The Manhattan Project
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under '08 Fall: Notes from Underground, Announcements
We held the Manhattan project in our blood line,
So we danced around New York City lights like we were born to,
Electrons with an affinity for lamp posts and all the glowing things in this world,
Tell me how to get closer to you,
Because I believe in a science called fusion,
And I want the atoms of our hearts to mingle,
To create energy and explode starfire into the night,
“Yes this means I love you,”
And I thought we would glow in the dark forever,
But I was just a boy,
Caught playing hookie in one too many science classes
when you were already three grades ahead,
And I was just too good at fakin’ it with the advanced curriculum.
So I never learned that even the sun will burnout sometime,
No longer able to kiss two protons into one helium smile,
She too will die,
A collapsed star,
I never liked how black holes sucked all the light from everything,
I said I’d rather not go out like that,
I think there’s more energy in parting,
It’s best if we go our separate ways,
And you said gladly,
Just give me what’s left of my love back,
But I never realized that breaking hearts is like splitting atoms,
How chain reactions fill chest until it weighs critical mass,
Until ribcage becomes radioactive chamber,
And my heart, a nuclear reactor,
Erupting into the three mile island of my sternum,
This is the stuff bombs are made of,
This is Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
This is Doomsday,
Screaming “My God what have done” from the Enola Gay, with mushroom clouds in our eyes,
This is fallout:
When the nuclear winter blocks out the sun,
With the ashes of everyone,
because everyone is dead.
Reminds me of times I wondered if you would be with me if I were the last boy left alive.
And it’s a curse to survive,
Radiation’s fried my immune system,
So I’m left defenseless,
To rot in my skin,
The napalm of my bones burning me from the inside,
Only I will know what pain is,
The horror of amputated limbs,
After my family tree returns from war,
And fate hacks off all the branches of our future children,
My genetics feel more like genocide,
And I’m not quite human anymore.
So lets start over,
Bring me back to the Stone Age,
And show me my basic instincts,
Whether cavemen throw rocks at storm clouds to pierce nimbus for sunlight,
Like shooting through fog for the moon,
Like cigarette burns in Brooklyn back alley ways,
Like rockets blossoming in the sky at midnight,
as if we could replant our love with explosives,
Remind me what fire feels like,
Because I’ve forgotten how to glow,
And I’m the only living boy in New York,
And you were more than just another “F” on a science test,
But even Einstein flunked out of chemistry,
And look what he gave us,
Limitless energy and a nuclear holocaust,
So I don’t know what about this project scared me more,
The possibility of success or the chance for failure,
But I’m willing to accept the consequences now,
I know you’re not here tonight,
And I know it’s my fault,
But when all seems lost in this experiment,
Lay by my bed and teach me,
That even uranium, rapidly decaying in half-lives not lived,
Does not die,
It just grows old together.
Player
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under Poetry, Print
Summer breeze fills the room like August at the Hollywood Bowl
The air mingles with clouds of cheap cologne
Raining down upon a young man below, suited in an Abercrombie polo, and acid wash jeans.
He is ready for his performance
A hush whistles across the room as it collectively inhales,
And his ringtone crescendos through his pregame sound track,
He checks his inbox,
To find he’s already being holla’d at by a girl
And as he reads her text messages aloud,
He reads them like lead sheets ready to conduct a private symphony in his honor
You see,
He always thought the sound his voice was music to his ears,
And as he dims the lights to his private concert hall,
And exits his room,
He places a condom in his back pocket
Like the dropping of a baton
And the first movement begins with the words, “I’m getting some tonight”
He liked to keep track of girls
Track them into songs,
So that he trace their curves like amplitudes of sound waves into coke bottle figures,
Track them and arrange their names into playlists,
Like the contact lists of his cellphone,
So whenever he got a song stuck in his “little” head
He knew where to go to play his booty calls,
He kept track of girls,
Put them on shuffle like the greek letters that scaled the walls of the frats he cruised to pick up on girls.
And, with cheap liquor as his instrumental,
He laced his tracks with beats he produced on the sound board of his mattress in a private studio beneath his sheets.
He kept track of girls,
Never owned a complete album in his life because he was only interested in singles
he could turn into one hit wonders,
And, even though there may have been a time when he dug oldschool,
He shunned a relationship with vinyl,
Because he didn’t wanna commit to a girl from start to finish once he laid his needle to Her skin.
In fact,
He’d rather go out and buy his songs on the corner.
So he kept track of girls,
Wasn’t even afraid to pimp smack a girl,
Didn’t trip if he left scars and bruises upon her body
Cause scratches upon his mix CD’s only meant it was time for him to skip to the next track.
He kept track of girls,
He said “I love you’s” like curse words on the hottest rap singles,
Uncensored audio accents spoken into her ears in the privacy of stereo headphones
But blipped and blanked out in the public sound waves of broadcast radio,
yet, how could he possibly love some one else when he didn’t even love himself,
So kept track of girls
sometimes just to listen to their bodies breathe by his side while he slept,
Like a subliminal self-help tape that gave him the confidence to say he was “the man”
He kept track
So that someone would listen to the soundtrack for life.
Well, if music be the food of love,
Play on.
