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Five

Five is one plus four, two plus three and three plus two Five is zero plus five it is nothing and itself it is itself and nothing

I lost my edge and now I am infinite

Speed of light Ran a light Ran a red When traffic was tight Lightfast Steadfast Ways to separate Stillness to distill, sediment Highspeed to centrifuge The train is a bullet My legs are wheels I popped a tire Like stubbing a toe "Stop while you're ahead" A wise person once said Maybe it's too late When you're a trophy In someone's homestead A sack of skin Has nowhere to hide

There is no end

There is no end to desire No point in doing everything at once When the clouds clear All that is left is sky A sky blue can grow dark at any moment A sky black sparkles with stars The sky was a sky blue The dream was a sky black The night brooded with old horses With long manes and longings knotted in braids

I once covered my body in Yves Klein Blue and printed my skin on paper and scanned them like evidence that I was alive

The prints of my fingers The palms of my hands The balls of my feet

Blue, all blue everywhere blue but I felt pink

The living room window faced south and the neighbor's garden grew with purple pea flowers

I stood in the sun, peering at delicate life waiting to be cooked blue I wanted to set the color into my skin marinated by flavorless pigment

I stepped into the shower to wash off the color in the hottest possible water I scrubbed and scrubbed picked at my body like it was a giant scab peeled at my shell as if I were a steamed shrimp

The water cleansed me, scalded me I was a boiled tomato without its peel just tender flesh and juice waiting to be blended into soup

I got three stamps in my Moleskine notebook:

1 from Plain Stationery, where I lingered excessively debating between uniball one mini vs a penco pen clip - and left empty handed for a pink MUJI bullet pen.

1 from Yangmingshan's xiaoyoukeng, the volunteer at the info desk asked where I was from (here) as I pressed a stamp in my book, and he showed me the lanhua from the balcony looking into the valley.

1 from Zhongxiao Fuxing metro station after I cried in therapy, and walked around the mall tracing my usual routine, wandering around the import supermarket, window shopping along the escalator, browsing in MUJI, getting a soft bread or a cream puff, and finding a place to plop myself down with some pen and paper or words and a screen. I got the stamp as I was about to leave.

STAMPS!!

#2025 #2025-10 #typewriter #typewritten poem #writer on tumblr #writer community #poets on tumblr #poets corner #illustrans #rejectscorner #twcpoetry #poetryriot #writers on tumblr #poets of tumblr #poetry blog #poetrytribe #writerscreed

We were a generation raised by grandmothers. Something about the generational distance, to prevent smothering, the Department of Parental Education said. The mothers were sent to faraway states to work on high need populations, but without the guide of "community" - it was all service. Which grandmother? The maternal one. Those with only sons birth, but never become a mother or grandmother – a mothering figure. (A concept)

un aguacate con limon y sal encime de una cama de lechuga y col rallado en un rol de sushi como una mantequilla para el pan tostado un amante envidioso

#2024 #2024/12/31 #typewriter #typewritten poem

Tomorrow is another day together, to gather, there – that was where we saw the last thirty minutes of sun. Thirty minutes is all you need. Momentum. Inertia is its own kind of momentum. Frantic and random, vs: internal running. A tomato. Write for a tomato. Think for a tomato. Work in tomatoes. A Davis away gets a lot of thinking down. Walking from one end of Temescal to the hospital. From home to the TRI-Service hospital. Plus an extra 5-10 minutes of meandering, to wrap up. There's a way to use any space of time. I can brush my teeth and floss to a country song. Every breath is a timer. Every breath is time.

to want the whole day to roll like the pink fog over the hills like a stream that is kissing the valley and still looking for the ocean to want the whole day to burst open like a thirsty grapefruit and every moment is accounted for with the still of a breath eternal mornings in the summer, also the autumn crisp, the winter chill, the spring with its abundant mornings, if I can have it all, the whole day rolling like a fog over hills, I like the soft dough under my palm

One of those days One day I overestimate the day and underestimate the week, the month, the year The day is a drop of salt in the ocean of the year Sometimes I think I'm drinking cup by cup and there's no larger picture of the calm waves at dawn, the whole sea opening up like a mind, at times roaring, and there is so much life beneath the surface I'm distracted, I lose focus, I forget everything is mine already, and feel as if every moment was a loss, a day less, rather than a moment gained

On Friday I ate a bowl of sweet potato leaves braised in soy sauce. I drank kombucha made with red guava and wrote on a wide wooden table and watched someone fortune-tell a stranger whose aura was orange. I said goodbye without hugs. The humidity clings. I took pictures of the sun cast over steel painted doors. I ate hot egg cakes with a long toothpick. I sat on a public bench outside of a bank. I watched people emerge from underground. On Friday it was a good day, and cool in the shade.

My mother's mother is my mother. My sister used to call my aunt Auntie-Mama, more intimate than Aunt. My mother and I shared the least time together, by the time we were both adults she started growing more child-like. But I grew in her. I cried in the lap of her mother – did she do that with her, too. Or seek solace in more distant kin. Memories meander, mingle, mangle.

Maybe I cried to unsee your eyes I tried to close my mind Wiped a window with my wrist My sleeve was wet and I tried to dream Maybe you knew something I tried to forget The light was sharp like a knife I asked you to please sharpen the knife but you had a dull look that felt like a blunt stone Maybe you -- Maybe I never knew you Blue of light -- boulevard Blue of wine -- Maybe I tried The fish was fried -- the score was tied No one won, no one lost, maybe I ––

Jet lagged.

No longer jet lagged, feeling myself again and making plans.

Catching up on work, feeling low (or disoriented on sleep), doing plans.

Catching up on work, but less, to balance out the sleep, to find I'm still going to bed late and waking up greedy, wanting more time in a day or more energy on less sleep.

Final week. Preparations, nostalgia already, there's so much I want to do with myself, with the city, with family & friends, it's greed again, wanting so much but not seeing the cost.

All in a month. I am suspended and I am deep in the story I've made up for myself. What if I'm just a character and this month is a short story and all the Octobers are a novel. But I don't just want to process after the fact, I want to live differently.

It's raining again. The lake is meeting the sky Water is everywhere, wet. I told myself earlier this year to not be greedy, to know my limits, to pause before approaching, but I've been all up on it, peering over it, pretending I'm looking from the other side, building a bolster so I extend the limit by a little bit, for a little while, I remember driving at the practice lot and wanting to drive over all the lines to know what "wrong" felt like in the angle of the steering wheel, to experience recklessness in the total safety, just an empty parking lot with adult supervision. So greedy that I write into the margins, fill the page with text. When the cloud is too heavy, it rains. My shoulders drop. My belly is empty.

It's October again. 28 Octobers. Last October was my first October in Taiwan after we broke up, and the things you left behind caught a different light. Last October my grandma moved out of the house and it felt like I was running between three parents. Last October I went to Vietnam for the first time, and returned to Malaysia for the first time. I went into the coffee shop owned by the woman my dad had an affair with. Last October, when I left Taiwan I knew when I would be back, in under two months. Sometimes I feel like I'm chasing the clock and my breath is a knot. Can I enjoy a merry go round without chasing horses. The music stops eventually, and another set of children get onboard. I was a child in some Octobers past. I am caught in constant nostalgia, even the future looks sepia.

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