Lunchtime

Sometimes,
on rainy Tuesdays,
when the sun deserts the earth
and all that is left of joy
resides in an empty kitchen,
unused and unloved
for as long as an un-lifetime,
I remember you
as you were
here.

Or,
on jovial Saturdays,
you still play your father’s records
loud enough to wake me
and the dead
before noon comes.

And I still yawn and grouse
as I watch you hum and sing,
dancing and smiling
for Miles.

And,
on these days,
you still talk to me
and we still argue.
You still love me and still laugh.
You still cook
and

you still eat
away
at me.

-Raphael Armand

"How to Write the Great American Indian Novel"

The following is one of my favorite poems.
It's in a slightly altered form from the original, linked here.
All of the text is the same but the line and stanza breaks are different.
I think it's pretty funny but sad at the same time. Obviously, its intention.
Lemme know what you think.

"How to Write the Great American Novel"

All of the Indians must have tragic features:
tragic noses,
eyes,
and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic
when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed,
half white
and half Indian,

preferably from a horse culture.

He should often weep alone.

That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman,
she is beautiful.
She must be slender
and in love with a white man.

But if she loves an Indian man
then he must be a half-breed,

preferably from a horse culture.

If the Indian woman loves a white man,
then he has to be so white that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.

When the Indian woman steps out of her dress,
the white man gasps at the endless beauty of her brown skin.

She should be compared to nature:
brown hills,
mountains,
fertile valleys,
dewy grass,
wind,
and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.

Indians always have secrets,

which are carefully

and slowly

revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.

Indian men, of course, are storms.
They should destroy the lives of any white women who choose to love them.

All white women love Indian men.

That is always the case.

White women feign disgust at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt
(but secretly lust after him).

White women dream about half-breed Indian men

from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses,
smelling wild and gamey.
When the Indian man unbuttons his pants,
the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder,
one suicide,
one attempted rape.

Alcohol should be consumed.

Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions.

White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians.

If a white person loves an Indian
then the white person is Indian
by proximity.

White people must carry an Indian
deep inside themselves.
Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures.

If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior,
especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female,
then she must be a healer,
especially if she is inside a white woman.

Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman.

An Indian woman can be hidden inside a white man.

In these rare instances,
everybody is a half-breed
struggling to learn more

about his or her horse culture.

There must be redemption, of course,
and sins must be forgiven.
For this, we need children.

A white child and an Indian child
(gender not important)
should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel,
when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians

And all of the Indians will be ghosts.

-Sherman Alexie (edited by Raphael Armand)

The Library

From time to time I'll post some of my writing. Short stories. Poetry.
Much of it stuff I'm still working on. I put it out for the sake of input and constructive criticisms, so feel free to comment.

Here's a piece I just came across. I think I wrote it when I was supposed to be studying for something or other.

"The Library"

It’s an upturned cheek that kills me.
That hurts and steels.
Presses my ass into the seat.
My feet grab, desperately, the firmament.
I keep from falling.

The crimson carpet starts beneath me,
extending infinitely away.
Dozens of computers, meter evenly about,
while quietly humming their anthems.
Crisp-quiet sentinels.
They frenzy into the cyber-vast,
With stillness.

Three little robots spew artificial life from their jaws.
Printed pages for lifeless lives
Fitfully stationed in front of their drones.
The room winks and puzzles in constant spurts,
Bordering on regularity, on organism.

My breath is here, too.

My body plays just
As still and lifeless as the rest
While beneath my skin flex muscles and corpuscles.
Tics of nerve and elation alternate
With pulls and tugs of stress,
Of release,
Of hurt so good.

My heart beats.

The walls tell the story.
The ebb of life is bounded
In 'lefts' and 'leaves'.
The mere hint of blush colors its white,
Running out towards a horizon
hidden by the oblique.
It too blushes.
It too keeps flow close.

And there she is killing me
With upturned cheeks.

-Raphael Armand