five deadly everythings...

Hot Damn!......It's a New Day!!!!

Feelin' good lately, mayn. Rully good. Energy feels good.

The thing that triggered me to the fact that I really have some problems was my stress level at work. Something would piss me off, and then I would start snapping at people and then go in the backroom and start punching inanimate shit. (Or on one particularly embarassing day, punching inanimate Cindy's).

So yea, I been on this corny lil' spiritual journey thingy, and I just assumed it was working. But yesterday was the test; one hell of a bitch shift...and...I did alright. I got stressed, yea, but was still able to laugh wit Tin and Katinka and Brian and them. I needed a smoke though. Booyaka.

Had a lil case of writer's block awhile back, but that seems to be over. I think the solution is always to write down something that already happened...see? It's already written for you. Hence my lil depressing piece down there....

So Chris lurked on OKP and read some posts, and then made fun of me. Effa y'all. What up Mara!!!

The relationship with Chris is prolly the only thing causing stress right now. She's going through stuff, so I think she just needs me to be around all the time, to support her through the sulks (hey...that was me a few years ago), but me on this little journey I'm taking, I just really need personal space, ya know? So we're rubbing against each other and causing all kinds of friction. But at least I know we're still able to talk things through maturely.

Went to her family party on the weekend. Hazel kinda scares me, I don't know why. And no, it's not in an intimidating sense like she's all hot and smart and perfect, but ya, she kinda made me nervous. Christine remains my favorite. Jay's a dork (in a good way), and her Kuya Christian reminds me of about 40 different Titos rolled into one. I picture this movie...The Incredible Tito, where Christian goes around killing people's Titos, and whenever he does, he sucks up their humour. Kinda like Highlander, or Jet Li's The One. But with more filipinos, and jokes that involve mis-pronouning words on purpose.

Movies...saw X2 again! X2 x 4. It just supports my conviction I would have sex with every person in that movie. They all can get it. Even the fat security guard. I don't care. Bring it on. Dude, imagine a handjob from Rogue? Yowzas.

Finally handed in my revised poem to Hanako....though she hasn't gotten back to me yet. I wonder what's up. I really want to get published. Thanks to Chris and Suzy for the positive feedback, though I think yr both either lying or biased. you bastards.

Suzy! Thanks for the talks. Yr a lot wiser and objective than I gave you credit for...and don't get it twisted, I gave you *a lot* of credit before. Yr a friend that I hope sticks around...I might need you when I'm 60, nahmean?

Which brings me to my semi-morbid (depending on how you look at it) decision. My funeral! I've already told several people (including my mom), but might as well put it in writing (or HTML code, as you will)...I want my funeral to be a party. Like sure, we'll have the service and the speeches an alla dat, but then, it's straight to the party. Drinks, smoking, dancing. Alla dat shit. I WANT THIS. I really do. No depressing shit. I want everyone to party like I would want them to party if I was still there. Party in my honour....nothing would mean more. Aight? And play some fuggin hip-hop, or I'll be turning in my grave. Don't let Paul DJ, aight?

Dayum....I have more to say, but I don't want to type anymore. It's a nice day. I'm going outside.

HA! That shows how much I've changed already....!

booyaka,
-J.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:27:00 p.m. | Permalink

Paper and Concrete

She showed me the address
and made me memorize it.
"if you see anymore of these,
hide them here:"

and she took me into the bedroom,
opened her underwear drawer,
and beneath a pile of laced secrets
she showed me where she kept the
rest of them--

--white envelopes, light blue ink,
marked with deft handwriting and the thick
smell of something foreign.
A man's name, an address from home,
Manila, Philippines.

Her dutiful child, I took task in hand,
taking envelopes from mailbox to drawer,
burying the Top Secret lies beneath
a topsoil of silk.

I was a Detective,
a Superhero,
a Soviet Spy.

I opened one of them once;
my native language, never so
foreign to me as it was at that moment...

words I did not understand but
a context I did: the length, the drawings
in the margins, the texture and weight of it...
--A love letter--

a good soldier, I did
as I was told and buried
yet again.
Buried
and buried
until I forgot what I was
doing.

until
one day I heard sobbing
and, following the sound,
opened the door to the garage.

My dad, seated in the driver's seat
head on horn and voice not
his own, keys in ignition
and ready to drive.

Ready to leave us and our
top secret envelopes behind.

His usually silent body releasing
such loudness, bouncing
off the concrete and into
my eyes,

I stood for awhile...wondering
if I should run and hug him
and tell him that I know...
that I know what he knows
and that
I hate her too.

But instead,
I closed the door,
prayed I wouldn't hear
the garage door lift,
and listening to his crying through
the walls,
I buried and
buried
and buried
some more.

-J.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:58:00 a.m. | Permalink

Fiction #1

I still dream of you.
Where you tell me you love me
and we cry, housed and trapped
in a cabin I've
never seen before, but i'm sure
feels like home.

I am still ok'd by your calm
Still flushed by your laugh
Yet still your touch causes carnal
caustic.

I still trace your name on paper
Tagging affection and dragging
pencils in directions unnatural
for me.

The sight of your flesh
a bare shoulder under braless
still...

Years on years
and still...
when I write of you

you

still

turn words and flip
zip mouths and slippery

and still, I cannot get
the words out.

Still, I sound like that same
15 yr old...dragging pencils
playing poet

and still

years on years and

...still...
that cabin feels
like home.


-Tp

Posted by Scene -- at 12:38:00 a.m. | Permalink

fingers....type!

I been doin the poet/emcee shit too much, I've forgotten how to write a regular blog. Like really. This is my third attempt. A lot has happened since my last blog. I know I blog just to keep stuff an account of shit and to get me writing even when I have nothing to write...but too much has happened and I can't really document it all.

Starbucks/Tony/Jill deserves like three blogs in itself (argh). But then again, I doubt it really matters cuz it's one of those things that I'll never never remember (oooh, double negatives. Double negatives are badass). Basically, Jill went crazy like we all knew she would, and she took it out on Tony the night of the shift supervisor meeting. I took a half-hour out of my shift to talk to Jill, Mark, and Tinisha, and I told them everything that I've ever wanted to say to them. I told them that they talk to people like they're idiots, that they're on a power trip, blah blah blah. That all they want the partners to do can happen if they change the way to talk to them. It's all language, I said. Every problem that exists in the store can be solved or made worse by language. Fuck the store, that's how it is in everday life. Idiots. But even after that, Jill still takes it upon herserlf to throw a fit at the meeting and start bawling and yelling at Tony. Psycho.

Buttfuck Starbucks, though. Went out a bit last week. Went 2 see Mr. Scruff with Paul n' Jimmy and them (had fun, but peeps were bein a bit weird), went to Fez Batik the following Sunday w/ my 4 favorite people: Chris, Mike, Suzanne and Blaise, for Frankie's birthday. That was cool, cuz I don't think I've ever hung out with just them four before. I luh does mofos. Great fun, even had fun with Anne (ha, Blaise).

Recent movies: 28 Days Later ("thoroughly average" says Mark, and he's right. But that's not a totally bad thing). Err...Terminator 3 (better than I thought, still not good enough to follow the other two...but it's a logical progression). X2 is still the best of the summer, hands and claws down.

I still haven't painted/fixed my bike. I thought I'd bite the bike and buy Suzanne's old one. But the mofo sold me (for the price of a slushie...but I also got soem free Kulfi out the deal...mmm...kulfi) a girl's bike. Mofo. (what? I said I luuuh you!). So I'm gonna take the tires of that ish and put them on the other one, and paint the other one's purple frame. I should then have a decent bike. If only I can get off my ass.

Nerd 'o' meter: I've started buying comics again (if you can't tell from my last two verses), I bought the Dark Angel season one DVD set, I spent about24 hours watching the Sci Fi channel's Twilight Zone marathon. I spend too much time on-line talking to Okayplayer friends (whatup Pres, Mara, Light, Frak!!! er....*ducks in shame*) It's happening...I'm hulking-out.

Ha, Chris is analyzing me now according to the books on my bookshelf. More interesting than typing.

So....bye.

-J.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:23:00 p.m. | Permalink

Marvel-ous On The Mic (Issue #2)

Now backtrack to a time when Betsy Braddock was British
Butterfly eyes, turned Asian, now I'd hit it
Bullseye crackin jokes, but the fucker's never kidding
He'll hit you, stick many men, just like Fiddy
Starks making millions like his name was P Diddy
That rhyme was shitty, but no shittier than Slapstick
Light-weight like Longshot, like Mojo causing static
Illmatic automatic bust glocks like Frank Castle
You killed my parents, now got that brooding schtick mastered
Bastards, and that's literally like Logan
Why is every Asian a samurai or shogun?
No superpowers, just swords, chords and blowguns,
The Hand'll slap ya slow son, across ya pale cheek
Like Shinobi to Psylocke, I turn you all yellow, just like me!
All you that braggin, you can call yourself my children
How many heroes you know makin millions?
Starks talking stocks with Reed, and Prof X
While Luke Cage n' Paige both bleed in debt
Now that's funny, money, the one hero's vice
While we're stuck paying fukkin four dollars cover price!
Christ, I'm a sage, just call me Doc Strange
Iron-man mainframe, Ghost stole my game
Y'all insane, I'm insight, like Uatu
Feel my eyes watching you,
Silence ya whole crew, man I hear crickets, so ask ya self What If...
...my little wack rhyme, just blows ya whole shit?

-Tp.

Posted by Scene -- at 3:37:00 p.m. | Permalink

Marvel-ous On the Mic (Issue #1)

Eh yo it's the Hobgoblin,
bouncin like he hip-hopin
the drip-drop of liquid
Venom gettin sick wit
evil black suit shit
Spidey sense is tingling
Swinging on webs n shittin on Feds
Y'all Daredevils ain't even on my level
Blind, so turn up the treble
Turn down the bass so you can hear my voice straight
Up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane
It's Arcade fukkin the X-Men wit a brand new game
Play a Gambit, ya card hand's a damn shame
Rogue can't touch but she's e'rybody's dame
If you got the bitch, flaunt it,
But use a glove for love like the Infinity Gauntlet
Carnage mouth wide open n' taunting
Flaunting the flamboyant flame color
But Johnny'll Flame On that ass till he
Land wit Kingpin in the gutter
Hear the pitter patter of a shutter
Must be Peter Parker, trynna get paid f' picutures
But picture this, Iron Fists n shins
Ku-Fu rage battlin back crack wit Luke Cage
No nine-to-five, gettin paid by J. Jonah Jameson
Fuck dat, run ya own game,
Mary Jane plain gettin confused wit the Typhoid
Namor the sub-mar, never sub par, swimmin' wit the tight Flows
Yeah, ya like those like Wolfsbane likin Sam,
All over that shit, like she the Multiple Man
Avengers gettin' tight wit the Man
While Hulk's on the run, smash shit wit no plan...

-J.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:23:00 p.m. | Permalink

Jill

Egos build and bulge
Billowing and killing shit
The density of one's head
is proportionate to the propensity
to and for one's skin shed

"Water off my back"
Vinegar in your eye, bitch.
Itch.
An irritation you can't scratch
can't see and can't hear
Yet you deny the burn on your skin
We'll see.

As tempers boil and to the spoils
go yet more spoils
And bitterness rises to the level
of the past due coffee you serve
You'll see.

Or maybe you'll shut eyes
and "shake, shake, shaken" your head
and wish everything away
like the fairy tales you no doubt
hold truth to, (don't read books
you can't learn from?) oh virgin-learned-one,
maybe your animals will save you
talking and bantering and singing
...no shit-slinging no more

Cry and cry while peering eyes sigh
But eyes see more than you think
(They are for seeing after all)
Peak-a-boo, you spinster-shrew

And what are you good for?
Dear Starbucks Superhero
My saviour
My nighttime escort through
the fiery kingdom of my
ignorance. Help me, help
us all.

We need you.
And you've no need to
say please, for it's not
exactly your pleasure, is it?
Frigid midget, even the tallest
minds stand on tippi-toes
to touch top.

But check it: quick feet topple,
tangled by their own tense tendons

Bitch, Ima pop off like Popples
Broadcast like Ted Koppel
Hit Hubby with a stubby if you shove me.

It ain't even funny, money.

So stop laughing.

The bussing timer is ringing
it's time for a break
and so for fuck's sake:
go clean up your shit.

-J.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:25:00 p.m. | Permalink