February 2012
45 posts
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You tell me that I make no difference
At least I’m fucking trying. What the fuck have you done?
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The only thing I like about facebook:
Unsubscribe
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vodkasexual:
“YOLO”, whispered the 9 year old daughter of Drake as she filled her blunt with cocaine.
When everyone you follow
reblogs the same thing at the same time. I’m glad that you have tumblr radar. Don’t forget that we all have it to.
Dear Essay,
mrdominos:
dacattack:
You are now due in one hour. Four hours ago you were due in five hours. I wish I had a time machine. Best, Jordan Dacayanan
Found poetry by Ryan Reading
dacattack:
I’m glad that you’ve followed in my foot-steps, son. We can now write the Found Poetry Manifesto.
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Dear Essay,
You are now due in one hour. Four hours ago you were due in five hours. I wish I had a time machine. Best, Jordan Dacayanan
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Villain Coup
Poets are stupid They’re corner-stooled in dunce caps They wear stupid hats Who can intuit their weeping souls, in the dark? Poets are stupid M. Moore, in fact, wore Saturn’s rings in gothic black They wear stupid hats They think that Ovid Has a cock to match Cupid Poets are stupid They try to bring back The black beret. As if, Che. They wear stupid hats They write vague haikus, in...
purplesheep asked: that post about facebook photographers. i think you deleted it. but you just got my gears grinding about a certain photographer whom bugs the hell out of me. idk if it's artistic differences, but i just can't like her stuff. but it makes me wonder if mine are any good. xD
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Horse Latitudes
The poem
has a horse,
a retired race horse
with a white patch of fur
on his left
shank that resembles
a bic pen
or a toothbrush
or a crumpled twinkie wrapper
that has been ripped
in curving diagonal
leaving
an ear of saran
hanging
from a tenuous plastic bridge.
The poem
states
that the
horse,
with his loose, dangling
muscle -
still impossibly wiry
and firm despite its
...
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I think
I went a step too far..
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Staring Out of a Window, Nightdreaming.
MIMOSAS COME MORNING! she said. I know that she meant she would be drinking some time after dawn. But, I couldn’t help envisioning the other possibilities. MIMOSAS COME MORNING! The glasses are being stroked until they squirt rays of golden juice onto the tight-dark sky, and awaken the cocks who crow in their barns and erect a lonesome farmer, now upright in a dusky bedroom, from his wet...
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I was pleasantly surprised
to find more than enough vegetarian food at a gathering of my Filipino side of the family. So that was cool. Congrats to the newlyweds! Not that they read my blog, but I don’t suppose it hurts to put congratulations into the various vibrations of the universe.
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Haha
So I walk into nation’s and I’m wearing short shorts because that’s just how I roll sometimes, but it’s Tracy, right, so all these dudebros are staring at me like they want to take me out back and beat my visible thighs with blackjacks until my bones snap.
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I Used to Play Jazz on 16th
I am not as thin as you think I am. I’m thinner. Except, maybe, in the thighs ( the bike will do that, hey.). My ribs are a xylophone, man, keep that rhythm, and I’ll groove over here and do the protein-shake. Yeah. You see this? My arm bones are wrapped in bass strings, guy, I need the stuff. Look, I got the shakes, the shakes. There you go, pluck that. Look at me man I’m all...
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Today
mrdominos:
I got:
Amazing Spider-man
Supergirl
Batman
Uncanny xmen
Ultimate xmen
Batman Beyond
Generation Hope
Avenging Spider-man
found poetry by Jordan Dacayanan~
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Emotionally Unavailable
I don’t think I’m edgy because of it, it’s not like that. It’s not something that I aspire to be. I don’t fall onto my sheetless mattress in the dark and say - to no one in particular - “how much better my life might be, if only I should fail to make a meaningful connection.” And if you fall on top of me and whisper whiskey into my ear, telling me...
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I don't think
I could ever live in a place without extremely localized elevation differences again. Unless it was on the top of a Mesa.
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I have this conception
that I’ve written a lot. That I’ve written a poem every day or something. It’s a rather false self-conception, but it feels good. And, then I go looking through my files and my notebooks and I think “This can’t be right. Where is everything?”
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I just submitted
five poems for publication review to the SFSU Creative Writing magazine, “Transfer.” I find out some time in April if any of them are going to get published. Famous last words: I’m pretty confident that at least two of them will get published. Inb4 “We regret to inform you…”
I ship
Ryan and Aly. Raly shipper.
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Why do I write this Crap
Next fall, when Occupy celebrates its birthday Nena better be there, playing 99 red balloons.
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Things and things.
I had a very moving experience tonight in an SFSU experimental college class on social movements. The topic of the discussion was “effective communication,” and we discussed things such as the gendering of words and communication practices, trigger words, coming to the table without the mindset of wanting to convince the other person(s), the violence inherent in non-respectful...
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I was once told
in a CW class, by a guest lecturer, that I was fortunate that I was studying poetry because the assignments that the essayists get are very vague and broad in scope, things like “uhh. Hmm, Okay class. Turn in 40 pages next week.”
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Burning the Midnight Fuse
“Semiotics,” what does it really mean anyway? What real, manifested physical, conjugal, corporeal thing does it represent or stand for or stand in for? How is it of the body? Your body. What is its relation to your body as you lift an arm to reach for a dictionary (which is really just a list of signs, isn’t it? Semantically speaking, I would say so, and so say we but we...
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IS THIS THE BEGINNING
of 100 days of rain? The streets are slick tonight. Shiny snail tracks like sticky rivers, and the prismatic oil creeping up through cracks and chunks of pitted asphalt. Is it another false start? Merely the beginning of moonlit falls? Will I see the sun pasted inside of a turquoise stone before the end of May? Maybe, only during business hours. 9 to 5 sunshine, clear skies setting with the last...
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Food for Thought →
Science vs. Pop Culture venue: Body Autonomy Death Match Arena.
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Really?
You hit me and you want me to pay for your windshield? Tell you what, I’ll pay for your fucking windshield if you pay for my ambulance ride. Parasite.
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Learn how to fucking drive
Learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive learn how to fucking drive
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I started
taking cold showers again, and my skin loves me for it.
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I notice
myself accidentally speaking in iambic pentameter sometimes. I wish I could do that when it wasn’t an accident.
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WatchIsabella Rossellini. Need I say more?
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Nah, it's cool
You don’t have to signal or look before making an illegal turn over a double yellow into my lane. I love getting my unprotected body rammed by automobiles.
It should be incredibly difficult to get a driver’s license. But it’s not.
Break my body, hold my bones. Hold my bones.
January 2012
37 posts
7 tags
IOU
I lifted my jeans with a curled index finger off of the checkerboard hardwood by the back belt-loop that’s frayed and ready to rip. You wrapped four fingers and a thumb around my forearm, from behind. I turned my head, craning my neck in order to place my chin on my shoulder and meet your gaze. You pointed to the window, out of the window, and mouthed obscene words when I turned from the...
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Comfort films:
Somewhere Lost in Translation Waking Life A Scanner Darkly Breathless
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