Sunday, April 10, 2011

Celina Su


A surface sin, a tattooed connective tissue of thought

Or light, a skin effect of undulating conversations,

Current news head lice. Wavelengths saturate spines.

I skin dive for that which darkens by the sun.

I wear no suit, only a mask. It’s figurative, I am afraid,

As skin-deep, as personal and sacred, as my skin.

A public sphere, a globule of difference.

No declared cells or flags in the shape of a sickle,

Nor a bigger slice of the pie nor a bigger pie.

No week or a month or March. No march

Or demonstration or PAC. No Pacman

Or grand theft. No automatic lists, less repeating

Redundancy, thinking in a tank, statistically regressing

Analyses, shifting arms. Calling to them, to teach his own.

I’m holding a stake. I’ll believe it when I dig it.

The color of my sickness, its colorblindness a guise, or

A disguise, Hey hey hey, you can’t catch me. I’m syntax-free.

Skin taut by surgery. Taunted, who has a stake in my skin.


Action, Yes

At the Burmese Refugee Project

(the Pomelos [Poems] page has links to many more poems)

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