Contributors * more photos to appear soon

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

Friday, July 2, 2010

ghosts and meat

this will be more prose than poem: a sort of... just well... it is what it is


last night we're
sitting eating all you can eat meat
im in shock over the possibility of such a thing...
our conversations go from
the things that only ibyangs can really share
to who's seen ghosts
... sitting beneath the soju tent - i cant help but think
how haunted we are
... a big chubby man with a pock marked face who lets me use the "hwa jang sil" at his restaurant
professes his love for me to me
... im drunk so i just smile and say "hmm kam sam ni da" and walk out
he'd seen me wandering up and down trying to find a loo

i go out and cant help but think how...
... his "i love you" sounded so much less creepy than the yellow fevered confessions of big chubby white men in the states...
and how
sometimes... not understanding is a good thing...

i return to the tent smiling and tell my friends of his "i lub u"
we laugh and do a shot
and resume our talks of ghosts
wedding dinners
i keep wondering who it is thats haunted

i tell them bout the schloss
and jeremy on the landing
and room 12... and the creepy feelings we'd all have
"yeah yeah yeah!"
my friend says
"like when the hair just stands up on the back of your neck! i know what youre talking about!"
i tell em how the door opened and slammed
how all the windows were closed
and how when we asked jeremy what he did next
we howled when he said
"i dropped my shit and ran!"
my friend says "yeah yeah yeah! id run too!"

... i dont tell them bout the faces painted on the walls and how theyre the only things that survived the fire
but i tell em bout the SS and the 14 polish women who went in but never went out
and how there's rumors bout how and where they're buried

... we all agree that there is something more

... i wonder how haunted this country is
if the ghosts of 200,000 wake their mothers in the night
haunting them with visions
i wonder if all the secrets and lies and secrets and lies
and all the shame
take on shape in the shadows

i wonder when this country and its people
my people
our people
will actually care enough
to do more than say
"too bad but well youre so lucky!"
i wonder if they know that we are ghosts
come back to haunt them

we drink more shots
i think the three of us went through 6 bottles last night? maybe 5? who knows... we were chasing spirits...

we filled ourselves with meat and laughter
we ate eel as a beer snack
i thought again trying to imagine the cc club or t-rock selling spicy eel as a beer snack and if any of their patrons could really keep up with our soju drinking...
i smiled to think "not likely"

i wonder if our ghosts still haunt the schloss
if our ghosts haunt powderhorn

i wonder on
babies and their mothers
on all the stories never told

i think about how chubby korean men do not scare me the same way that chubby white men do...

i think about weddings... how even though its what i never want... how much hope it really gives me to see two people talk and believe in the power of forever... to say "my best friend"
and that makes me wonder if that is what i can say of mine these days

i push away that ghostly thought

drink more shots

they wont let me pay

we toddle separate ways

3 ghosts walking home

- kim thompson. friday 2 july seoul, s. korea. 18.45

She Had Some Dragons

Joy Harjo wrote about horses; I chose to write about dragons, one of the many mythical creatures us Asian people get to represent us, for better or worse, right. 

after Joy Harjo's, "She Had Some Horses"

She had some dragons.

She had dragons who were clenched tree trunks.
She had dragons who were smoke ghosts.
She had dragons who were palm rocks, stacked into wishes.
She had dragons with wave tumbled skin.
She had dragons with desperate teeth and bit their daughters.

She had some dragons.

She had dragons who swallowed swords because they liked the taste.
She had dragons who hunted the ground for quarters.
She had dragons who reached through the fog to touch her.
She had dragons who flew backwards into the sun, who could not look at their mothers.
She had dragons who ate other dragons
for breakfast.

She had some dragons.

She had dragons who made love in a math equation.
She had dragons who made love in a corolla.
She had dragons who made love in an earthquake, in a falling building, in a corner someone told her was safe.
She had dragons who disappeared under pressure.
She had dragons who found adventure in books, who raised their hand only to turn pages, who kissed like heroes.

She had some dragons. 

She had dragons who woke up to a war, who cut the steel springs from their mattress and planted a field of bullets for their children.
She had dragons who moved rice grains with only their chopsticks, stacked them into mountains. 
She had dragons who climbed these mountains, with bricks on their back to build a village at the peak. 
She had dragons who thought they died alone.

She had some dragons.

She had dragons who broke into barbed wire gardens.
She had dragons with cold blood, who could wrap around her in a hurricane, turn the temperature of her hope.
She had dragons with warm blood, who knocked at her door with black eyes and cut knuckles, fire spitting from their wounds, and it burnt to touch them, to heal them, to rock them, to love them,
but she was not afraid.

She had some dragons.

She had dragons who made language their tank, who held a room captive.
She had dragons with stone eye replacements.
She had dragons who blew kisses into the dark to torch the way.
She had dragons who missed her.
She had dragons who did not know her.

She had some dragons.

She had some dragons with winged backs.
She had some dragons with lead hearts.

These were the same dragons. 

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Nursing Home Romance

She sets her sappy sadness down,
lets the bliss-blisters smooth her features
back, somehow, to when she felt younger,
more self-involved
but happier,
back when she held her figure better
than she ever held her liquor
and boys lined up to hold her hair back,
spewed love-lines, vomited adoration
that looked like every love they'd masticated,
swallowed, played like it was cool to look emasculated
(but ultimately in control).
She sets her sappy-sadness down,
frowns at her faded features--
fruit salad lunch made of pear shapes, sour grapes,
and wondering if anyone
would still take the time to kindle/rekindle

Me, I'll play the love-struck frog
that goes for the throat, leaves bitemarks
in shallow-loving listless afternoons
playing "this house is a caslte with
a drawbridge made of plywood"
just for an excuse
to still call her my princess.

Take it...

I can't care, don't want to anymore
so just take it, I'm giving it away
'm auctioning off
garage sale
throwing away
just take it
fucking take it all
I don't want to care

Someday I'll lament thrashing my collections
memories framed behind broken glass
and unwritten books
that I've burned in my head
coins and change
collected in long night
turning tricks
down on my hands and knees
- goddamn cold hard street tiles pressing patterns in my skin -

just take it
empty house
it's what I'm suppose to need
so I'm selling out
all at discount prices
'cause aren't they useless?
aren't they keeping me behind?
stuck in the past?