For Monks Only (RMC's writing)

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 05:31:00 +0000

My first book, Ten Poems about East Asia & Ampersands, is now available as an e-book from Amazon's Kindle.

New Poems that are nearly five years old

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 06:37:00 +0000

New Poems 2007-8 is available to read
at Google Docs
or
in PDF form

Subtitle: I, Orange Asian Girls

Paused Writing Career

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 10:08:00 +0000

when do i ever write
anymore, i set up
the computer on the
kitchen table
put the baby
near the xylophone
on the four-colored mat
type the first T--
he cries and i'm back
to picking him up

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 06:55:00 +0000

This site is a really good resource for sending out poetry.

Over Alaska 2002

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Thu, 19 May 2011 04:42:00 +0000

Over Alaska

The second movie ends

I’m between life

Continent and you’re there

Dinner time

Thoughts of a husband

At your back

Thoughts of me before you

Flying across the Bering Sea

To that other life

Our loves like two alphabets

That float near

But never join

As the slight tunings of instruments

In an orchestra

I write on this old map

That you gave me

On the folded stowaway tray

In turbulence

But maybe this map

Will help me find the way back

To peace and something

We had quietly

In our time together.

19 December 2002

I have been doing some housekeeping and desktop cleaning and found this buried in the D: drive somewhere?

A Swim

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Wed, 18 May 2011 05:05:00 +0000

for Tony Shin

It’s a poolside coup

chutes against blades

flowers usurping branches

terrorist cells of vines and

the great chlorinated liana menace

all dead and floating

until, pale knees against chest,

the cannonball explodes!

San Juan Chilateca

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Tue, 17 May 2011 15:00:00 +0000

San Juan Chilateca¾

(The Sun sets over bald mountains in the brown distance, dry to the foot of the thing. Nopales and Maguey in the dirt, dirt in the wind, no water in the rivers¾everything dying. No rain in eight months. Pueblo, great big group of farmers, walks into the church to get statue of Jesus Christ. Band waits outside.)

Pueblo: (taking statue) Twelve fathers of ours, bring water to this town. Dry town, very dry town, very dry dying town. Take our ten Ave Marias and our Rosary.

Band: Music Music Music.

(Band plays as Pueblo marches to where they planted the now withering corn plants. The praying continues. Feels similar to a funeral. Clouds form over the mountains. Feels like a party now. Dancing and singing as the first drops hit the dusty ground. Maguey plants raise their arms. Mezcal shots poured. Toasts and Gracias. Rain turns heavy. ¡Un aguacero! Pueblo runs for its houses. Rain thumps corrugated tin houses, drains off rooftops, floods the streets. Running people splash water in majestic spray. Even hail comes from that sky, walloping the cars. The corn fields inundate. The sun rises and the Pueblo sees that so much water has come that the seeds have been lifted out of the ground and away. The water has taken the dead corn crops too. The town is dead and wet. All hopes gone. Pueblo gathers outside tightly shut church doors. Pueblo demands to see Padre. Water leaks from the roof of the church. Padre opens door. People stampede in. Padre hides behind door as they rush to the statue of the Virgin)

Padre: What do you want with the Virgin if you already got Christ?

Band: Funeral Music Music Music.

Pueblo: So the bitch can see what her son did!

Reinstated at Mad Swirl | How's my viscosity?

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Sun, 15 May 2011 16:46:00 +0000

Ra! Gabriel, my alter-ego, mon nom de plume, mi nombre guerrillero, my pseudonym, my aka, me, him, you, we has been reinstated at madswirl.com in their Poetry Forum. After over a year hiatus they have taken me back (even though they usually eliminate you after a year of inactivity leaving an old poet assassinated). Mad thanks to Mad Swirl for their Mad Swirlie-love. If i was maudlin, i'd be on the verge of tears now, but i haven't been drinking and i'm kinda solid. If Christiano Larseni is reading, how's my viscosity bro? Still thick and sticky?

Also, thanks to everybody who took the time to read the installments of Glyphic.

Sore Loser in the Itaewon Pool League

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Wed, 11 May 2011 06:49:00 +0000

the last ball
drops
down the pocket
to the parallel
steel railings
which returns
the eight ball
to the rack
at the front

he bangs his fist
into the bar
stool
upset that
he was nearly
run-out

when the teams
shake hands
he shies away
from both hands.

The Dingleberry (a remix of the dingle poem)

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Thu, 05 May 2011 07:07:00 +0000

for Mandy

nebulous crusty beings

hung

little chupa chups

noticed while

on the throne

like a suck candy

to a white stick

shit stuck

to a single ass hair

at times suspended
in the recesses

of underwear

Glyphic in Installments

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 12:40:00 +0000

I am releasing Glyphic (formerly titled I am another yourself) in installments on Blogger. The final versions will be published later. This is kind of my version of A Tale of Two Cities.

The installments will come out automatically on my facebook page as well. Help me make it viral by sending it to other people who actually read. Also, feel free to leave comments.

First time getting shot

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 10:45:00 +0000

their Humvee is in tow

wind sucks in
not blows
then
it’s gone
the Humvee in front
bullets rush toward Leon
clack clack clack
he starts rock n rolling
clack clack clack back
the calm sun
hot overhead beams
into Leon’s eyes
he doesn't see
something hit him
he’s still rock n rolling
his friend yanks him down
into the Humvee
now he is lightheaded
the sun closing down on him
blood down his leg
fills his boot

he wakes in
the air vac
he lands and they glue
his side back together

this is the first time
Leon gets shot in Iraq

the Ethernet

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 10:08:00 +0000

Now he’s in Korea
(word changes my lowercase to caps, which
i hate, and I click a floating curser which takes me
to a pop up {cunt} box)
now I’ve been totally distracted
by Word’s fucking AutoCorrection--
they should learn to spell!--functions.

this is Korea: too much meddling
the old man making a thousand mistakes
is correct
like Mecca Dilbiarbs, the
you guessed it,
Billiards Club

why? cause he’s old
and that’s that.
not to disrespect the elderly
but being old in itself is not
the thing i look up to--
it's the scope of accomplishment
and the measurement of thought

so I was planning to compare the
I am another yourself me
(the K'iche' daykeeper me)
with the kimchi me
(the bar owner ex-teacher me)
but the essence of me
hasn’t changed at all

I, we, ask: who is me?
that wordy motherfucker with the flat voice?
who do I look like, baby?
yesterday’s fool?
don’t you know I’ll kill you now?

you think I won’t

i had something to say
it floated away
into a pop out window
somewhere
in the ethernet
leaving me feeling like
i just inhaled eth. . .

The ATM encounter

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 10:59:00 +0000

I'm in this little ATM machine on W. 4th street
i don't see him
lurking in a deep pocket of shadow
after stuffing the cash into my pockets
he yells, "give me your money, you white bitch!"
it's the second time i've had a gun on me now
"No," I yell back. "Fuck you!"
I walk out and go half a block before i dare to look back.

Very Sorry

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 10:56:00 +0000

shitty underground mall

beside the train station

with dim corner liquor store

the kind with the bulletproof glass,

and an A&P.

don't think sexy Updike girls

in nothing but bathing suits

with the straps down,

think ghetto weaves

smell unwashed body

wrapped in newspaper

with whipped cream cans

and vaseline

in his stolen shopping cart

a white teenager and a black teenager

walk into the main hallway

a gang comes right to them

out of the shadows

all ghetto walk and strut

and bumps the white one

knocks him to the ground

a gun is on him, in his face

the first gun he's ever had in his face

"Say you're sorry," says the voice

attached to hand, attached to gun

attached to racing heartbeat

the strings that make the whole marionette go

are in place

"I'm sorry."

Quality Comparison

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 23:27:00 +0000

i sit at an italian restaurant
the table wobbles
i sit at a coffee shop
the table wobbles
i buy a coffee table for in front of the TV
it wobbles
i buy two nightstands beside the bed
they both wobble
in the bar, i buy 23 chairs
they all wobble

in New York somebody would say,
"this wobbles, fix it."
here they say, "it was made in China."
the reality is that these wobblers
were all rushed to order in Korea
the Chinese one's are sitting balanced
throughout the US
thanks to a few well-placed matchbooks

dingle poem

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 18:21:00 +0000

for Candy

they grow and form

nebulous shitty beings

that didn't quite make it

into bowl

little dark planets

hung from a single ass hair

suspended in the recesses

of calvin klein underwear

they are the ultimate waste

waste's excess and waste:

the dingleberry.

waste to the tenth power,

like distances in astronomy,

orbits asshole

blackhole, a relic

of the infinite void from which it came

which produces this filthy non-fruit

harvest your crop of dingleberries

and dispose

a near-infinity of disposal

pick, pluck, chop to

harvest dingle harvest

berry harvest dingle

Skillz

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 06:20:00 +0000

they always talk about athletic skill

or business skill

people skill

but actually the most important

skill in the world

is taking a shit.

Funny Clip with Louis CK

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 09:43:00 +0000

Louis CK (Louis Szekely) is so funny:

Chiaia on Tumblr

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 17:41:00 +0000

i have started a tumblr account recently to have some work by me and others embedded at the bottom of this blog. i started with a poem called "fuck bukowski" to link things up a little bit. enjoy!

Ode to Cunts (art-poem version)

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 20:28:00 +0000


Click the image to see (and be able to read) full size version

Prologue (a chapter from my chapbook Glyphic)

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 15:59:00 +0000

[Chinese restaurant. Salsa music on the radio. MUSCULAR CHINESE CHEF in white apron behind bar at far wall. Kitchen Door on left. Eight very big tables. FOUR GORGEOUS WOMEN—bubbling with sexuality (or is it innocence?)—lean against the wall next to Kitchen Door.]

The pretty & friendly one
Brings reheated tea
& on first sip.
Reggae green spirals
Aztec-walk up my sleeves
Out tea spout.

My pages turn micro-flesh
Mini Aztecs violent
As the large ones
Kill
Right in front of me;
A man in a feathered headdress
Draws an obsidian blade
Through the bare chest
Of another. He collapses
On my plate. Blood drips
From his body like soy sauce
From clear packets.

They vanish beneath a cloud—
A waft of smoke from a passing
Sizzling Szechwan special—
&
Here come the Mayab
—in robes—
Elegant, solemn, glyphic
—like the writer.

One nods, de-robes &
Brandishes an enormous
Jaguar spotted cock & balls

A pretty girl dives in spicy mustard salsa spilling some
She resurfaces, waves, & shakes her hair out like a dog
Mustard splatters, it overflows from the salsa dish
Xalai? I ask, she nods.
She’s more beautiful than
My mind’s previous incarnations
Ta’ak is hauling salt crystals
As big as his body across my woven place setting
Waxi crawles through my noodles
Xalai bows & smiles lasciviously.
Ta’ak dumps salt beside my plate
He picks a crystal—the lines shine prismatic
On his face, orange through blue
—& places the luminous salt as a seat
But Waxi, instead of sitting,
Deconstructs a letter, he
Steals the stick of an i from a full i
On my page, spears it
Through his lobe as an earring
&—

The waitress comes. They vanish
Delicate, so delicate & on my page
—all my letters are missing!

Waxi you thief! Bring back my letters
The white consumes the page like the Pequod
I find I’m screaming, bring them back
—people are looking.
The Chinese chef pounds his fist into his palm
A waitress comes running with a teapot
Opens the cover, where I expect to see tea
There are letters, granite ones, peeled from the page
Like boulders to go into micro-pyramids
Strewn on porcelain kettle-ground.

The letters are out of sequence, I say
K stands up, angry, with its bent knee in a Judo crouch
I cover my eyes—expecting the blow
So, the waitress says.
Here she puts them down like this.
I find K’s offense is merely defense.
Not bad, I say. Nor are you, she takes my arm
& puts hers through mine
Like we were to walk through a sunset
Or have an old movie fade out
With her free arm she gathers letters
In her cupped hand
--destroying this very work in the process--
& puts them back in the kettle

She’s a good waitress

She pours them into my cup
Toma, it’s good for you.

I drink the letters
I’m Tz’ikin
During the rainy season
Wings flut-fluttering
In a puddle

Rainwater fills a gash
In an elephantagenous Ceiba trunk
Where pollywogs have turned tadpole
& swim in leaf-coated pond
eighty-seven days later
Frogs bounce out.

The letters burn within me
Like mezcal with the worm
I convulse

This is the process of nourishment

Vomit
An inner explosion
A creative cosmic serpent
Out my esophagus

Into a napkin
(We must have manners)
& calmness—immense & total
Sits on my eyelids
Like creation
Like One Crocodile

I nearly sleep.
But open the napkin
To find this
Transcribed
As you read it

Ode to Cunts

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 23:25:00 +0000

Peeing now I see a big cabbage in the lines
    of water sprinkle, wake, and ripple
    a mid-bowl tsunami
    oceans of notions, Rushdie?
    or at least just a sea of pee,
and that blue dye
A magic carpet with a meditating man:
    the counter culture karma compulsive cunt police
Insert photo here: “stoned cunts on chairs”
    and below it insert copy:
The texture of this piece as seen expressed thematically in the artists works thus far, said part has gained radiant depth and an unconscious appreciation and manifestation of the atmosphere
poems at the bottom of emails spam through the Internet—high speed 2bit virtual daredevils
C://test.flyingcarpet_beach_photo2.jpeg
Ads by Goodle, Dooble, Kabooble #FOOCC 258x250 pop out
Quick! Click them down! Concentrate! Concentrate!
They’re on the loose to make you stagnate:
music on buses, announcements on subways, musak, news anchors, cell phone bells, blings, bleeps, deeps, pacheeps, and rings, klaxons, buzzes, neurons, audio toxins these tocsins
all to distract you—in cahoots with your hobbies, families, jobs, worries—from being you
Don’t ever say it in North America: Cunt! says the meditating man with vibrating head—cunt police task force
Remember story of man saying, “you, sir, are impolite!” (link to: http://you sir are impolite.html if only you’d said:
“You, sir, are a stark raving mad cunt.”

Ode for the Fucking Sake of it

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 23:28:00 +0000

I want
the honking, smell of knishes and sauerkraut
whiff of delicious peanuts that taste like shit
I want
the Latinas with hoops and jeeps
    the parks and it’s unique craziness
    man in elephantnose riding bike
    man in grey suit playing flute
    woman in fountain giving speech
    SWAT team in gear
                   invisible on rooftops, in vans
I want
the hoods and dancers
the wall street crews and camaraderie
the bridges and bikepaths
    incense tables, books, and DVDs
    rats making garbage pails shimmie
graffiti on the walls and subways—deep in the tunnels packed with crews
the crews busting hip-hop
    playing ball
    wearing Yankees jerseys and gold
the bodegas selling dope
    speaking Spanish
the passersby blowing kisses at men’s dates
the man saying yum to the tall girl in heels
the dog runs, the chess tables, the arches
lakes, boathouses, and trees
the screeching subways with their express and local, stained-glass stations, jazz musicians, and drummers
the piers, the canals, the rivers, the ferries
the shimmering of skyline night
the terrorist attacks, the steel burning, the buildings falling,
the smoke that stayed, hovered, stank
of burning flesh and steel
the following altruism, sympathy, antipathy, and apathy
all the park benches
the corners and their dealers
the barrios and the bullies on bicycles
and most of all the stoops—their games, their gossip, and a girl with a nice neckline to smoke with—

Ode to the & sign (the ampersand)

noreply@blogger.com (rmc) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 23:27:00 +0000

4,057 letters in lines
enemy of lines
enemies in lines
enemies waiting in lines
scrolls and conch shells,
    the possibilities are many
    that reading out loud verges into one
    tones change and modulate
    like strung out “and” signs: &&&
three men sitting drinking tea with both hands
perhaps they are under a tree on a hot August day
or in lines with feet shackled in a jail somewhere
getting that bit of sustenance or at a temple
just before prayer time: three Buddhists sipping tea

-----------
see the original text published in Zygote in my Coffee.

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this poem can be found also in my book, Ten Poems and Ampersands, available from Coatlism Press.