a spine of steel and a broken heart. James Bond would’ve loved her – but like all the women he loves, she is a tragic heroine. If she and James had ever crossed paths she would’ve ended up being fed to sharks by a villain with an even thicker accent then hers, or would’ve at least faced a tearful goodbye with her handsome spy, who couldn’t bear to be with her for risk of putting her in harms way.

These are the women of my family…

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Elizabeth Gomez: My Life as an Engrish to English Translator. (As performed at Story Lab at Fillet of Solo Festival, 2014.01.18)

Drinkers with Writing Problems

EG GirlUnder my covers, I laid in my dark room listening. I could hear her yelling, but being only 9 years old, I wasn’t sure what I could do. We’d been here before, my mother and I. She was struggling, screaming. I pulled the covers over me tighter, “Riiiiiiiisa!!!! Riiiiiiiisa!!! You come here, Risa!”

My eyes widened as I left my sanctuary and I slumped into the kitchen. She stood there in her polyester bathrobe with a brown phone dangling in her hand. A sense of embarrassment flushed over me because I knew what I had to do, “Yes, Mom?”

“You! You speakie to him,” my mother said in her Korean accent.

“To who?”

“To this man! He no understanding me.”

Reluctantly, I took the phone from my mother’s hand, “Hello?”

“Hi, Ma’am, I’m trying to get the account number from your mother so we can help her. Can you get…

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