Forget summer.

Forget the scar incurred from saltwater and rocks. Blankets of moss. Fortress of shell and sand. Forget the siren; drown the song it wanted to teach you. Forget the dream of shipwrecks and coconuts split to the core. Everything breaks for a good reason. Forget the waves and their endless attempts at disrupting the firmament.

Forget those cities that welcomed you too easily, offering distance and the sound of a different name. Calloused soles, cobblestones, and air much too cold for lungs bred in the equator, forget how all of it urged you on. Forget the bargains, the boxes.

Forget the coins you failed to count, convert, et cetera. Forget how everyone seems to use a different currency these days: trading apology for a smile, a safety pin for lunch, pale reams of paper for a prediction of when rain would dance and which umbrella to bring, a peer at the future in exchange for a hammock and something to rest on. Forget the book, bagel, and boy you couldn’t possess because you were ten cents short. Forget the girl with her yellow shoes and swivel steps. Forget the dust-laden payphone. Calls of strangers who stopped you on the street for change. Something to spare.

Forget how beautiful everything seemed, how every butterfly mounted in a museum served as monument for awe, flight exempted from departure and arrival. Forget how many centuries all of this took. Dinosaur bones polished, excised from sleeping bodies of soil. All those fossilized songs aching within sediment within the unnamed districts of the earth’s crust. Enough sadness to drive continents away from each other. A list of spacecrafts sent out to orbit human ambition.

X marks the spot where we stand and Y stands for all the questions we piled up to get to this point.

How many mistakes and how many times do we need to get everything right? Forget time-travel.

Specimens of someone’s ancient script- another message among the many making it to this place and time, but the question remains: for whom?

Forget whose hand you were too afraid to hold. Forget that time you willingly followed the wrong directions. Forget loss, late nights spent longing, mornings waking up on the bathroom floor; all those missives misread, muddied by the weather, a wrong word. Forget absence. Forget the excuse about to exit your lips. Forget the length of the line you’ve been in for hours and how dearly you had to pay for this once-in-a-lifetime chance. Forgive the constellation of bobbing heads and flash photography. We are one and the same: believers of the next attraction; saints wielding tickets, subway guides, and knapsacks.

Forget question and choice.

A.) can be anywhere and anyone you want it to be.

B.) is where you last left it, still trying to find a way home, a few seconds short of weeping.

C.) is waiting where you shouldn’t go, dressed in wreckage and armed with a look in its eye determined to veer you off course.

D.) is trying its best to trick you into believing it’s the right one.

Forget what map you wished to give that passing tourist to your body. Forget the one who left you with nothing but wounds in its wake, a heart heavier than all the filled valises would ever weigh, another souvenir you couldn’t pass off to anyone else.

Forget the mirror, limbs of rust quietly ambling at its edges. Its eyes have grown dull and it lacks a tongue brave enough to utter what you needed to hear. Consider wearing another face: swerving that smile a bit to the left, turning crease of skin into charming crescent. Conversely, seeking the shed remains of a discarded face suits a few people.

Forget what you just saw.

The world brims with witnesses all waiting for a chance to paint their version of the story.

Bruises all aching to bloom: longing to be called something beautiful once more.

See the sky? Somewhere, the answer you’ve always wanted is waiting. Sitting under some shade. Sipping coffee on a rainy day. Maybe even surviving the first strike of lightning. Body ignited into waking. Something else. Someone else.


Make it new.

Draft of an “article”. 😉


Bookies Pt. 2: NYC Edition

I basically hit The Strand and that was the first time I saw shelves that were super high I felt so tiny (as if 5’1″ isn’t small enough already, hah). I think I spent 2 hours there (mostly I was waiting for Sean so I could have help carrying the books around). Then after the Strand we managed to go to Chinatown and there was this neat bookstore there called St. Mark’s Bookshop where I, well, bought more books n___n’

Hey it’s not everyday one scuttles around New York.


  • Tim Burton art book by MoMA
  • Fall Higher – Dean Young
  • Skid – Dean Young
  • The School Among The Ruins – Adrienne Rich
  • Breathing The Water – Denise Levertov
  • Refusing Heaven – Jack Gilbert
  • Or To Begin Again – Ann Lauterbach
  • Three Books (Houseboat Days, Shadow Train, A Wave)- John Ashbery
  • Alive Together – Lisel Mueller
  • 1Q84 boxset – Haruki Murakami

Also, some zines:

  • Bateau
  • Cousin Corinne’s Reminder
  • Juxtapoz
  • Hi-fructose


Bookies Pt. 1

Museum Trips

It took three airplanes to usher my feet
into this place. Collapsed on a bed much too big
for my body upon arrival. The time on my watch still reads
the same as if I never set sights elsewhere. So far I’ve gone
to a lot of museums. Rockets much too perfect for space
travel. A chunk of rock exhumed from the moon; the remains
of a wayward asteroid. A wall decorated
with daggers. Stones and glass and pots and the race
of which would break first. Someone’s ancient grandfather
clock. The piano with a painted lid. Triptych of poor saint Joan, wooden
and set ablaze upon golden flames. Pretty portrait of a lady
in black. Sculpture of a god staring
at someone else’s portrait across the hall.
Bones of dinosaurs and people
I never knew. Butterflies sentenced to live
the rest of their short lives in a small room. Two tried to escape,
hitching a ride on my hair. Yellow and orange,
I think. Across the domed enclosure
some American women found this funny, pointing
to me, my mother within earshot, relaying
the tale in our mother tongue. Later on we went
to a place brimming with photographs of people tortured
or killed in the second world war. A shelf full of scissors. A stack
of suitcases. A photograph of a prisoner’s brain following
an experiment on air pressure. A room containing nothing
but shoes set so still that walking somehow seemed
an alien memory. A dark gray ballet flat catches my eye and my nose fills
with the smell of aged leather. The man behind me sheds
a handful of tears and starts moving, his belly
edging me to go. The line runs
long, everyone else wants
to see what the dead have left behind.


I insisted on saving my money on most things but today my aunt dropped me off at a local bookstore and pretty much a tenth of my money went kaput. …Even if what I bought was on bargain 😐

So, a list of purchases

  • The Best American Comics 2008 (a steal at $7.98 from $22)
  • The Lifespan of a Fact – John D’Agata & Jim Fingal
  • The Selected Poetry of Yehuda Amichai
  • Mucha – Rene Ulmer
  • The Arabian Nights (with illustrations!)
  • The Divine Comedy – Dante “Oh Beatrice!” Alighieri, tr. Henry Longfellow (with illustrations by Gustave Dore)
  • The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet – Reif Larsen

And the entire time I was buying these no way did I remember how little shelf space I had left at home. x___x