September 11, 2001

Riverside Train Station

3:25 pm
it is today. i just ate a plum. i like to eat when i travel. the sunny
day has slowly morphed into a slightly hazy one. there is a pleasant
breeze outside, warm. in the train, on the top deck, i am by myself
again. i got here by bus and a little bit of walking. in the bus, a girl
(oh, but i didn't really know this till i turned) tapped me on the
shoulder, asked me if i am filipina. yes i said. small talk attempt, but
i didn't feel like talking, as she was behind me and i was gonna end up
with a crick in my neck if i had continued. she must've seen my shirt
"Unibersidad ng Pilipinas". she made it a point to tell me she doesn't
speak too much tagalog since she was raised here. her accent was think
though. she's the second person who's told me they've forgotten how to
speak the language, though apparently, one keeps his/her accent
unchanged.
there was a lady in a floral print t-shirt, slightly disheveled,
sporting a blonde mullet, light blue beads around her neck. then a black
lady with fine braids and sequined black canvas hi-tops, who was talking
enthusiastically about diarrhea. a very though looking woman in a tight
grey shirt, sleeves rolled up, was sharing an unfortunate experience
witha hamburger. a bit later, high school kids boarded the bus. there
was a lovely girl with long red hair in mellow ringlets, and a shylooking girl with dark hair and dark skin (she seemed to be thinking). a
lady with a blue bandanna and 3 gold earrings on each ear. beside me was
a young guy, light-skinned who looked like he was about to drool (his
backpack was also open)
it is today. my friend ryan, whose words i treasure reading, was awarded
the Daily Poem for his bundle of words about caved lungs. he was telling
me he'd never get the Daily Poem, but he did. today. there is one more
minute before the train departs, the conductor announces... the doors
are closing... the train is moving. we are on time
it is today, my cousin called me, 8:30 in the morning. grandma is in the
hospital. obstructed small intestine. surgery tomorrow at 5 pm. the
train bounces but it is still better than freeways or airplanes. today,
aiplanes, with people in it, fell out of the sky on buildings, with more
people in it. it is a great disaster. the train is still bouncing. you
never know when you're gonna go... or where. sometimes the day takes
you, and you have not much power to resist.
the sky is almost fully covered with very high sheets of clouds. the sky
is still blue. it looks blue at least. it looks blue right now. there is
this big carnival by the side of the freeway with a sign - "Castle Park
- Rides closed today. Pray for peace." i don't want to watch the tv when
i get home. but i probably will.
we are rich. too rich for fancy trains. fancy trains empty if it weren't
for me, sitting at the top deck. is it me? the clouds have moved closer
to the earth. russian thistles by the storm drain. i am eating another
black plum. this one is sour. (strangely, i seem to have enjoyed the
sour one better)

the conductor wallked by, doubled back and waved at me. "Hi!" as if i
was 12. this place, out there through the window, i remember passing
here and saying something like "carriers of DNA slipping between her
green". something like that... months ago. this canyon is astounding. it
wears its face with no fear, no resignation either. railcars, a freight
train interludes my view. now green carpet, red tile roof, sandstone
walls. we are so rich. yes.
a man and his dog. he walks, his dog squats for a quick drop. today
looks like seattle, with powder blue skies.
i have a caustic mother. she has made many sacrifices. she has made many
choices. today i will see her.
September 11, 2001
Hospital, Bellfower
11:30 pm
my grandmother has tubes coming out of her. my mother, all bent up on
chairs pushed side by side, tries to sleep. the hospital room is dimmed,
through the glass door, beeping equipment. on tv, they sing "god bless
america". i sit there watching us, aliens, subjects, strangers. the
three of us in that room. we are all ill.
hold your hand. my head to rest on his lap. a song, a lullabye.
watercolor sunbeams from her hands. in the head, a universe of
unmemories. fragments of fantasy. specks and flecks of wish.
in my apartment, i imagine the phone ringing. ringing in an empty room.
maybe the plants will take the messages for me. before i enter, they'd
erase it all - turned to dust on the drooping leaves. he'd think of
calling... maybe he will. it's a comfort. it's jagged when he doesn't.
who is he, anymore? who is he? who are we?
wonton soup and rice was dinner. microwaved in a styrofoam cup.
dessicated peas, shriveled shrimp floating in a briny mess. floating my soul came back into my body, four years ago. before that it was
floating beside it. she doesn't. it doesn't want to be part of all that
- it is an observer. the body, an animate shell. shriveled shrimp.
is his soul with me? i'm afraid i may have left it with my dirty dishes
on the countertop. but it could've caught up, snuck into my backpack with my towel, bag of plums. i'd ask for another lullabye tonight. i
will sleep... my mother is annoyed. it is almost midnight. today is
ending.
b
the last plum was sour. doctors came in to tell her about her condition.
colonoscopy. she might have to wear a bag. anesthesia. the tubes have
been pulled out and re-inserted. i had to leave the room.
two of my uncles and i went to a filipino restaurant. the squid looked
better than it tasted. the van putters on the intersection. they joke
about it. i sat at the back. tired. i haven't washed my hair.
my cousin was mad and still is. he's not even looking at me. i really
need some sleep. i saw them, my family. everyone is smiling, save for me

and uncle johnny. he started talking about "sense of death". he is

morbid. they hated him for saying that word. he is quiet in the corner.
as if she had died. while she, she was making jokes in her bed. she
wants some fish and rice. she's not allowed to eat anything. everybody
opens the styrofoam boxes and started to eat in front of her. fish,
rice...
the towers in the east lay in heaps. the empire has been breached. hate
breeds in darkened hearts, blinded hearts. nobody ever sees the blood on
their own hands.
i am falling asleep in the waiting room.
September 13, 2001
in the grey green plains
lotus
does a pure soul
have a pure origin
does beauty
search
beneath the still water and reflections of the sky
depths - darkness, filth
bloom
in cycles, there are no lines
forward to the beginning
backward to the end
September 14, 2001
Westbound Train
6:05 pm
Kastille. Kastille.
My father was chinese, she said.
My father was killed by a train, as he was crossing the tracks he said.
Ray. Ortega. I seem to remember a now dead relative say. Rey?
King. King of Unknown Daughters. King of Mystery.
[tickets and passes please]
flash
[it's upside down]
flip
[thank you]
out the window - an empty playground, a dead black tree where the
sprinkler doesn't reach. it's not forgotten. just not cared for.
"Castle Park - Rides open until 11pm"
There it is. I know it is - a wedding tree. in summer wears green. in
spring wears white. imposed on the sand, its feet soaks in liquidlife.
beyond it's concrete encasement, again, russian thistles, partaking in
the crumbs of dew. ducks gather in the storm drain. a ghetto river. as
we get richer, we become more homeless. roaches teem, but they have no

self-esteem. they have no need for pretense. they are far richer than
us.
Ganahl. Ganahl.
that could have been his name i suppose.
i used to call him Gilbert.
I don't. I don't know what wilderness is. i've never seen one.
I don't. I don't know what father is.
Dusty outside. few tumbleweeds, sandy ground. the wild wild west extends
10 feet on either side of the train tracks. beyond that, mild, mild
numbness. nothing structures that breed more breed that breed more breed
that breed... no end product really. just there to breed.
oh dad. i'm glad you don't have to drive in that clotted vein. you'd
think there was cholesterol, but there are just too many red red blood
cells. you're not one of them. i'm glad.
south of train tracks - trailer park
north of train tracks - golf courses and hiking trails. the only whiffs
of affluence that can bear to hear the choo choo.
i wish i had more to write about you dad. my pen is still full of ink.
my memory hasn't run dry. it was never wet.
September 15, 2001
Grandma's House, Norwalk
12:45 pm
dense packed. you are packed in a box with miscellaneous objects.
packed. this is grandma's house. more than 20 years of accumulation. all
her 6 children have lived here. some grandchildren including me. when we
left we always leave something behind. uncle johnny moved here a few
years ago, and by far, he is the most prolific collector of america's
discards. 3 zenith tv's 4 giant computer monitors, a couple of CPU's,
shoes, books, electronics, furniture he rescued off the street on trash
days.
you can hardly walk in here. you suffocate. not your lungs. your eyes.
every degree, every angle. a pile of objects in plastic bags, or covered
with cloth.
this morning my mother came. her mission:: to clean grandma's house.
impossible. she started in the bedroom. i joined shortly afterwards to
help. grandma's clothes cannot fit into the closet. they are hanging on
hangers hanging on hangers hanging on hangers... hanging on the closet's
door. violet tulle overlain with fuschia, green, yellow flowers. a wispy
green dress embroidered with yellow flowers. a red lace gown, deep
red... ruffled at the bottom. i fold them. she loves clothes. she loves
pretty things. they don't have to be expensive or real. they just have
to be pretty. her room is a garden of plastic flowers... all collecting
dust on the shelves. orange, crystal, ceramic vases litter the room.
perfume bottles almost empty. we can't throw it away. they still have 2
drops left. plastic souvenirs from weddings and baptisms.
i cleaned the altar, it sits on top of the tv on a makeshift shelf.
carpeted with dust. 2 jesuses, a few saints, and numerous statues of the

virgin mary. virgin virgin. freak of nature. goddess of mothers. goddess

of unhappy women. i had a wet rag that i used to wipe her face. i blew
the gathered cobwebs off her lashes. virgin mary. on top of the tv. next
was jesus. this statue is wooden, from Paete, where wooden things come
from. he had fake lashes too. the top of his head is flat, a plateu. you
can put candles on top if you want. his sacred heart juts out on top of
his robes, red and bloody, with green thorns choking it elegantly. jesus
always has blood on him. poor jesus.
my mother opened grandma's bags. half-eaten candy bars and crackers. an
apple. bags of fortune cookies. bags of paper towels. tissue with
lipstick marks. she saves everything. grandma does. i once complained to
my grandaunt, "grandma has way too much stuff! most of it is junk..." my
grandaunt told me, watch what you're saying. she scrimps for all of us.
so many bags to rummage through and sort. rainbow bags, leather bags,
promo bags... all had left-over food. hairnets and nylons balled up.
i fold more gowns. a lot of it is brightly-colored lace. sequined tops.
a dress fashioned out of a brown and gold sari. a hawaiian ensemble :
bustier, shorts, blouse with white fringes at the hems, skirt. pink, red
and mint green. putting them away. can she ever dance again?
i imagined her, in her early 20's, falling in love with a man. they have
six children. he is married. not to her. she was beautiful. she is still
beautiful at 80. she has lost so much weight this year. 50 years ago,
with six children, a beautiful woman with no husband, a schoolteacher...
she could've been queen.
i always wonder why she has so many clothes. she doesn't throw any away.
and she makes new ones for every occassion. nobody else can wear them.
her back is bent severely, she is very round in the middle, but her arms
and legs are delicate. her clothes fit only her. now in boxes with the
pearls and beads.
my mother attacks the kitchen. under the sink, rusty cans of food. two
big bags of sugar, tightly wrapped in an old popcorn box. the box was
moldy, the bottom was wet. it looked like a microbiology experiment. i
threw it away, hearing grandma's voice in my head..."why did you throw
it away? you have no right to throw away my things. i could've used it."
i cringed and dumped dumped dumped. the detergent i bought 3 years ago
to clean the bathroom was still there, mostly full, mostly hardened.
grandma would buy 10 whole chickens, or 5 dozen eggs if they were on
sale. for the most part she lived by herself. these foodstuffs would
inhabit the fridge and mingle with the indigenous population there
composed of bags of tomatoes, birthday cakes, philadelphia cream cheese.
inventory.
September 16, 2001
Hospital, Bellflower
12:28 am
pause. pause. i removed my watch. the time was wrong anyway.
she's awake. she won't stop talking. always something that needs to be
adjusted. her face is bony. there are bruises on her arms from the IV.

outside is a night city. it seems quiet. the air roars loud when the
balcony door is opened. we kept it closed. everything seems to be
holding still for something. poised for the next beep of the machines.
home. the aliens think of home. but it's fat here. flowing. words. more
words.
a black ball. a poet's voice over the phone. he's is not kneeling. he's
flying. in my mind that is him. petals petals slowly falling fluttering
over dreams and fears.
five people in a hospital room. she on the cell phone. she trying to
sleep. he comforting his restlessness. she hot. she... with the wonton
soup soul. they can't stop talking. why won't they stop talking?
is it raining? is it raining? i close my eyes and dream of the tropics.
winds slashing the rice fields. emerald-like the serpentine rocks
uncovered by raindrops and flash floods. i touch the scar behind my ear.
raindrops on a tin roof. coconut fronds tangled. coconuts in parabolic
trajectory towards the water. laughing, i wear my white dress when i run
in the rain.
dream-waking
left alone surrounded
this i, a dead shell on the seashore
hold me against your ear
you will hear
a distant soul
last night i talked. my best friend with great news. it's about school.
always the sky in montana he raves about. physical objects accelerated
at the speed of light disintegrate. how fast does force propagate? speed
of light? instantaneously? how does an object disintegrate in one
reference frame, and stay solid in another?
the observer. musn't all theories be verified by an observer? he said
the observer has nothing to do with the truth of special relativity.
what?
[i can't wait to go back.] where? [to riverside.] sifting shifting
slipping. i want you to be happy. truly. i must go back into your words.
those few that you spoke. you never trusted them. i was to read your
mind with my special powers. and now through this distance, words are
the only messengers, we have no choice. i abuse them. send them running
back and forth between you and me. my messengers are tired. you rarely
give them refreshments when they get to your door. and some are stuffed
in closets.
they gave her some drugs. sedatives. she is breathing fast, her stomach
beats like an exposed heart. so restless. she does not look sedated at
all. she wants to go home. michelle and i are on watch tonight. she
wants to change her clothes. she is annoyed. oh god she is so annoyed.
let the endless city surround you
let its orange lights tell you
the nighttime topography

...
September 16, 2001
Hospital, Bellflower
7:39 am
i never finished that poem. grandma ran a fever. 4 different nurses. a
couple of doctors. an x-ray, many blood samples, an ekg. michelle calls
my mother. come back, grandma is sick.
the tv has been turned on, 7:26 am. more news about the terrorists. one
feels bad for the media. digging scraping for information. regurgitating
the same thing over and over... what a job. outside the glass door
slight commotion. the doctor is here. lung scan. cat scan. switched
antibiotics... books and exams have replaced a lifetime of
apprenticeship. our medicine men carry too much information in their
heads. they can't piece it together. they gotta scan scan test scan.
on tv. titanium pots and pans for only $39.95. titanium knives. gotta
get one of those. they can cut carpet. jesus. he's got blood all over
him.
shit teflon coatings can kill birds and cause alzheimer's. what the hell
are we doing to ourselves?
i wonder what was in that coffee, dripped from a vending machine in the
basement. i just drank it for the caffeine. there is that bush. a dense
bush. point finger. point gun. point missile. make us believe it will
solve anything. go ahead bush. start a war. send your children to their
deaths. why did it happen? we don't care. how did it happen? we care if
it leads to the satisfaction of our anger. show our anger. dammit.
nobody messes with america. beacon of goddamn freedom. self-annointed
defender or democracy. dear dear. politics is either too intricate or
too blunt for my comprehension. men sitting at round tables plotting
destruction. im starting to sound like ozzy osbourne.
shit ass freakin fuck heads. pop a cap in their asses. damn enemies.
damn damn, they got what they wished. now we have enemies. everything is
going to be ok, we can focus our energy.
outside
haze
grey gaze
bloody needles pierce the linen sky
legally blind solar eye
the day is not allowed to drive
in this condition
i will save this document. reconfigure magnetic domains in the hard
disk. i write. i am talking to someone. i am talking to you.
great. starting to cramp up.
she needs us. we need something. i need someone. that is you. this is
how i hold your hand. i was always better with words that are not
spoken. mute, silent messengers.

slowly rise, ride

open pause delete
sit and wait
i be
think contemplate numb
plastic bags silences objects
as they are carried out to the car
there is some acid in my stomach
frozen torso
please stop
[80... we hope we get to that age!] are they serious? disintegration
doesn't have to happen at light speeds. day by day. a few days ago i
looked myself in the mirror. i saw my ribs against the skin of my chest.
entropy doesn't spare the conscious self. i don't want to reach 80. i
don't think i'd mind not existing anymore. how can i, anyhow?
it's a one-shot deal. i find that i don't think about the afterlife as
much. maybe because i don''t believe there is one. no. wait. i cease.
that is death. ceasing to be aware of myself. maybe i am still around.
part of an earthworm, a piece of the sky, seasoning on a meat loaf. but
i won't know. they say "she will live in our hearts" "he will always be
with us". the she they know. the he they saw. to the i the i is not i
anymore. i will not exist. an idea of me might still exist. maybe that
is the afterlife. a recreation of memories. a product of the non-i's
perception of the i's actions.
i never talked much. maybe my afterlife would be quite boring. people
would barely have anything to reconstruct me with. thankfully i can
reconfigure magnetic domains.
"character is now part of the american psyche" oh god. the media. make
them stop. somebody please. her voice makes my blood boil. yes or no
congressman. well it's complicated... yes or no congressman. we have to
consider that... yes or no. we have to be careful... they cut him off.
my sweater is grey, my hands look so grey... i am a figure in picasso's
blue painting.
war. they itch for war. and i cannot stop writing. i will put on my
gossamer wings. place the children on my back. the adults, i'd let them
die. it's too late for them. if only i could. fantasy is my crutch. i
used to write letters to plead for the release of political prisoners. i
worry so much. a poet once told me, she had stopped believing she can
change the world. i said i still think i can. she reassures me. oh you
will lose that as you get older. is that what growing wiser means?
knowing when you don't stand a chance?
Osama. Osama. you are the lucky goat. you are the lucky evil goat. demon
and hero. maybe you did maybe you didn't. how can one man wage war? tell
me.
why did they crash the planes? why did they bomb the desert? why did
they defoliate the forest? why did they detonate bombs? why did they gas
the jews? too much to ask. only god knows. ask god. ah shit, which one?
September 16, 2001
Grandma's House, Norwalk

5:20 pm
o matriarch
how your children weep
when you weep
when you cry in pain, invoking god
your children wear nothing but despair
exposed to the cold
bitter
in this midst
we remember, with a small effort
how stern and strong-willed
tough and toungued
you were
your children talk back
inside they shake like leaves
in a july typhoon
the self interludes:
[in this room
where i have stayed
to watch you
you see me wearing a sweater
you are annoyed that i am wearing
warm clothes while you sweat
and say
that i am not helping at all
i cry on the phone
at home, with a decent excuse
i sat at the commode
cradling my stomach and its contents
will i inherit your pains
i am you in many ways]
matriarch, o
we watch as you sink in your bed
your pains swimming in morphina
they will beach later
whales collapsing under their own weight
amorphous now, and maybe late
September 16, 2001
Grandma's House, Norwalk
7:44 pm
my body surfaced for air. the task at hand: cleaning grandma's house,
remains to be finished. tonight, ryan stresses out, thinking of his
plane ride... he takes off in around 6 hours. meanwhile, i try to figure
out where to stash the silenced objects on the floor.
September 17, 2001
Eastbound Train
6:13 am

she sat by the railings. cold morning. shivering. weak, hungry.

worried... worried. stifled tears.
she boards the train and pulls out her laptop. it is a bumpier ride than
usual. or maybe she is just paranoid. like how she feels the stones
through her shoes after sleepless nights in a row. yes indeed. the train
ride is bumpy today. maybe some kids put a row of pennies on the tracks
last night.
she feels the train get sucked by a black hole. matter, energy whizzing
furiously by the window. relax she told herself. its impossible to have
that many tragedies in one week. in the hospital her grandmother lay
dying. is it real? she held her mother with a first born compassion. the
family sheds tears and says many prayers. in the waiting room humor
never abandons. hearts are bruised, like grandma's arms, eyes sag and
droop, bodies wilt under sorrow.
she holds her grandma's blackened hands. cold. the train sways and
swerves like her sadness and grief. hold on. its gonna be ok grandma. in
between her tears she worries about airplanes with friends in them.
about her black clothes. about her grand aunt, crying by herself halfway
around the world. grandma - her heart is beating fast. her body filled
with fluid, bloated, ready to rupture the soul.
10 percent the doctor said. either way it's 10 percent. we cut her up,
10 percent. we leave her the way she is, 10 percent. she said, "no
more". they said "no more". phone calls are made. plane tickets are
sought. this is it. her brain compensates by thinking about her
officemate's fish, which hasn't had anything to eat for 4 days. what
does 10 percent mean anyway? we...
it is cold in the train. more shivering. please let them be safe. i am
talking to you. she is talking to you. that soup soul. it is talking to
you. please let them be safe. they tremble. the soul trembles. the train
has stopped, outside is a junkyard filled with old trucks.
the disneyland rainbow towel is now a shawl against the artificial cold.
it was from grandma, as well as the wrist watch she just adjusted. it
does work. the train approaches anaheim canyon. unsettling ... the
passenger train is sandwiched between two freight trains moving in the
opposite direction. she catches herself... perspective. the may not be
moving at all. they could be parked. or we could be parked and the two
freight trains are moving. the spaces in between the freight cars...
trailer park, beige houses, mountains wearing a light fog. another
seattle day.
fight fight. her eyes... her own reflection on the train window... her
cousins said she looked vietnamese today. she sees why.
please hold my hand
hold my hand
please hold my hand
by yourself you are a
touch, a look, a sigh
sorrow. drown in it.
out today. pilipinas.

filled and impermeable watershed. with others, a

are keys to the floodgate of tears. receive my
taste the salt? oh dear, we need the sun to come
tag-araw sa bukid.

tunnel. rumbling darkness. west corona station. a man in a hawaiian

shirt standing on the platform stares at her. almost there. almost in
riverside.
my stop
my stop is almost here
my stop
im almost there
when i get there
i will stop
it is here and there
and i am almost
September 17, 2001
Home, Riverside
12:51 pm
going to be sick. inside and out. my hair falls to the floor. i'll make
it. please wait. please wait.
...

Joan Marie Ramos

september 11-17, 2001