made by yuka nagai

i’ve seen a man with broken legs walk 
and i’ve seen a man with a hole in his head talk 
and i’ve seen a man hit by a train, 
rise up and complain of a headache. 
but there’s not much i can really do,
because i think you’ve broke your heart.

he danced arabesque in that square patch of sunlight in front of me in the afternoon’s fleeting heat, a whimsical composition of tall golden flight sheered by pure soft momentum against the wind that left his hair like crumpled bedsheets or wrinkled paper with fingers wrapped in skin held in the hands of the flowers beneath that gripped him so tight that its pigments bled into his own until he was yellow, too, like the sun that dripped its hair over his face like lace, strange and composed of song, lyricism, or oceanic penmanship, but his eyes showed that he could be gentle, he could be sad, he could love as love is real the way we are real like the way we sleep naked in the heat of consciousness where everything important dissolves until all we are left with is only what we are.

and i asked him, samuel, does your garden grow? and he came before me and leaned his head in so far i was afraid should he kiss me.

November 5

i sat on a bench that served no purpose
but this;
this and the city beneath the snow
drinking horrible coffee
i let spill
from the cup
gently to the floor waiting
for the subway to
take me to s. station thinking
about closing my eyes and never
opening them again
? impenetrable and forgetting,
the sun never came

it was already past
and i was dizzy
and tense
from all the men who lingered around
with their
bad teeth,
unstable glares, and
a “fuck you” expression,
wholly unforgiving,
no one seemed to hear.
[they all looked like
rainy defeat, waiting
for a deliberate life to come and find
them for a woman
to recycle them with love
because their old philosophies didn’t meant shit.]

please, he
said. please,

one man
sat crippled against a wall
loneliness and contentment set,
left for tomorrow inside a box
begging and hollering
for a dollar or two
but everyone was all wrong
and he looked obscene.
more dead than
dead eyes than a dreamer
who had lost his dream.

then this one lady
walked by with
pretty pity
and threw a five dollar bill
at his knees
and when he looked up
to thank her
she was already walking away because
she didn’t want to breathe &
she didn’t want to care so she
buried herself under her own
thunder and big hips.
i don’t know, i don’t know
… . .   .
… .. .

when i got to s. station
i waited for my second train
with a second cup of coffee
not any better
than the first.

i was reading bukowski to myself,
a cynical bastard presenting misery
when a stranger asked me for the time.

"12:22, am."

he tells me he’s sorry he startled me
and i tell him it’s fine,
but he doesn’t go away

his eyes
they were bright
and empty
with a scarf wrapped around
his throat.

unshaven, mid-twenties
with an awkwardness
to his muse.

"what are you reading"

before i could answer
he lifted the book from my lap
and reached over me to take
the postcard of a painting i was
using for a bookmark,
and inserted it between pages
176, 177.
"so i don’t lose yr place"

the stranger, mild,
examined the book,
told me it was good
that i must be smart
that i must be in college.
that i must like things
& so & if.

he asked me questions
"when?" and "because?"
& “of what sort?” he
kept rambling on beneath
the hush of the almost empty
station but the whole time
i was afraid he was
going to run off with
my book still
in his hands
taking questions
from his pockets
and planting moments like this
between the blues of his eyes &
somebody else’s
subtle surface.

then he was silent
and the lights overhead
made popping noise s
as we just sat there
page 177 feeling
tired with the moon’s gaping
mouth clawing at
our backs tearing at
our spines waiting
for the night
to feel it creep

September 10

3 jobs
5 classes
24 hours in a day
i am miserably sleepy.

& because i am eco-friendly,
and car-less,
i’ve learned to ride the bus.
i actually take 3 buses, 4 if i want,
to go from work to home;
all of them less than 5 minutes each.

on the #92 bus,
there is this older man everyday
with a belly protruding from his body
like a gigantic animal inside
ready to give birth!
and to support this weight
he has a bad leg with a cane
and always sits in the same seat,
right behind the young black driver,
except his pants
is always mapped
with the dark
oil of
running along
his crotch
and wrapping around
to his ankles
like a disease.
and the moment you
get on the bus
you feel yourself cringe.
first at the smell,
then at the sight.

last night
he looked at me,
like a baby.

a dream

i dreamt i had a dream
i was trying to
build a house right
on the seashore close
enough for the
waves to touch
they liked me
but then there was a
sudden heave of up
ward movement
of wind and wave
and a big shark flew out
of the sea’s mouth with
a twist of the tongue and
the animal started squirming
on the beaded sand about
one hundred feet
from where i was
building my house
and, frantic for its breathlessness
i tried to get others
to help me bring the
shark back into the water
but before i knew
another exhale of wind and wave
vomited a big blue whale right
on top of my half built house
like an unloved child
and because the whale was
closer to the water than the shark
i helped it back into sea
pulling tugging coaxing wooing
and by the time
the whale was safely back in its womb
i looked for the shark
only to find out
the townspeople had eaten him
with fresh carcass
remnants of his caged ribs
a tail bone
left for me and only me.


i like saying his name, cielo. not for obvious reasons, but less. it’s succinct; conscience; more the way the tongue rolls loose like a trotting horse around my mouth and against my teeth. cielo, cielo. like a song or a god with rays of sun leaking behind fingertips and hillsides as if hiding an immeasurable secret, blue-green with freckles, salty skin, and a gentle gaze above a mouth as deep as the reflecting sea that mirrors the contour of his chubby belly with seashores and skylines that retract and protract with the pull of his gravitational breathing, a pendulum to his own spanish heartbeat. cielo, cielo, cielo. of blue beads and veins, he is the sheath that wraps the body of Morning with curtains made of red and gold, and dresses Afternoon with a skirt of spiderwebbed lace and cloud, and for Night, he weaves in her hair, stars and Cassiopeia; but for me, for me: he churns the feverish of dark storms to smooth my earthly skin into stones. ci.e.lo.

hola de nuevo

good morning from a cafe
good morning from a mug of coffee
some pieces of fruit + bread.

i like the kind of mornings
that sleep with me.
( whore ! )
i wake up brave
and hold you dangerously.

mmmmmhello day off !
have i learned anything?
this warmth is so nice
the kind that harbors my body 
from the inside.
this coffee relaxes me
how light, half light
my gills, my wings.
but it also makes my heart beat stronger so
you wouldn’t believe
some of the things
it does to me.

some times
i wish i could be in
multiple places at once, or
travel in trajectory lines.
i was also thinking about
the luxury of growing old
of all the things you can do
that you didn’t have time for
all the things that got in your way 
of your bold dreams
like taking cooking classes or painting
your dinner plates,
letting my hair grow long again.

morning i miss the warmth of sleeping.

taller than stumbling

hi from another coffee shop
another cup of coffee
that says, i h8 h/w.
there’s a red neon hue
from the tacky store sign
above me
and 2 out of the 4 walls
are windows so
when the sun was hanging
two hours ago
it was ruthlessly
burning a hole in my head
like you wouldn’t
believe ! but
now everything
is gray
and tinted with neon red
and there’s a
homeless man
sitting outside my window
who’s been hanging
as long as the sun
and, he’s clutching his
tin can with his eyes
open but his heart has
forgotten and his
mind has left
and the way his
squished knees
and salty hands
are filled with bones
that are
shaking a
little makes me
queasy like,
bleeding quietly,
or without taste.
well i saw him
count three
dollars a while
ago, and now
his soiled forehead
is buried
inside his coat collar
like a sleeping bird
under its
wing, because
he knows he
cannot die
(i thought
this was
going to be a blog
where i would share with you
all the wonderful
things in the palpable
world like alaska
or art or eco-friendly
coupled with my
insightful opinions
so i could practice blogging
cos all the hip businesses
are blogging now
?  so silly. but obviously
this is just
into my brain
and eyelids and
caffeine abuse.
psh.) HEY! a
girl just gave
him a drink,
and the

damn the birds that fly away without me hey you i’m talking to you

December 2

i keep the sun trapped in my black sweater these days on top of a hill and don’t let it out for anyone to know. my luster quietly penetrates through my skin and i cradle it with my books one after the other and my countries one after the other so i can write about them all; but still there is an unfamiliar sharpness to my breath as my hand hovers over the surface in devastation that’s close to infinite. are you the ark and i do not know what’s coming ? i am so easily thrown off these days by a lost glove or a wounded stray and allow myself to breathe in and let things fall out breaking the subtly and havocking chaos. am i a tree? a mountain ? a forest ? a terrible jungle ? well it’s all startlingly accurate. you wouldn’t believe some of the things i am made of in between my buttons and burlap, so how am i supposed to reach your hand ? i want you to know that i want your silent parts. my feathers, my fur, secrets in my pockets, my poems in my bags, my rabbit traps that you stumble on and ask why i put them there. well i have been killing all day.