January 4-10, 2016: Lenny DellaRocca and Surya Gemilang

Dear Rattle

I should’ve sent this poem to you last time
but felt it was too good for you. I want this poem
in American Poetry Review or Poetry.
But they sent it back saying, you know, blah, blah, blah…

Don’t get me wrong I do want some of my poems here,
just not this, my best poem, which should be next to poems
by famous poets— Billy Collins or Mark Doty even,

but not the typical poets in Rattle. Mind you, Rattle poets
are usually quite good, but let’s face it, they’re not on the A List,
they’re not doing workshops in Key West or appearing
in Poem-A-Day alongside Denise Duhamel or Richard Blanco.

You’ve heard of Richard Blanco, haven’t you? He’s the gay Cuban
poet from Miami who read his poem at the president’s
second inaugural. And guess what? He read at my invitation

for twenty-five bucks years before he was famous. (No shit).
I deserve more than having this poem appear in your pages.
Not that I dislike Rattle, I like it a lot, but it’s not Paris Review, right?
We can all agree on that.

But go ahead publish this and place it next to poets
I’ve never heard of, or worse, next to Lyn Lifshin or B.Z. Niditch.
I’ve already had tons of my poems next to them.

I like Lyn and B.Z. but enough already. I want to be on the page
before or after Linda Bierds or Andrei Codrescu. Somebody Big.
And who knows maybe someday an unknown poet like me will show this
issue of Rattle and say, Look! my poem is a page away from
Lenny DellaRocca! You’ve heard of him haven’t you?

My Family in Three Parts

|1|
my mother reincarnated as a secret
land and buried me. sometimes
she called the god of the rain; she said:
please give your blood to my babies.

another time, my mother became
red fog, trapped an eagle inside.
then she cut its wings for me. but I
still couldn’t fly around her body.

when the new moon cried, my mother
changed her body into a lamp that
hanged above my bed. she sung her
last lullaby for the angel beside me.

today, my mother is a window of
my secret room … my blood is its glass.



|2|
my father is the biggest philosopher;
his voice is the darkness of his eye
balls. in the future, his eye balls is
the grave of its black.

nobody can passed his bridge. the
longest bridge of philosophy, such
as rainbow.

my father is the greatest parade of
lullaby. a black bird fly around
his head, suddenly become his
hat. boys and girls are crying on
the side of the street for the biggest
philosopher.

nobody can passed his bridge. the
longest bridge of philosophy, such
as the death.



|3|
let me sing a story about my eldest
brother: he is the prince of wind;
he is the way to fly. everybody try to
catch him. just try … because he is
the way to catch.

several years ago, he was a bee.
he came from the black of my mother
hair; that’s why until now he always
love the wind of night. several days
after that several years ago, he died
under the sea of honey.

let me sing a story about my eldest
brother …