HIVE Diary, Photography, Poetry
Leave a Comment

Pilot Episode: My So-Called Life

Words and photos by Somi Jun.

ARE YOU FASTING TODAY?
follow the bell curve of the stomach,
the parched strokes at the base of the esophagus.
trace up the jawline, loop around the ear,
pull thumb over a gummy train of facial hair.
i feel i have been fasting for you,
sunrise to sundown, and finally,
the line has broken.


Part 1: PILOT EPISODE, MSCL
Flaccid smoke, erect.
Joker gloss melts off
sweaty reject’s face as feet
stay feet away
from his deadass beat.

Beat.

106 degrees echo off the 8 o’clock concrete,
corpse waves from 
the afternoon, my
stomach and veins scooped hollow,
pulse throbs mellow to the

Beat,

No point to this deadass heat.

Be glad for the French Braided coronation
around cud-chewing lips, because
Burger King does serve vegetarian fare,
3.49 and charged to
Straight Outta Compton.
Heat full of shoes and strangers inside the house.

Robert DeNiro is
the only purity in all this Drivel and mellow yellow
youth,
my flaccid night. The theme song of
my so-called life.

Part 2: STANDING ON MY OWN TWO FEET
my skin does not feel my own, it
fills the ash vase of bodhisattvas long gone, the
two seconds it takes for me to forget
why I came here, my pupils overflowing
with concentric circles of
the straight line I trace to
her hourglass home.

I forget why I came here.
my chest overheats under the case touch of air and
the burp at the base of my esophagus.

that night is far below the paved road today,
and my feet hover steady on los feliz soup,
wading through warmly recited recants of
that night below the cut of coup,
my eyes caught in the stubble of her
pubic bone,       I
sway the spine of my limbs to her beddiebye
story blues, to the taste of
sweet sour toke residue, to the smell of
fresh tilled soil in
a manger stew.

Part 3: COMING FULL CIRCLE
I carved a circle into my ankle.
The rolling plane of bone hit ink and needle,
the pressure of fingers swollen
from a boys’ game of Bloody Knuckles.
Blood pricks
around the needle tip, sinking into
the rolling plane of bone-white towel.
The red gels into a ring, and I watch
specks of mother’s spittle dance.

The circle taunts
the sun and my center of gravity, my mouth’s
Milky Way and
the zeroes of my zip code.
So of the galaxy through which I tread,
like of the Beginning and End over which
I kneel.
I smile at the image of Christ
and shy from his daydrunk Mother Mary.
I pray but my mind is static in protest of
the Virgin’s suffering.
I retreat into the circle, the safety of its
tile,
the gravity of fading ink,
the Space between swim and sink:

I am gone.
Dun.
Over the Blue Moon,
Under the hooves of calves,
Neatly scooped in half.

TELL US WHAT YOU THINK

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s