oblivious nerd girl
hood chronicles

Sticky sweat

From a day in the sun

Wishing my head cold

Would disappear

Instead my bra

Fills up with used tissues

Resigned

I've come to terms

With becoming one of those women

Who uses their bra as a pocket

Because honestly

My brassiere should multi task

Good Friday

Memories flash of Pops

Picking me up from school

Happy to leave early

Only to find myself

Sitting in an empty church

Listening to priests chant prayers

That I never understood

Years of catholic school

And I still don't know what it all means

Other that today

Means Jesus is dead

And that he'll come back on Sunday

That's the tall tale I learned

Many years ago

Today Good Friday meant

Po'boys at the Farmers market

Eavesdropping on transplants

And their festive drunk self made family

Koreatown adventures

In our old neighborhood

Crowded streets

Missing new night markets

Dodger games on the radio

And turning in early

Jesus may have died for our sins on Friday

And he'll pull his zombie routine on Sunday

But it will not be a holy day for me on Saturday

Because tomorrow is a work day

Happy chocolate bunny and candy egg weekend

Aches and pains

Fevers and sore throats

Remembering my childhood illnesses

How I would use a fever

As an excuse to go to the nurse's office

Sleeping on uncomfortable cots with paper towels on the pillow

As if the paper towel could protect me from germs

Happily waiting for my mom to pick me up and tuck me in

Resting on my couch

Sipping lemon ginger tea

Willing myself well

No parents to take care of me

Just a thousands of cups of tea

Stops for cigarettes

His not mine

The need for nicotine doesn't hold me hostage anymore

Staring at bright red lights

Signifying millionaire dreams

Reminds me of our games of 'what if'

The lull of imagining what life would be like

Without debt

Without fear

Without worry

Without hunger

What would that feel like?

And I stop

Brace myself for reality

And it does not feel as bleak

Rent and bills are covered

Food is in my belly

Fear and worry, not as bad as it seems

First world problems

Need not limit me

Should not constrain me

Will not confine me

Lottery dreams

Plus reality reflections

Equal a contented existence

Jacaranda blooms fall

Littering sidewalks and streets

A season too early

The wind sways

Swirling and cooling

Summer like Spring days

And it makes me wonder

What will Summer feel like?

Will it be warmer?

Will it be hotter?

Will it be sweltering?

Would it be ridiculous to think

If summer came a season early

Will Fall appear in June?

I suppose that's what they mean by 'June Gloom'

When the sticky residue of jacaranda blooms decimate the paint on my car

Does it make my complaint about the unusually warm weather valid?

'Climate change' is supposed to deflect the term 'Global warming'

Either way it feels like we're paying the price for poor choices

Talk of the weather normally means small talk

Does this mean poems about the weather mean small poems?

I think it means we're all screwed

Well at least my car is

Encouraging myself to work on my manuscript with this poem for day 14

For months I have told myself

"Rewrites will begin when I'm done editing"

Or

"Rewrites will begin when I get a new computer"

Hiding behind the excuses

But today I accept the truth

There are no excuses

The rewrites must begin

The words must flow

The novel I have been working on stares back at me

It is time to work

No excuses

It's time

Strolling down memory lane

Sifting through journals of years past

Pain associated with trauma

Still feels fresh

But as I close each journal

I shut down those nightmares

And look forward to

Brighter futures

Better days

Brilliant steps in not necessarily the "right" direction

But the direction the universe is leading me to

Moving forward

That's all I ask myself to do

Pressing along

That's all I can do

Being me

That's what I shall do

What I will do

And all I can do

Haikus for 4/12/12
1.
Poor choices like Con-
Densed milk and lactose intol-
'Erance are painful

2.
Footballs and laughter
Mixed with a grandma's face lead
To ambulance calls

3.
Dionisia
Hex or prayer? Who knows what. 
Lead to Pacman wins

I am determined to get a poem in every day. Even if it's a day late! This one is inspired by my commute to and from work

Historic-Filipinotown

Koreatown

Larchmont

West LA

Beverly Hills

Bel-Air

Westwood

My morning commute traverses the economic landscape of this city

Watching the billboards change

Tagalog

Spanish

English

To non-existent

Kids walking each other to the local middle school or charter school

Day laborers waiting for work in front of a public works building

A couple with their corgis getting morning coffee

Parents dropping their kids off at school

Latina women get off at bus stops

High end cars quickly drive passed

A man in a captains hat on a beach cruiser bikes by

Twists and turns on streets with no sidewalks

Westwood

Tehrangeles

Beverly Hills

Miracle Mile

West LA

Hancock Park

Koreatown

Historic-Filipinotown

My afternoon commute home is long

Honking at cars attempting to turn left where their not supposed to

Listening to podcasts to get me through the drive

Contemplating dinner and what it shall be

The commute itself feels like a test in meditation

Mindfulness instead of road rage

The drive feels forever

But I'm always happy to get to my destination

Home

Poems 8 and 9 have been posted. I missed sharing them on the Oblivious Nerd Girl facebook page, but you can see them here and here. 

Previous Oblivious Interview Mark Villegas let me know of a really cool contest that the editors of the book Empire of Funk are putting together.  Contribute your own piece (story, essay, poem) on your experience as a Filipno/a American Hip Hop fan.  The book highlights the artists perspective, but now the editors would like to hear from you! The Fans. More info can be found here: Empire Of Funk Contest. Winners of this contest will receive a signed copy of the book. 

Fresh Guys
In an era of party crews, dance crews, and straight up gangs
That's what my cousin and his friends called themselves
That was their crew
That was their name
That's what they were called
You somehow had to be a part of something
To be important
To be popular
To be known
I could probably still recite a plethora of party crew names 
That are now memories to many folks who grew up in the 90s

Milk crates
Stacks of them filled with records
That's what they did
That seemed to be what everyone did
DJ. Dance. Break. 
New Jack Swing
Freestyle
Deep House
and
Hip hop
The soundtrack of the times
With a little bit of grunge and Sublime in between

Memories weaved in beats, rhymes, and bass
Syncopating to a time that continues to live on
In the record stacks of djs
In the words of emcees
In the movement of the dancers
In the paint of an artist