Plan of action: I’m going to get back to writing poetry (again). Everytime JT and I go to Troy’s On the Park, I get inspired to writing. I don’t write as much as I used to, but I do know that writing still relaxes and eases my mind. The only thing I find more soothing is listening to something jazzy while taking a hot (and I do mean HOT) bath. This morning I read a poem entitled Pussy by a talented poet named Ishle Yi Park. Yes, the poem is hot and steamy. I’m going to by a digital recorder and I hope that it helps JT and I remember our creative thoughts while we’re out and about.

Have you checked out my poetry lately?

Last night JT and I watched a movie called Epoch. Yes, I dozed in and out during the Science-Fiction movie, but a majority of what I did see was fairly dull. Epoch is about an alien structure that formed from the ground in a deserted part of Bhutan. United States, playing their regular role as Big Brother, sends a team of scientists and military over to Asia to investigate the issue. The scientists discover that the structure is about four billion years old and it ‘magically’ heals people of their ailments.

In the beginning of the movie, we’re led to believe the alien structure crashed into Earth four billion years ago. This would go with scientists’ comet theory about how life started on Earth. I loved the general concept of the movie; debating the creation of life always fascinates me. The concept was the only thing I enjoyed.

Everything else was weak; writing, acting and the special effects were so-so. What does the United States do to things they don’t understand? Get rid of them… and so they did in this movie called Epoch. The President gave orders for the United States military to nuke the three hundred story structure. No one cared about anyone or anything within the ten kilometer range.

I’ll leave it to you to see if they succeeded. Rent it, if you want to bore yourself for about two hours.

Ishle Yi Park - Pussy

Why is my pussy feeling like this?
Why is it pounding and pulsing so strong
I have to sit squeezing my thighs together silently on this F train,
legs crossed, calmly writing, sublime Asian girl with chaos thundering
between her legs, like some drum, some strange heartbeat,
some pounding echo through dark caverns that is looking for a call
and response with one great-shaped dick…Aigu, this
pain is unbearable; it’s eating through my underwear
while the two whitegirls sitting next to me talk about opera
– la Traviata – “I only saw it once, but like, omigod, I cried”
– meanwhile my pussy is slowly chewing its way
through the Express leggings, is crawling and sliding along
the dirty train floor like a giant hungry snail
looking for some worthy dick. A dick that is noble, handsome,
with character; a dick that is thick as a can of Ultra-Vive hairspray
and long enough to fill but not to hurt the cervix, a dick
that is no more than 45% tilted towards any angle, a circumcised
dick with a cute little mouth that burps please and thank you
and has a round shiny head like Michael Jordan, a dick without pimples,
moles, tattoos or Mikhail Gorbechav spotmarks, a dick
that is attached to a nice-looking man with extremely dexterous hands
and artistic, skilled fingers that are clipped and cleaned and well-
shaped. I’m not even asking for brains or intelligence
or political correctness, just a dick that knows how to do its job
and do it right. Punch in and punch out at the right time, work hard
and work diligently, know where and when to take breaks,
a kindler, gentler dick that knows how to move in conjunction
with a soft tongue, a dick that speaks in tongues,
a dick that can dance: a two thumbs up dick,
a five star dick with room service and Alizé,
a dick like honey, like balm, like weed from Cornelia,
like soursop, quenepa, Chinese apple, Korean pear,
big and juicy and dripping with pearls of light…
Why do men always compare them to hard, iron things
like hot rods and Uzis? What woman wants to be impaled
on some cold mechanical object? (Let’s not go there…) Guys who talk
like this probably fuck like this – coldly, mechanically, not rhythmic
like drums but rhythmic like machines that open and close
milk bottles…A woman wants warmth, heat and juiciness
and sometimes resorts to loving other women because so few men
understand this, with their dumb sports car and space rocket
fascinations… Maybe that’s why they say countrymen
are better lovers, they are not hypnotized by rounded bullet trains
that are exactly on time to the minute, they know that true motion,
the only motion that counts is the quiet rocking of waves,
its sometimes gentle and sometimes turbulent slaps against the sides
of wooden boats, the small, seeping leaking, movement of wind
inside waves, waves through tall grass near airports, the continuous
sound of running water, coquis and year-round Christmas lights,
a little acidic beer on the tongue, fingers through hair
that hasn’t been washed in a day, that warm lover’s smell
that makes you press your face to his clothes…Oh, my pussy,
my poor poor pussy, needs some good old familiar dick,
or at least a few fingers to stop by and wave hello.

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