Paul > Recent Status Updates

What’s brewing when a guy pops the top off a bottle or can
talk with another man after a real good sweat. It opens,
pours a cold stream of the great outdoors. Hunting a wild
six-pack reminds him of football and women and other
blood spoors. Frequent channels keep high volume foamy
liquids overflowing, not to be contained. Champs, heroes,
hard workers all back-lit with ornate gold of cowboy sunset
lift dashing white

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Excellent

In feathers, in bananas, in her own skin, intelligent body at¬
tached to a gaze. Stripped down model, posing for a savage
art, brought color to a primitive stage.

I remember that her body was full of birds, such that when a man would throw himself onto her, before ascending to the heavens, his hands would have to turn into cages so that none of the birds would escape... in spite of the enthusiasm with which she received the men, if they gave her money, she took it; but she didn’t demand they pay her because the main thing was to see the world through the eyes between her legs.

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Bare skin almost, underworn. Warm stitched-together soft
torn toy. Stuffed and laced voluptuous imaginary mam¬
mal made of lovely lumps. Dear plump-cheeked plaything
taken to bed and hugged in the dark.

and down her nose
blood flowed like tears
battered by husbands
and lovers
for hoarding food
and love
where has love gone?

the children
will starve
remember the war
eating potato roots

and thinking of
invasions
and prison camps
she opened her legs
to the white boss man

I wanted to
call her what
she deserved
but...
I said,
white lace & satin was never soiled by
sexism
sheltered as you are by mansions
built on Indian land
your diamonds shipped with slaves from Africa
your underwear washed by Chinese launderies
your house cleaned by my grandmother
so do not push me any further.
And when you quit
killing us
for democracy
and stop calling ME gook.
I will call you
whatever you like.

his eyes held
nothing
as he whipped us
for stealing.
the desert had dried
his soul.
wordless
he sold
the rich,
full berries
to hakujines
whose children
pointed at our eyes
they ate fresh
strawberries
with cream.
Father,
I wanted to scream
at your silence.
Your strength
was a stranger
I could never touch.
iron
in your eyes
to shield
the pain
to shield desert-like wind
from patches
ofstrawberries
grown
from
tears.

From this cell of history
this mute grave,
we birth our rage.
We heal our tongues.
We listen to ourselves
Korematsu, Hirabayashi, Yasui.
We ignite the syllables of our names.
We give testimony.

We hear the bigness of our sounds freed
like many clapping hands,
thundering for reparations.
We give testimony.
Our noise is dangerous.

We beat our hands
like wings healed.
We soar
from these walls of silence.

no work, no pay
she doesn’t miss a day...

Into her body
she sucked the sun,
the soil, into her fingers
her pores,
into her nostrils,
her throat
the white chemical dust
sprayed from the cropduster
into her blood
that ran through her child
who died writhing like a hooked worm.
She did not work
that day.

Displeased,
he docked her pay.
He did not offer
her child’s grave
to be planted in the shade
of his elm.

I meet myself in closets,
amidst heavy soled shoes,
semen soiled underwear, erect trouserflies,
shirtsleeves pinned on hangers.
You open doors, spilling my secrets into the day.
We share rituals that save us from madness.
I walk toward myself
and dance in the circle of your light,
the warmth of your fire
I hear the familiar chant
and smell the essential same sea
I press you to my heart and hear the beat
which is mine