born in ELA barrios
I live in a world of dualities
in my tight skirt and sweater
I can cha cha 'n hully gully down
but I don't know who I am
I peroxide my black hair red
rat it high, rat it high
pierce my ears with catholic cross
orale pues-sansei
Buddha- head become a wannabe chola
homeroom teacher
sends me to the back of the room
my hair is too high to see over
she calls me a disgrace
oye, better to nap in the back
back eyeliner, jade green shadow
I look older now don't I
times going to slow
I want to get out of here
I am Maria of Westside Story
in my purple skirt
I twirl with amateur grace
round and round
and then again ...
suddenly a balance
that's it for me
dance sets me free
forget those guys,
those blackened eyes
catch me in the rye
while legs grow strong
my spine becomes a willow
time moves in rhythm
and everything makes sense
the world becomes a dance
keep on is all I say
you call me a show-off now
I don't care - 'cause I feel good
and don't you wish you had my legs
orales pues, write on, right on
my daughter the old man said you are pale and need more yang earth between your toes
Obsessed, Daughter stays in her room. She opens the windows and stares out at the sky. Her black hair streaked by moonlight, glistens. Her skin casts an ephemeral blue. Chanting deep into the night, her eyes grow dark and somber.
in a never ending stream of consciousness she tries to grab the winter moon
She chants for days and nights, breath upon breath, whispers in the air. Is this a dream—that soon will end with the melting snow. No, it’s too late. Her hair becomes midnight, her face radiant. She can’t be stopped. Father must let her go.
Out from the window she ascends making the legend come true. The young daughter twirling in moonlight—spiraling on mist—grabs a slice of enlightenment and never comes back again.
Harry is singing his song in a parking lot, of an elementary school–somewhere in a midwestern state. He has a full band backing him. His voice beautiful resounding over the whole black top. Kathy is trying to get money to fund him.
He deserves it, she says. So do I, I say under my breath feeling rather empty inside.
I run to an open field of grass some of the blades are yellowing but it is pure space under blue skies and sunshine. Uncanny for this time of year in a midwestern state.
Three men running behind me with a baby Bengal tiger at their side. One of the men has blood dripping down his face. The baby Bengal unleashes and bolts towards me–his mouth wide open in a smile is about to knock me over.
Genie Nakano 