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Wang Ping imitation...

Open Air

It is the symbol of,
an intellectual.
The sparkling open mind.
Power lusts
to exploit - the creative gems
that pave the road
along the spinal highway, epidermal landscapes, the electric nerves.
of the body, bound to change by
the roping responsibility of being capable.

“One man that has a mind and knows it can always beat ten men who haven't and don't.” stated George Bernard Shaw in act 1 of The Apple Cart.

I saw the galaxy of vocabulary unfold,
felt I was banished by its presence.

She trades her safety for a louder voice, transcending her youth to collide with the real world tsunami. She shields her eyes with her paper fingers that falter in the wind, temporarily blinding her with the light from the pixels. I cried over advertisements dwarfing the war, and vowed to be informed.

I kept the post-its and pages of thoughts in a shoe box, carefully preserving them. “Why do you keep this trash?” asked my bewildered mother who gave me a disapproving look. “You’ll never read them again, they aren’t coherent, and they can’t possibly mean anything. They’re just taking up space.” I turned away, took my pen, and drained the ink from the plastic tube. Tears blotted the words and traced rivers along the paper. Cherish the thoughts like molecules, necessary but unnoticed. I was fourteen, leaving youth to breathe Carlyle and Thoreau. I was determined to upgrade my brain, at any cost.

She read her daughter bedtime stories,
filled with theories, mind’s eye,
with voltage linking, sky-high beanstalk.
Her Rats of Nihm scurry along the cinder block spine,
Gripping her imagination tight.

The boyfriend came to pick her up.
Standing at the window, she welded
the tiara to her daughter’s head like hope to her skull,
watched him whisk away her spun-sugar girl,
into a flashy car, giddy waves washing inside
her prom dress. Her daughter wanted to walk,
down a lighted runway to flaunt her fortune.
She settled for the dance floor.

When they went to the park afterwards, he held her down and disregarded her screams as he stole the sweet fragile innocence of her flesh.

After nightfall,
You can watch the glow of,
flickering TV sets,
in neighbors’ windows,
where sitcoms,
news, and weather reports numb consciousness.

In her room, she cut her wrists to let out the shame of her skin. She arrived at the ICU an hour later, the blood burning the nerves in her eyes like mace.

The boys traded stories of their prom night conquests.
We have become men, they boasted with pride.
No shredded splinters of guilt from the past,
will trouble their thoughts.

A 14 year old girl without her virginity is called a “slut” – a filthy little sinner.

Salt deposits building on her cheeks,
deltas, crystalline crevices dividing her soul,
from her body, guilt flaking from skin cells,
silent phone on the bedside table.
And he’s her “first”, her “lover”,
her “curse”.

The police caught him when the car was rocking. “Son, this is a public park,” the officer began, after seeing the girl sobbing like a seal he asked to see some ID as well. Within the next few months he found himself in prison for 5 counts of statutory rape. She found herself in the office of a new psychologist every couple of months. Her anti-depression and anti-anxiety medicines made her mind revolt. Whenever she sees a man she cries.

A strong mind on a girl equals independence equals self-awareness equals difficulty.

Her advice to her friends:
To save yourself from men,
Keep your mind awake and alive.

“I’m so tired of understanding and living with these memories,” I whimpered to the air.
“Without it,” the wind replied, “you wouldn’t be half of what you are.”

Another computer programmer admitted to the psyche ward. The psychologists placed him a white room to assess the situation. They didn’t know that it wasn’t the work environment or social anxiety disorder holding him back. He had transformed into a machine and lost his humanity.

Emerson cautioned us to beware when God let’s loose a thinker, the result is change.

She heard her crying in her sleep,
“Just another nightmare,” she convinced herself.

The nurse came in to check how she was doing. The doctor walked in, his eyes buried in his clipboard. He had the nurse giver her a sedative to stop her from raving, then he had her strapped to the bed. They left. She woke alone and subdued, unable to physically move she retreated to her mind. She plunged into the pane, shattering the IV. “I can breathe again,” she said to the curtains. The nurse outside heard the noise and stepped in to investigate, looking suspiciously at the 11 years of scarring evaporating into mist. “Is everything OK?” the nurse asked. Instead of speaking, she smiled.

I grew up with this phrase:
A man can only think with one head at a time,
Generally, it’s his cock.

Words often used to describe intellectuals: nerds, geeks, cynics, brains, drips, drags, bores, squares, book worms, dweebs, dorks, thinkers, philosophers, theorists, smart-asses, wise guys, goody-two-shoes

Whenever a thinker is assassinated, the masses line the streets weeping in fear and screaming in haze.

A remedy for trauma: dissolving into literature. When detaching from personal recollection and delving into others, the thoughts mix and settle.

She bought a book at a used book store. Her father glanced at the cover and snorted, “That communist bullshit won’t get you anywhere.” She finished it in a day and made a list of positive aspects, and sealed them in an envelope. She taped it to the bathroom mirror and stayed at friends’ houses for 9 days.

Hypotheses Theories Experiments Inventions
Questions Theses Research Exporation
Curiosity Didactic Discovery Innovation

People constantly tell her never to change,
“Not like you would, anyway.
Intellectuals are constantly persecuted by the ignorant.”

It is not necessary to bury the shoe box with the body.

Comments

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
fraqmented
Mar. 25th, 2004 10:14 am (UTC)
I'll be your stupid body guard. Just keep thinking.
virtuistic
Mar. 25th, 2004 10:45 am (UTC)
oh no worries, this is just an imitation poem.
fraqmented
Mar. 25th, 2004 02:59 pm (UTC)
Yes, well. I like that last bit of imitation the best. = )
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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