We're getting poetic up here. It's time for another installment of Angry Poetry Corner, a regular weekly spotlight on the work of API poets -- not necessarily angry -- curated by Cara, our Angry Asian Intern. Because you could use a little more poetry in your life.In the corner this week, a poem by Prince F. Alvior:
BreakfastA current resident of Las Vegas, Prince F. Alvior has featured at local open mics, poetry events and in anthologies based out of the city of sin, and he was a participating writer for the Undeniables writers workshop. He continues his pursuit to evolve and grow (both as an artist/poet and human being) by connecting with and being influenced by others. At times, though, he may get angry. He doesn't mean it. Visit his blog at dreamsoflucidity.wordpress.com.
breakfast hasn't been the same
since I left
morning imposed wake
source of supplemental staple
before the break of light
or even appetite wandered back
from the depths of a previous flight,
and we used to eat together
though far from an exuberant mood
for we knew it supported the sake
of our own good in order to take on
what lay ahead of us
we ate mostly in silence
or as the filtered transmission would inform us
or animate us or remind us
that we are distractions from the substances at hand,
but regardless we partook of breakfast
willingly like offerings to be made.
nowadays there is still breakfast
(and distractions and silence between static),
but I would hardly call it well prepared
I am still on the run and preoccupied
from the night before catching back up
my eyes still take time to re-focus
on the conversions
in this hollow frame of a shelled home
where streets are paved with sandstorm
dust and vagrant heartbeats roam
nowadays I eat my meal
with the same spoon i eat my words,
and in the few breaking moments
between chewing and swallowing
and staring and searching
I recall simplicities and ideals
how breakfast is the most important meal,
and what it used to taste like.