TIFFINIY YINGUS CHENG
POEMS
1.
prepossessing
when i’m in front of a scoreboard or when i see green,
i’m behind my maximized brain––seeing my constructed well, customary beverly hill layers of
what i’m saying your eyes don’t come with—but is interspatial truth—
i’m playing tennis like a pro from the vantage of the seat.
nor before now did i not caress in the eye, see the happenstance:
this is the long picture when i traverse
even when you touch my face hard
i punched lots of your things into your genuine car so you could move, evidential motion is
what you did, 2012
now i can pace through the athletic fields on the trail
i cling to subsequent curvatures on sight because it might open and be observed
i’ve driven here wanting to crest lawns
like a baby tarmac on wheels
my body hard in suspension across the green because i put it there, limits of the earth force
the hand to put form down.
America’s manicured plot suggests a prior need for convening, green means up.
i’m on the lawn
the occasions it went so well i busted any tiles in with the eminence’s verve––rejoice in
producing the earth’s (physicality) relevance
hobnobbing up at second floor porches reflecting the georgic, my eyes dart to the scenario.
an exit to a position of tennis,
force the gesture
to slam what has never been slammed
as war bombs drop like weather all around the court, a consistency, from opposing countries
reason is the meaning i have––the rolling steeple of the throat is in the afternoon, absolute pain
in the right foot—the pastels of spring excel at my wanting, and nothing in you darts like this.
when you want the description before you understood the summit’s liability
love is when you want the lot of narrative at the same time.
randomly i can smell on my breath the possibility and the happening of that inurement
when eyes flash green it reflects the film on the screen
when i longed the most
it was an athletic bottom and top
as dread prey upon the game
diagonal means more, once in screeches at the coincidences now slantwise eating giant fruit
they’re blocks askance
meaning is the rendering i have––the story about that time you needed something from me,
unresolvable thus a story, thus also gone––that’s the tallness of the steeple, is in the afternoon,
the marketing-cofounder of my want-and too aware you’re lost with forthcoming memos
does freedom bound by a ball bounce like houses in the 4 corners of the world
or did i feign to hope so much
a walking reality, according to the story told in the country at the main intersection
by the store of the same name
.
2.
we always think of two scenes
a tilt, a draw of milk drawn on consequence. actually no consequence: a draft of a handshake
that then in practice shakes.
a situation with a pot that makes sense
as conversation
as a scene
mild scene, strong scene
the one with the cake
the one in Brooklyn
the one of industry
a milieu over-effervescenced it
With everyone’s thoughts. a scene afar tempts a scene close in utero unalike. does make the
metal-narrative fifty percent of the dongs and stripes are accidental
attribute the crinkle in truancy song to the time we each found beyond the moment heads
above burps in balls, come to worn well
little girls lose it over elemental baldness against the greatest of all dark backdrops
the illusion of the unspeakable make us all shake again
the truest illusion is true
.
3.
when you come to know it
the yellow car with a yellow mattress on it knows it, yet the world only comes to know it
on the road filtered at crosswalks through self’s windows
eyes point west when the merry go round does
collective consciousness seems to have a little explosion
it’s true only so far and farther beyond that we speak of it
Today, a cut of cloth means
Money used to buy material
we fought over black pepper
Legs got so tan as soon as I hit New Jersey
history is some capriciousness
at every scale, we’re stacking ribbons
the tributary of seeing landed
all individual
The dying of the smell at the playground the garbage cans smell early coronary
we’re simply talking diapers roam these grounds in excess of others
a thought never given though on discovery once on top of the world
now just the latest settlement
still houses wait for people.
Phenomenology is a park, has a telephone—calls slippery when wet
build higher.
it doesn’t work that way
yes but the wisdom of build higher
what surfaces are we using, those are the surfaces
.
4.
great problem of our sector, we disregard our limits
and the limits of the very little
every person’s loungewear understanding is nearly un-parseable
they sit in a drawer not to be seen—in finland,
water fashions pants.
get lilting beans, feel how to fade into the shade
a presence of context
time is a profile of nothing else
even if dormitory, so named by God
not good
density evokes the magic. that’s content
toads in my then lounge, wearing. will never be done drinking at the shore.
panels drive home
the point, cresting the
long side of the grape. the long side of enough. of the surf.
it doesn’t have to be a lot.
it has to be a little. and marked.
now I’m forced to ask my idol in the mafia if I really would write with going away on my walls
this i say because it is a feeling i remember having, when i ran from home
don’t let me forget your shorts
so much of poetry is about a moment, i want it to be about a decade
.
5.
it’s been too long! how we count time
I have gone face up to. dividends. have not gone when does a hard product bestow its
presence it comes it’s here when you see it, in office denial.
year for year there hasn’t been enough wrapping paper to know the piebald you. a techno inner
belonging tongue that is so many bits on mother’s television.
it comes along in pastry’s shadow
dense and disproportionate to your use of paper towels
when it is that I think of a store when it is that we can go to our delis, coming along without
jumping the tomato, when it is advantageous to exist as a sandwich in a transit,
double passenger.
we count time together as a mouth, 8 months but how is it to also count time alone and with all
hundreds of friends, the cashier, the post person, daughter is getting so big so quickly it’s
been so long, almost a year but you were just a hot topic and now you have my whole year I
haven’t seen you. a whole year is yours. also, the kids, I can not be a person when everyone
has a whole year! torn into by a million raised lawn chairs against each other this year is no
longer taking commissions. trifling one domestic run-in with the cupboard after at the runway’s
new desire, covert, and a slick back haircut took place, also this year. the every ding dong and
free-floating G of every writing moves in front of the other, just to go down the street
is this goodness’ pour?
remember our trip, try
everything is because we can’t feel success inside, off-gassing humans
we can’t even realize a true knee positions, off-brand human,
a chicken is never truly there
got the frontal version of the book at first, the seemingly single stratum roads to airports for
your spouses that make polygonal out of your drive
you can’t hallucinate the full you like it’s a unit of 1, so, no, no one gets whole years at the
store
when we can exist in all our dimensions, we don’t have to count even without proximity, i
accept all time and place and handicaps
to bet your rest stop or mine be bygone, let the other malodorous meatball transition or writhe
in colloquial terms, a daily smattering, to pair with is not the same as alone.
luckily, we care more about women since it’s 51% to 49%, all sorted, higher number of years
it’s unclear I can’t fashion a self if aisles divide us into cereal or sauce when we’re standing
side by side at the store, the latent candle odors of big box counting at the break
I set out to buy a hat, and found a deeply held secret of style and price at headcovers.com,
but the entreaty of a nation to ship in 2 days is for zippo, i feel cancer––mine, others—on my
head, it’s impossible to not be morally bankrupt when language can career, we’re made to
endlessly click with anyone
plastic bends around him, the pointless person because he has a point, he the deeply
unchivalrous not unlike gave up filet o’fishy this year
all the world’s history in one desires’ breath unrelenting. afoul to the hale. there is no face you
can put into the ground what can erase the genre chromosome of counting for more than the
last year, last shipment
the inner most inner city which you knew when I asked you to leave.
when you write with a pen you imagine the dotted line and the solid lives of childhood. that’s a
year too. the pen is so upright, the city must look straight
and everyone gets a year