Sunday, April 18, 2010

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Friday, April 9, 2010

A strand of hair on the very back most reaches of the tongue.

A strand of hair on the very back most reaches of the tongue.

As the kids outside with tape-wrapped foam swords,
In 21st century factory-permissible-hot-pink colors,
Lob blows at their Monkey King heroes imaginary foes
As my week old anniversary rose in the jar dims to pink and
Bows its head across the lip of the rim

More unprovoked screams from the kids outside in an
Unwrittable language that looks like
Englishes in a mixed-drink Sudoku newspaper back page,
Under a sticky coffee-stain, no one attempts.

As my one-year old husband lays in a sweat under an air conditioner,
Growling and drooling at x decibels.
Most times I can't sleep in that room,
On that foreshortened bed with our too small expensive comforters,
Ludicrously aligning the hypotenuse of the blanket across me diamond-wise,
To ensure its covering the furthermost reaches of my Foreigner Length.

As the level I tension, classroom instigated, headache lingers
Into the weekend at home at the View Sonic Panel,
Hovering over the Pleomax pad.
Online to no one, statusing these very lines,
To like-minds, with unlike-cares that give no-shit for
Mundane moments. Give a shit's for pics and thumbs-up,
Pink Stars, and re-tweets.

Who are my people now, but fonts and thumbnails with senses of humors,
Or aggravating non-filtered blabbing, ready-for ridicule,
At no doubt a safe secret-gossip distance
Myself readily included,
The overseas cliche dilemma, excluded by a language chasm
While standing in the outside world, at a noodle stand, ETC.
The butt of pre-teen snickers and
The pixel-y Foreign blob in phone jpegs.

But I'm virtually delivered from standing
Goofy on the lip of another canyon, called Google Translate,
Called Berlitz Compact Mandarin Dictionary, called
Deploying charades every time your mouth moves now, in
The Indiana of Asia, my dewy husband once when nondewy dubbed.

Level I tension headache meet level I scratchy throat,
as if, best described, a hair sits at just under the point
On the tongue over which the uvula dangles.

Culminating in all of this,
Like a TV snow background hum of a long, long, long division of
small, small, small unpinpointable deprivations
while living here.

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