For Monks Only (RMC's writing)

Checking in

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 02:55:00 +0000

I did 50 chin ups on Friday. Today is Sunday and I'm incredibly sore. I'm working on the book about opening a business in Korea. I'm thinking of calling "Tips for Opening a Business in Korea" so that it seems really normal and functional and helpful, but is actually a great dreamy, dramatic, story. I want to include chapters on different themes such as miscommunication between foreigners and Koreans, and get some of the little nuggets I hear as a bartender. A guy told me a story of how he lost the tip of his finger in an old lawn mover at a gold course. They have different mowers for the green, ruff, fairway, and walkway. He was using an old one so when he disegaged and pulled the bucket up the blades kept spinning. He was wearing gloves (it was a cold Canadian morning at 4 a.m.) and the machine pulled in the gloves and bent his fingers backwards. For six hours the doctor fixed his hand and cut off the tip of one finger little by little. They gave him no anesthesia because they needed him to say where he was losing feeling so the doctor knew how much to cut off. He says that at one point he was bitching and feeling bad for himself and the doctor said "Last week I had to cut an eleven-year-old's finger's almost completely off, so shut your mouth."

If you want

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 02:39:00 +0000

sitting at the computer
it's 11:35
if you want to write, write
if you want to sleep, sleep
if you want the funk, funk
then

i need sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 05:45:00 +0000

i need to sleep
but my brain is all riled up

i need to sleep
but the ideas are pouring
out my ears
dripping like candle-wax
and hardening on the bed-sheets

i need to sleep
but i can't pass up this chance
to monkey some words
together

They Say the Name Counts

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 03:39:00 +0000

the name of the character
the character of the work
the work of the quality
the quality of the name
the name of the....

Wendig, Chuck

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 07:29:00 +0000

This blog by Chuck Wendig is really funny and useful. It has reminded me that I need to actually write, not just want to write and think about writing.

Three Conversations on a peer in Long Island around the turn of the millenium

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 04:31:00 +0000

Excuse me? Do you have an eBook reader?
No, I don't.
Okay, never mind then.

Excuse me? Have you ever seen cough syrup
turn a man inside out?
I have not.
Okay. Never mind then.

Excuse me? If I have shucked a clam for you
will you pop open a beer for me?
I absolutely will.
Now we're in business.

The New Publishing World

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 03:31:00 +0000

Today's publishing world is really changing. Borders is dead and Barnes and Noble's is making major readjustments. Kristina Lamb looks at some ways that social media can help a writer get her work out there.

This is a useful resource for a writer: Kristina Lamb. (http://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2012/02/08/bookstores-are-closing-amazon-is-expanding-want-a-sure-bet-in-an-uncertain-future/)

David McLean Reviews Ten Poems/Ampersands

noreply@blogger.com (Ralph-Michael Chiaia) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 02:18:00 +0000

McLean reviews Ten Poems about East Asia and Kitsch Nebula Ampersands And (Print Version) (Ebook Version)

by Ralph-Michael Chiaia
Coatlism Press 2008

Though Chiaia is an experimental writer, some of the work here seems timeless, the poems about East Asia, like Lian Penang, ending with the separate observation “An old Malay, he fishes” and Kuala Lumpur with the presence of religion in the two short verses both ending “The Imam sings.” They are full of observation that lets you feel the essence of the place, and a regret too, for the violence and the decay of the ancient, the escape of traditional values “How could Malaysia let it get away?” I can read poems about the UK, where i lived the first 27 years of my life and think, “Where is this place? Who are these people?.” But in Chiaia's East Asia poems one believes one knows. The language is elegant and English but smells like Asia.

The second half, “Kitsch Nebula Ampersands and” is much weirder and heavier, it includes several conversations between a person and a mushroom about access to said person's Central Nervous System, and this is appropriate, these are hallucinatory poems but full of acerbic wit, broad humor, and a certain exile's nostalgia for the homeland that may or may not exist. There's a rude Ode to Americans, an exquisite Ode to Ampersands, and, my favorite in this second part, a brilliant two part Daiku (death haiku) that ends

butterfly slain here

beside raped caterpillar

commiserating

This is a book you need, it's great poetry, it's very worth reading.

---------

More about David McLean

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