CONVERSATION WITH MY SON

Now that my son's talking more, I wanna start a new "poem" series called CONVERSATIONS WITH MY SON.  Here's a couple to get it going.

#1: Dreams
[Son wakes up]

Son: Ishaw Ishaw Eshaw Ishaw

Me: You saw?
Son: Ishaw!

Me: What did you see?

Son: Ball.

Me: You saw a ball? [son nods] What else did you see?

Son: Moose. Cheese.

[age 20 months]

#2: Mama’s Boy
Me: Hey Sun, can I get a hug?
Son: Trucks!
Me: You want to play with your trucks? [son nods]. Can I get a hug first?
Son: No. Trucks.

[age 20 months]

Bully w/ Blue Eyes & a Gun.

Dear Fong,
I bet right now you're wishing you had been gay
and bullied
and killed yourself--
made the choice to die--
because maybe then
Fong Lee would be in the papers,
your tormentors might see justice,
and Mr. Sulu would have to remember which face he wears first.
I bet right now you're wishing you had a closet to hide in,
to protect you from the bullets,
lock out Hatred with a badge and a gun--
but you can't take your face off
and bulleyes are too often brown eyes.

You didn't have a choice in dying--
there are no hotlines for kids who like to ride their bikes with friends
and your roommate didn't film it when who you really were--
your colors--
drained out of you from thirteen holes
onto North Minneapolis.

maybe a(nother)

maybe...


maybe this is just

a(nother)

self imposed

1 year plus hiatus

that leaves me

choked up crying on the floor

drawing portraits in blue lead



maybe

this is just

a(nother)

long gestation

waiting for the first kick that wakes me in the middle of the night

and i dont sleep for the next 9 months to 18 years...



... maybe

this is just...

a(nother)

way ive chosen?

a sort of winter 13/14... 15...16... month

urban dwelling basement hibernation

storing up till im fatty full of words

and spit out strings of lines formed from

silently chewed upon thoughts



maybe...

this is just

a(nother)

pot of water on the fire...

boiling for the soup...


- k. thompson. seoul. s.korea. thurs 4 nov 2010 @ 20.22