Contributors * more photos to appear soon

Contributors * more photos to appear soon
Christy Namee Eriksen, kim thompson, Jon Schill

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Ain't It Grand

Halfway between population and scenery,

too flimsily constructed to fit in with the bricks,

not constructed enough to look like he belongs there--

He’s still got patience for their pretense--

those overgrown kids in overgrown, super-sized toys--

adult-sized babies trying to hide

that they were never cute behind bangs and mismatched clothing

like a diversion from the vapid steam that rises off them--

or maybe that’s because they didn’t shower today

for fear of washing off their inspiration.

Either way, they don’t have any spare change for him

because they’re in art school and all their extra cash

goes to PBR and Parliaments.

If a building disappeared during the coldest winter months,

maybe we’d all wonder, read about it in the paper

but no one seems to mind his absence--

no one seems to mind having that extra few dollars in quarters

smoldering in the ash tray;

that change adds ballast when you’re driving on ice.

Groundhogs can suck it--

I know it’s Spring when he’s out there again,

quietly scratching his history into the sidewalk

with thrift store shoes

bought by necessity, not choice.

Whether you give him money or not,

he’s the only real smile,

the only real person inhabiting Grand Avenue

and it’s his weathered cardboard sign,

not some grandiose bronze statue

that spells out so concisely

“there is still beauty here.”


hello/how are u
stale words to choke on
endemic ennui entrenched in every esoteric example
futile invigoration attempts grave-digging
plant the sullied seeds in tainted soil
where the planters grow green with envy
jealous of the ungrateful dead
rotting on the vine
strangle the incessant agony
a pestilence
channel it here around my wrist
my charmbracelet of voodoo dolls
my anger chained and noisy
sustenance never takes root in my body
so i feed off it all
i awake to suck the damaged dew from my weakened heart
breakfast time/lunch time/dinner time/dying time
i sleep to sup off the tainted thoughts from my weakened mind
why can't i erase my mind?
images in permanent marker
scrawled behind my eyelids
so that i'm always blinded to see
broken expectations
shattered afterthoughts
fractured dreams
paths pathetically pathologizing my pathos
dandelion beauty/dandelion damage/dandelion infestation/dandelion bouquets
infectious, my precious
how are the fruitless fruits spread?
don't let it go to ur head
blow away to a different garden
where ur appreciated and wanted
blink once, twice, three times
u remain like a bad hangover
drunk with ur egotism, narcissist
uproot/get the boot/remaining is moot/scoot
get away from me
i can't stand u
diligent asp/diligent ass
diligent slum/diligent scum
rot on the viral vine
where u deserve to grow stale
goodbye/good luck to u

whale standing in the water

Naahaan Dakhl’aweidi,
whale standing in the water,
bravery on freedom,
heart on fin,
a harpoon pen and
an eye for an eye better
to see you with.

Straight hair so long it could make
a settler’s shotgun look crooked,
burnt leather bible ashes braided down his back

hands hazeled by heartbeats he inherited,
carried close in an open canvas bag.

He has drawn his people,
their calm curves and their whipped tails,
carvings sailed into ink

and he looks fresh
all 2010 “real Indian”
says he’s
gonna hustle the tourists for some prints.

I told him to bring his drum, too,
that they’d pay hot white money for a song.

Between beats,
Naahaan skims the blood soaked ocean,
chin up against the rising tide,
with flood gated eyes,

a sage smoked star shooting
as he tells me,

I don’t think
they can afford a song.


My poem doesn't rhyme; doesn't fit, just flows

Words flooded with style, filled with life.

Sitting on the porch; looking out to passersby and faces, rushed and late for work. I'm drinking thoughts, hot and sweetened with too much sugar - If i'd just could savour it, a single moment in time, just one - When a women brushed my leg, walking past... She smiles, and apologizes with a word. She smiles and then, tastes my eyes.

on hippos and a crab and the evolution of the word made flesh

i write her -


하마 동생...
넹 넹 넹???

소 주 나는 원해
네꺼 꽃게"

or romanized


hama dongsaeng
naeng naeng naeng

soju na nun whun hae
naeguh goke kae"

(hippopotamus little sister
yes/hello yes/goodbye yes/hello/goodbye???
i want soju
my little crab)

stringing words together like when i was 6
only that
when i was 6 i was less confined by lack of language
than i am now at 36
or is it 34
lately its just easier to stick to the year when asked

so at 6 i could say more than i can now the years aged after birth
in 1975

little sister hippo
my crab

i began at six with birds
or was i 8?

so i began in 1981 moved by dreams and birds
and now in twenty-ten reduced to rhyming words of
younger hippos and short slang salutations
i dream of words for one day
when i can look back
as i now do at 6 or 8 or the early 80's
and say how

"once upon a time
back in twenty ten when i was 34 or 36
i began my life as poet/시인 here
with silly rhymes that made us laugh

and it was in that time that neruda did arrive
and langston's dreams i lived"

i begin again - korean born, american raised, european shaped, as i did at 6 or 8 or sometime in the early 80s only now with

korean western rediscovered

one day my "little sister hippo"
when we are future eating crab and drinking soju that i want
i will tell you all the words in ways you feel
all the ones that i was saving
back in
twenty ten

- kim thompson. seoul, korea - thursday 13 may 2010 at 16.27