|Thank you so much for the Daily Deviation on this piece, I am incredibly honored!|
On The Outskirts of Little Saigon Who does your eyebrows?On The Outskirts of Little Saigon by MadPrinceFeanor
she asks me.
I tell her
the name of the small salon
in the Asia District
of Oklahoma City
nestled between two pho cafes
where I go, usually after
I get my groceries
at Super Cao Ngyuen.
There are white stores
where I could buy matcha
(it's trendy enough now)
but I prefer the authenticity
of the Vietnamese grocer's,
and they carry better tofu.
The old man who sells lottery tickets
still calls the area “Little Saigon”
and remembers a place
with only three restaurants
and having left a military career
to make bricks in Oklahoma
until he could afford
to send his children
to American universities.
Some came back doctors.
Some came back lawyers.
Some became grocers.
Some opened nail salons
that wax eyebrows
for a reasonable price
and finish with a face massage.
She asks me,
Don't you just hate when they talk Chinese in front of you?
DFC 2015 Day 31: EruditionIn anger I forgetDFC 2015 Day 31: Erudition by MadPrinceFeanor
our sacred unity;
that our community
is planet Earth.
In hatred I forget
life should not be a chore,
and death is just a door
to something new.
In bias I forget
we're planets and we're stars.
We're possibly from Mars
or further still.
In dismay I forget
I'm not a slave to pain.
But know in my disdain
I forgive you.
DFC 2015 Day 30: Like A FlowerWhen I die, do not lay lilies on my grave.DFC 2015 Day 30: Like A Flower by MadPrinceFeanor
I'd rather you remember the joy they gave
while I was living, and how they made me brave.
Recall, instead, the first time I brought them home
to light our black-and-white world with poly-chrome
pink, white, and purple to combat dark syndromes.
Soon enough, we could smell them in every room
as they filled the air with their heady perfume.
Nothing like a flower can chase away gloom.
Do not, therefore, associate them with death,
that fated circumstance of eternal Lethe,
though they as well are as transient as breath.
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Advance praise for the works of Jai M. McGrainer:|
"You're like, really really good!" ~someone on the internet
"You have a very unique voice." ~almost all of my creative writing professors
"Why do you have to write about these kinds of things?" ~my mother
"[The writing of Jai M. McGrainer is i]mpressive. Most impressive." ~Darth Vader
Grandmother Spider Bears the Weight of the SunDecember.
The solstice smells of wet soil.
A rising sea of dusk washes over her,
pressing on her mind
like her fingers press the lump of clay in her palm.
Grandmother keeps her hands busy,
forces nervous tremors into the small vessel
emerging like a snake
from the earth.
A bundle of flowers had held the sweat of her hands.
The trip to the hospital bore the scent of old leather,
worn bus seats
and lilies too long without water.
He'd been badly burned, they said.
His fingertips were flame-marked,
smooth and new-pink
when they came to change his bandages.
Grandmother flexes her parchment fingers.
Clay rims her wrinkled knuckles,
turns her hands to dusty grey spiders.
She clings to her secrets so tightly
her hands start to burn.
Her feet take her across the road from the bus stop.
In the Oklahoma fields, the long grass breaks against her legs,
the winds drag a tide toward her.
No moon rises tonight.
Grandmother lifts her eyes from the little clay pot in her hands,
eyes the stars
and the st