Winter
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under Announcements
A winter’s night,
Haven’t seen you in awhile,
Apologize if I’m having trouble making eye contact,
But you’re the same kind of gorgeous I remember,
And I’m not ready for that yet,
The weather still reminds me of the excuses we made to play Eskimo beneath bed your sheets,
When our noses were the best kissers this side of the north pole,
Not like those reckless things below,
American lips,
Too much tongue,
And not enough substance,
We used to arc flight paths across the heartland,
Lie upside down and flip them into the widest smiles from California to Manhattan,
You’re not as warm as you used to be,
And I chose a crowded restaurant where everyone knows me,
So I won’t make a scene this time ‘round.
Whether on a stage or a familiar place,
I’m always best when people are watching,
But there’s only been one person,
I’ve never been afraid to see me for who I am, naked,
And it’s been far too long,
How many times can I drive you home,
Watch the front door close stoplight red,
And wonder would you let me run it if no one’s around,
When I got home, I went to play basketball,
Because it’s the only thing I’m worse at than you,
And I need to feel good about us again,
It snowed on the walk back,
And I swore the sky was trying to romance me,
Sierra Leone mine diamonds from the stratosphere,
Have you ever tried to catch a dying star on your tongue,
It tastes nothing like forever,
More like innocence,
The dust of the February wind dancing halos under each lonely lamp post,
Until the earth is a blank slate again,
But I know now we can’t start over,
Because we don’t stick right anymore,
Love is not always white as wedding gowns,
Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty,
Like New Orleans jazz and the hurricane season,
The grit of brass band parades when the muck is up to your knees
Believe we can rebuild a home out of anything,
Take me back to Dixieland, I’m cold.
Toes
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under Poetry, Print
Feet,
dangling
At my eye
level, that is
how I remember
you best. Wish I could have
stopped you, too bad I had
the chance. At night, I still avoid
trees, scared my nose will run into toes.
I wonder how the view is from up there.
Michael Jackson
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under Poetry, Print
A King dies in California,
And the whole world falls to its knees,
Michael Jackson is dead,
And I guess even gods can’t live forever,
I’ve never seen a man walk on water,
But I have witnessed one in a rhinestone suit moon-walking his way across the stage,
As if Martians had invaded his body,
Too far ahead of his time for any us to understand
So he had to run it backwards,
He only grew younger,
Call him Peter Pan,
Because he taught us all how to fly,
Step by step,
Baby steps for man,
One giant leap for Neverland,
But now,
Even the children are crying.
And they should be,
Because no one loved them more,
I remember when I was six,
The first time I saw Thriller,
Only possessed the courage to stare at the screen long enough to know,
That I wanted to grow up to become a man who dared to bring the dead back to life,
Looks like Michael cracking jokes in a pediatric burn unit,
As if he could resurrect their smiles
A gloved hand scooping chocolate ice cream to the starving children of Sudan
Looks like a little boy in a cancer ward with Michael by his bedside,
Telling him stories of chimpanzees named Bubbles who shake hands with the Dali Lama and all the places he’ll go outside the hospital walls.
Where has the man in the mirror gone?
The one who always looks past himself to give the world a hand,
I wonder if Atlas ever stops dancing,
Or does he rock the earth as if it were meant to tremble
Maybe that’s why our knees still quake when we hear the sound of his voice,
Michael Jackson,
Lay down your load
It’s time for us to walk on our own,
I hope heaven is more weightless than the moon,
And no longer need rhinestones shine.
Thank you,
For reminding us how it feels to be a kid again,
We’d almost forgotten what it’s like to play hide and seek with our best friend,
And end up losing him forever.
For a Dancer
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under Poetry, Print
What do you say to a Mother who has forgotten how to dance,
It’s been two years,
And I promised myself every anniversary I’d write you a poem,
To guarantee your memory lasted longer than the trendiness of a pink wristband,
But this year,
I’ve decided to write one for your mother,
Whose melancholy calls like the lonely songs of ravens dressed upon her shoulder blades,
She wears black these days and I don’t blame her,
Her constant tears run like blood from virgin toes freshly en pointe,
And her eyes have cried out so much of their color,
When I gaze into those pale blue pupils,
They look more like binoculars staring at your first Nutcracker Ballet burned into a stage Across the back of her skull,
What do you say to a Mother who woke up one morning to find her little ballerina taking That last pirouette between a tree branch and the dance floor,
Graceful as ever 19 years kicking legs through the air,
A canon of limbs spinning in motion to Billie Holiday’s first commodore album,
Caught by her throat in time like a daughter’s last gasp of breath before defying gravity at A dance recital,
Those photos still line the walls of your home,
Every last one of them now a gorgeous face on a headstone,
And I wish your mother would bury those acrylic obituaries already,
Because she doesn’t need to be reminded of what your body looks like hanging there.
They say dancing is all about the line,
A choreographed path of righteousness
Ending at the crossroads between Heaven and damnation,
Your mother was always a good Christian,
But there’s a special place in hell for you,
So when she found you,
I heard she hesitated to let the paramedics cut you down,
Too afraid that that rope around your neck was the only thing holding you up in that audition with St. Peter we call judgement day,
Like a soul bungee jumping into Hades.
Maybe one day,
I will grow the courage to tell your mother
That these hands where the last to embrace your waist and slow dance to the rocking motion of a two step.
Tell me, whats more blasphemous:
To blame myself,
Or God almighty for making life a gift so precious,
That suicide was reserved for Jesus Christ,
And all those willing to be crucified,
But I’m still on my knees every night,
Palms to the sky,
Praying that someone up there bends the rules just this once,
If only so I can see you one more time.
But this poem isn’t about you,
It’s for your mother,
So that the next time I see her,
I have something more to give than an apology,
Because she has enough of those already.
So here it goes:
Brenda,
The world is not a stage fit for ballet,
But an endless waltz between life, death, and eternity,
Liz is a teen-angel,
Hugging the walls of heaven on prom night,
Waiting for her mother to give her that tap on her wings,
And offer her the first dance.
