bed

this is the bed. we call it ours. it was built and bought for us to be used in a home years ago. we are no longer there. we are no longer in many places we have called home. but this bed— we keep carrying it with us, through winters and elevator rides and blood stained fucks and stairs that wouldn’t fit us without breaking.

we circle around it, trying to touch each other tonight without words, without the screaming that have blanketed the past three weeks. the dog is sitting facing away to the bookcase that holds the classics my parents once ordered for me and my brother from Encyclopedia Brittanica.

she will wait like that until one of us can extend our hand toward her, say:

hello. it’s ok. we are not fighting anymore. we are not dying.

according to White Supremacy: 2 cans of soda > 1 black man’s life

theselfieissue:

Los Angeles Metro Selfie: Author Chiwan Choi of Writ Large Press. #theselfieissue chiwanchoi.com

wooooohoooo! i’m a “star”!

onehumangallery:

sexy

RIP
theselfieissue:

Liska Jacobs and Rose Quezada of DumDum Magazine. #theselfieissue
theselfieissue:

Liska Jacobs and Rose Quezada of DumDum Magazine. #theselfieissue

theselfieissue:

Liska Jacobs and Rose Quezada of DumDum Magazine. #theselfieissue

humansofnewyork:

“If you could give a piece of advice to yourself at the age of eighteen, what would it be?”
“Have more sex.”

descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack
descentintotyranny:

#GazaUnderAttack

pops

I ran into him yesterday morning on Los Angeles St, just outside the apartment. I was walking out with the dog and he was on his way in. My eyes always go to his hand these days, the one with the soft cast on the wrist. It will be another ten months of recovery, of the break healing.

The dog sniffs his leg. she loves him. He loves her too, more since she lost a leg.

“Hey, Pops,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, like he’s startled, even though we’ve been standing in front of each other now for about 30 seconds.

“You ok?”

He nods. “I was just at the doctor,” he says.

“Ok,” I say. “All good?”

“Yes,” he says. “I have to go back next Monday.”

He leans down and pets Bella on the head. She sniffs his arm.

“And mom?”

“Oh,” he says. “Good. Real good. That medicine—”

I always pause when I catch myself staring at his shoulders, at how small and narrow they’ve become. It happens again. I look away into the street, where a white toyota pulls into an open space. I’m embarrassed, but I don’t know if it’s for him or for me. My face feels warm.

“So,” I say, then put my hand on his left arm, the one not broken. “What - what do they say?”

“What?”

“What do they—” I pull my hand away and look at his face, search for something familiar, like myself. “The thing, the treatment. Radiation?”

He nods slowly. “Oh,” he says, “I go back next monday so they can tell me what’s going to happen.”

“Ok.”

“Can you—”

“What?”

“I need you to help me with something,” he says. “You have to look at something for me.”

The dog sits down and stares at the woman unraveling herself out of the Camry. She whines. A little.

“Ok, Pops,” I say. “I’ll come up.”

He nods and smiles. “Things going ok?”

“Yeah,” i say. “Judy leaves in a month.”

We look at each other in silence, one that is interrupted when he sighs.

“See you in a minute,” I tell him.

“Ok,” he says. “Ok.”

***

On Broadway in downtown, the sun shone. There was sparse traffic. From a storefront, music blared loud. And at the end of the block, a woman in red pants laughed while walking.

I was there, somewhere in mid-motion, my hand rubbing the sweat off my head.

It was just past 2pm. I was alone.

Things will happen in my life, out here in the street or inside my room.

But I will never get to watch my own child die. And when I am the one who is passing away, I will never get to watch my own child continue to live.

***

When I stepped up to the mic that night, I couldnt see him. I had lost him in the crowd. I read something about him, or maybe it was about my mother.

The next day I found him. He said he had to go. He said he couldnt stay.

He said it was all just too much.

***

I am trying to tell him that I am terrified.

But he is my father. These are things I am not supposed to speak of:

Love. Fear. Touch.

And that I don’t know how to let go of something that I never got a chance to hold.

#DTLAB #PUBLISH #YouCanToo #olivetti #whiskey #typewriter

tumblangeles:

Wednesday night at The LA Central Library (in downtown):

The Working Poet Radio Show is a new program dedicated to the working lives of creative people.

Host Joseph Lapin and Producer J. David Gonzalez are interested in the poetry that powers everyone from novelists to graphic designers to nanotechnologists.

WPRS celebrates National Poetry Month with special guests:

Chiwan Choi - Editor of Writ Large Press and the “Jay-Z of Poetry”

Michelle Meyering - Director of Programs and Events at PEN Center USA and founding editor of The Rattling Wall

Luis J. Rodriguez - author of Always Running: La Vida Loca: Gang Days in LA and a candidate for California Governor

Musical performance by Jake Bluenote 

WPRS will also be a simulcast. It will be recorded for a podcast, and the show will be taped live in an effort to create a dynamic new voice for the humanities.