A wild dog & a lost kitten.

A wild dog sniffs out a kitten
whose mom has just died.
After snacking on its dead siblings,
it eyes the last of this family line.

Little thing has long lost
even the will to look up,
as the wild dog laps at it
for the taste of its mother’s milk.

The dog could have ended it
with a swift closing of its jaw.
But at the last moment
something tells it to stop.

Instead it lets the kitten
tag along and teaches it to hunt.
Sharing its meals even when
the catching is rare and small.

Day by day the kitten grows
falls into step with the wild dog.
Quite the pair in their time,
sneaky & intimidating like no other.

Miles over miles send out shivers
with their howls and roars.
Years after years sticking together,
never losing the scent of its partner.

Time comes to pass & the wild dog
pasts its prime.
No longer can he keep up
with its feline friend.

Though the kitten now has
become the lion.
It always shares
the best parts of its catch.

One day the lion finds the wild one
breathing its last breath.
It laps at its nose and mouth
until the struggle ends.

The wild lion would one day
return to this spot to die.
Remembering the wild dog
who once gave a lost kitten a life.

Period Talk – July Edition.

part-the-red-sea.png There was a hackathon weekend during my period the past month that I skipped. I was tired and could not get up at 7:30am to catch the 8:00am starting of the event. The other reason would be because it’s an all women event. What can I possibly miss right? For a technical hackathon with all ladies, surely it’s not as exciting as if there were more men than women… I’m a sexist against my own gender. I’ve observed in the society what and more importantly who holds the power. I’ve been let down by other women who try to impose their value on me, just another mere female that is lost and weird and needs guidance. They are so kind-hearted, I hate it. They are so supportive, I hate it. They are so selfless and cheerful, I hate, hate it.

I played action figures instead of dolls (they creep me out). I played adventures instead of dressed-up tea-parties. I’d rather be dead than looking proper and prim and ready to serve just because. In my mind, what society wants with a woman has nothing at all to do with me. But I also seethe, oh, how I seethe. When I see dedication page on the books: “For Joanne”, “For my wife without whom …”, “For mom whose love…”. When I have a dedication to write for my book I will say “For my father who loves me enough to show me how the world really works. For my hubby who doesn’t care what I do as long as I will agree to having his kid one day.” Let the flow be real.

Think.

I resent the fact that I can think,
to learn to discern to disguise.

Give me the birds & bees’ mind,
live by the open sky & die when it’s time.

Instead I have curiosities to spill
too often the answers are not even real.

The friends you greet, the books you read,
contradictions, slippery slides, dancing with mime.

Don’t know what we are really here for
maybe the Bible really got it right.

We can all go home again in the blink of eye
if we all just hug, get down on our knees and repent.

Nah, of course nobody’s on the same page any more,
love is 0s and 1s moving at the speed of bullets and flashlights.

So what to do in the mean time,
fancy pants crawling with ants?

We are reptile, monkey & short of a modern man.
Who needs who I wonder which one is more prone to suicide.

If we indeed swallowed the fruit of wisdom,
free will comes with the burden to fight like a demon.

So how about we forget religion, money and politics,
try to use this thing that made us into such hypocrites.

This right, wrong, outta box, dimension & the universe.
Profound, confused, carry on with hidden faces.

Either here or there I think I recognize this place,
long ago, four foot two already knew all of these.

Are you strong enough to give it a go
knowing there’s really not a path?

Or are you still craving the promised deal
with everything organized, covered and tidied up.

Here goes the headline selling conflicts with both hands up,
as seen on tv, download the app, *wink*x2, don’t blame me.

Period Talk – June Edition.

period-tango-slim-2.png “I’m nothing if not confused” many a person uttered that line with such finality you’d suspect they’re gonna be alright. That fatalism brings its own solution as I resigned to spend my weekend with the “guest” who for once knocked on my biological door on a Friday. Kindly enough. I thought it would be easy too. A bit chatty and uncommonly “sociable” are the side effects of being a bit high from internal chemical somersaults and blood-loss. It’d be fun with the in-laws.

Except, I over-slept. Still in bed at 11 o’clock on a Sunday while I should be serving tea for these other guests. I was in a cozy, hazy dream and only vaguely aware of my companion’s “subtle” cues of should-be-obvious-but-not-to-me noises as he got up at 10:30am. I guess I should be the one with the tea and breakfast ready. My bad. I wish I didn’t have to see that glance from the in-law’s eyes. The utter disapproval or disgust that she must have reserved for me all that morning. It mirrored my own. I wondered how much a failure I am for not being a good host, a good “daughter”, a good companion to an exceptional and long-suffering son.

The wound is a familiar one. You’d think I’d have learned how to take it by now. Then again, maybe not. I realized something though. It is my fault. For still looking for others for validation. For still blaming myself for being who I am. For still taking this passive-aggressive crap as a matter-of-course. I am my own human-being. I will live with it. In the meantime you can serve your own tea, pretty please.

May your flow be smooth.

Sweet Orleans – Part Deux.

Bourbon Street New Orleans
It’s 11pm on a Wednesday, needless to say, the party is just getting started on Bourbon Street New Orleans. The masquerades with high expectations are arriving. The arteries start to flow in earnest: the music, the beer, the human-misery undertone. The last one keeps the former two company nicely. Vacationers here for the Jazz fest huddle at the bar-counter reminiscing the good times they just had during the day. You can tell they are not that impressed by this crowd. For it is but a chaser, the crazy after-party that never seems to end. It’s truly a testament to human endurance on the locals’ part.
On the street, there is all kind of humanity now. Most of them holding their beer as if it’s the Holy Water that can protect them from whatever ghost from their past. What I think though is that they are here to secretly rendezvous with their ghost. A glimpse of the damp, dark but warm and storied grave that this must feel like, with shadows of people too sober to be recognized, and consciousness too drunk to recollect. It’s a good feeling, you can get drunk without the beer this way. Being among this many people cheering, split-second decision making around you, you can’t help but feel alive. And there’s danger too, even better. The indifferent paces signal that they have seen more and ignored for less. Things happen on the street, this is where we celebrate both the real and the unreal. In this fervent twilight, we party till dawn when our soul crawls back to sleep.

Tree of Life
There’s nowhere I’d like to go but to visit the Tree of Life right next to the Audubon Zoo. I don’t know what an old oak tree should look like but this one looks young to me. And welcoming. With low trunk-like branches that shade you from the New Orleans sun and provide an almost hammock like nook for laying on. It is the tree of my dream. But I am reminded of something else that happened to the trees, or rather what these trees bared witness to. As I drink in the peaceful setting, on a warm afternoon, with other equally impressed visitors enjoying the same tranquility, I start to browse about lynching on my phone. If you want to look, remember Mary Turner. I try to unsee the torn black bodies hanging from the tree that I’m hanging about on. But something sweet hit the back of my tongue, to my surprise.

As I watch the Mississipi river flows before me now, carrying the cargos and garbages alike upstream and downstream, I can’t help but feel its disquiet. This river has been disturbed, and yet it’s silent like it’s gathering its strength. The sweetness transforms me, it soothes me to know that we are of the great people who are accepting of their fate, and still carrying on.