i remember waiting tables, , , more bread? allow me to get you more butter while i make mine…
stacks never got too high, neither did dad’s.
“I’ll take you to Italy,” he used to promise, , , i saw how worldy
his eyes got, buttery, in the middle of an asphalt parking lot, 110 degrees,
i remember waiting to get out,
and i did, , , never came out with a degree, buttered my name
upon loan papers; who the fuck isn’t in debt? must be nice to eat bread…
what does a warm buttered end piece taste like?
in Italy? burro italiano. amore italiana. soldi,
waiting tables, , , in Italy maybe?
13 waiting to be 30 – supposedly i’m supposed to have
my shit together, , ,
i hate commas, and something they call ‘patience’,
there goes another one!
today, i buttered me a piece of bread
It was delicious: every word of it.
serving myself Italian-style
didn’t realize god was makin’ it rain
manna honey. manna n’ honey
shit’s better than butter
italians visit my store in sf
i speak of bay area manna to them
in Italian; non ho fame
i welcome myself to the world: the Present: where milk and honey flows with each buttered second:
manna burying my feet planted
eyes as dry as an end piece, wide open:
for me and for my dad.mmmmmmmmmmmm
im the element of perfection
the earth ready formation
water for unity
fire for rEVOLution,
never a final blow
airing, the breath of life,
reverberate the sound
of my atomic movements
trip, trap, raining songs
I mold to the blows of my intentions,
i am a statue of fire,
EVOLved, a growth of massive potential,
my fruit from putik
i fire up digestion
i am the rEVOLution
the living tree,
burning angels guard
the edges of my dewy foliage,
fruitage from putik,
the chorus of rains
i am the balikbayan of many stars: a god
and my feet, are of the very mud itself
im sipping coffee by myself. that is unusual. the usual is a cigarette, and a really good friend. the regular meeting of morning, and lighting up to the lit smell of a newport. and on the other end of that billowing, was a good friend.
today, i woke up knowing i’d make this coffee, no sugar in the pantry. how to live without a little sugar? at least i still know how to sip the need to wake up.
it is unusual to surrender, to something as simple as black coffee. surrender to loneliness, so i’ll know how to wake up without the billowing of a ‘good morning’, from you. but as usual, i’ll wake up. black coffee, and a little voice inside saying, “time to wake up”.
sometimes i dream of a little sugar. like nostalgia, or serendipity, on days i’d never expect you whiffing through my mind, unusually so.
for now, a sip at a time, and a little dreaming, billowing skyward. i never expected freedom to taste so sugar-free…
last sorry. promise,
last hiccup. promise,
last loan. promise,
last bowl. promise,
last cigarette, promise,
last word. word,
last time, last time. promise … ,
last cigarette, _______,
last ,. ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,promise.
if you can think of what has never been done before, is your story done by someone else.
you lived it. the story, ah, yes! i bet you won’t have the same outline as mine.
here’s the hypo-watered down version, cliff-notes-esque to mine:
bulacan – diwa’t dwende
1990 non-immitigration trauma – stockton…
roaches, mold, asthMAMA!
lola dolores – tita myrna
near-death lessons. came outAnthony
bye bye stockton.
sf – city college – 40’s sunset-
mission, s.assaulted, h.i.,vIP
dahdee died 2012…closer to Him
health, the best in my—
today: still frigh-10’ed-ing, not pre
one inch doing, 12 miles braving
why is everyone giving percentages of profits to kids in the third world?
great good thing right?
think pink…the red ribbon…kids in need…it really makes me wonder about the adaptation of capitalism.
it’s a good thing that our collective critical minds can discern this, which doesn’t mean that if you wanna do something like it that you’re allying yourself with the exploitative nature of capitalism. Or does it? I mean, we are all living, breathing, birthing from capitalism, right?
So I say this as an unholy male-bodied person: I’m kind of on board.
Let me keep shaping KoMo the way it’s supposed to, and maybe that part of us that really wants to Mother Theresa the shit out of our lifestyle can finally bond together like meat glue, and we can take a big bite out of something genuine.
For now, you’ll see me in this game at some point. Happy journey!