Here are two poems about a relationship falling apart

As a pair, I call them "Shut Up, Idiot; No One Cares About Your Shitty Break-up Poems." 


1. (Embrace)

She likes it best when he 

holds her tight, sleeping, 

holds her to him like

she’s a handle in a storm, a

tree rooted in soil and history. 

She likes it best when he 

breathes her in, inhales

her scent and murmurs

prayers spoken in tongues of slumber,

holds her close again. 

Rain plays rhythmic on the window pane only sometimes,

she wonders what he dreams about. 

He hides it best when he

sleeps, mind at rest, words 

form and he smiles, thinking: 

“I’ll squeeze the life from you.

I’ll squeeze the life from you and eat it.” 

2. (Embraced)

She likes to kiss him right away,

right when he picks her up

as an I love you greeting

but also, moreso, when he picks her up he’s sure to be sober.

Ever since that scare two summers ago,

he’s sure to be sober when he picks her up

and she misses, now, the taste of him

not tainted by liquor. 

Holds him close, tries to squeeze what she fell in love with to the surface,

cling to whatever is left,

she kisses him again

“remember this feeling now. you have to.” 

He kisses back this time

out of boredom or manners. 

Silence plays third wheel at dinner now,

but knows to leave when the party really gets started, 

when empty words begin to flow and every statement is a toast

to youthful idealism deferred but not deflated yet

to the circular “remember whens” that relate back to relate back to

this same thing here, tonight,

to the places they thought they would be tonight but aren’t

to how, deep down, no one is really happy

to let’s trade one more night together for fleeting moments of we almost could

to staving off silence for a few more hours until morning.

They don’t hold each other close anymore, in sleep.

She likes to think this is a sign of contentment.

Travel Journal (draft)

I don’t like traveling.

Foreign domestic eyes twitch when it occurs

again that I’m always going to look like a tourist,

that maybe I should just embrace it and wear a fanny-pack

everywhere, pause to photograph the

odd numbering on busses I ride every day.

At my destination,

realize I’ve brought along more than I meant to pack,

things I didn’t even know I owned.

Beneath a pair of shower shoes is a pervasive sense of longing,

my plastic vitamin bottle holds staccato bursts of birthing pains,

folded into my sweater is a tongue that will not fold

to pronounce the name no longer on my luggage tag,

and by my toothbrush is a growing sense of doubt that that was even my name to begin with.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

$3,780 Is Priceless

"But that is exactly why the Chin case continues to haunt Asian Americans. It is archetypal. I am less anxious about the threat from the Ku Klux Klan and skinheads than I am the possibility that an ordinary guy across the bar, with economic unease and too much booze, turn outs to be savage enough for violence." "The Case Against Vincent Chin," Frank H. Wu



Dear Vince,

 

I whisper, “rest in peace” to you every year but I know you’re not;

I know you’re here, with me—a whisper’s length away;

I can feel you in my bones, resonating, tarnishing golden skin,

we both decay: you decompose while I fall apart every time I hear your story.

Manhood defined only my slaughter, bought off on bad credit—

Ron Ebens says he lives paycheck to paycheck now, off of social security I pay into from fitting in.

Begs the question why I pay for his life, why you paid with yours,

why we all pay for the murderer who thought you were the Japanese threat to livelihood,

thought you were looking at him funny,

thought you were returning his abuse just a little too much,

thought you didn’t bleed red or fear God like he did,

thought you were anything but

just Vince.

 

I bought a baseball bat today

to keep in my car so the next time I get called “chink” in traffic,

blamed for Pearl Harbor by some ironic hipster,

or just side-eyed from different eyes that “think I am,”

we can bypass the teaching moment;

sputter hurt against hurt

against out of work auto workers shape-shifted to

thick framed glasses with bachelor’s degrees and too much time,

shape-shifted to color blindness negating history

shape-shifted to badge excuses and stolen ground stood

shape-shifted to maybe just this once, I can hit back for us and win,

maybe just this once, I’m not all of us

maybe just this once, we’ll sleep tonight.

 

They’ll hose my guts out of the gutter, call it “manslaughter,”

we’ll call it a lullaby, Vince,

you and me,

we’ll call it a lullaby.

 

 

 

[title redacted]

Once a year, No Last Name Given thinks about setting an extra place at her small table;

even in the echoing closeness of her studio off Park, the extra place setting she never follows through on,

never followed through on, 

rings alternate histories and any future away from that studio off Park. 

Sirens in the night don’t wake her anymore like memories of two cries wake her,

hands shaking from poor decisions from circumstance and not enough heat this winter aren’t what keeps her from writing him a letter.

A tasteless microwave meal, eaten alone to the hum of pipes and muffled conversation;

really this day is no different than yesterday. 

Really Rough Draft #573

Poem for M. 

And it’s not like we ever met, even in passing,

maybe you’d have annoyed the shit out of me

maybe you were rude to servers,

maybe you only saw the world revolving only around you,

didn’t even view yourself as Asian, really,

but, you, 

you were my sister, 

with stories intertwined that spoke to one another, 

begun with goodbyes, ended alone

(at least for you), alone and searching. 

Laying there, bleeding, I hope you felt no regret, 

felt any peace in passing;

that we were all sent here for something better and got it--

not bleeding out, alone, in a car.

No, we were sent here to--

it’s not like we ever met but

just in passing, I’d have stopped to listen to your last words,

made up a prayer or a song

kept tempo by your heartbeat but this one wouldn’t end. 

Puppy Love

NaPoWriMo Draft, Lightly Revised:
"Puppy Love"

It’s in the news again, always a few articles down,
Another kid, another adopted kid neglected to death—
This time, chained like a dog, starved for months.
If this kid had been bullied by other kids, chosen to take his own life,
mouths would foam for quantifiable laws to protect the innocent
and if this kid had gotten shot at school, there would be uproar over gun control,
more frenzied coverage of our collective failings weighed against collective blame
but this kid’s bullies were his protectors and
the only arms dealer today is the one that dealt me, dealt my brother:
divergent testaments to how good things can be, sometimes.
Across an ocean, someone feels a familiar sense of loss but can’t say why.
A small golden hand is just visible in the half-zipped black bag.






 

A Town Called Whisper / Poem for T.

There’s a town called Whisper,

always a whisper’s length away;

exists in that warm energy, those fleeting breaths

before our world gushes back,

always leaves you in wisps, purged and dark. 

Still, alone now, Whisper calls:

There’s room for you just down, 

just down the river some. 

[redacted], please don’t go. 

The Verdict

Finally accept your life is worth not quite nothing but markedly less.

The soul as a transcendent entity helps you sleep again. 

But you are someone’s child;

your child’s life is worth markedly less and

Sleep is the least of your worries. 

I Am a Rented Room

NaPoWriMo 25/30: "I Am a Rented Room" (second draft/near immediate revision)

Carefully cleaned, walls painted over

between residents.

Every forlorn look covered in fresh, white paint, 

every exclamation aired out through opened windows.

The steadfast dresser remains

but its drawers are lined with new paper;

I don’t live here anymore. 

Warriors Part 1

NaPoWriMo 4/17 "Warriors Part 1"

We believed we were warriors

until the day we fought the Ocean.

At first, we thought we beat it but 

brief retreat is only its nature;

It surged back, nearly drowned us.

Soggy, exhausted,

salt stinging our eyes, 

we wept salt water

into salt water

amid ruined battlements made of sand.

The Adoptee Statistic

Context: the suicide rate among Korean Adoptees is something staggering like 5 times above average. Here is one guess why:

The Adoptee Statistic (4/5/13, edited 4/11/13)

At night, when the stars come out, I like to pretend each one is an ancestor.

I don’t know if that has any relevance in my History, my heritage;

it has lots of significance in My history. 

They look down at me, speak in a language I can’t understand,

that I’m too lazy to understand;

below the stars already, I sink deeper.

I call my mom--as a troubled child always should

and complain about my job because I lack the vocabulary to say what really bothers me.

My real sadness doesn’t translate,

but manifests as anger, as hate

and she tells me to stop bitching. 

And she’s right

but our blood doesn’t speak the same language

and we’re talking in codes that can’t be broken

so I hang up,

wish I had a mother who needed no translation,

yearn for darkness to reveal more ancestors in the sky

so I can learn by immersion. 

Dear Oma (Attempt #3)

I finished I Wish For You A Beautiful Life this week, coinciding with a goal to compile a chapbook of adoption-themed poems and find my mother in the next year or two. After I return to the homeland, there will likely be a follow up to this that has a radically different tone. 

Dear Oma (Attempt #3)

Dear Oma, 

my Oma,

I read your letter--or what I think, hope was your letter. 

I forgive you.

Please forgive me. 

Our nine months together impacted, scarred us

physically and in ways we’re still learning. 

Oma, 

Forgive me that I only know you as Oma.

Some day, without translation, I’ll tell you

you didn’t need to worry; I turned out okay,

it all worked out okay, 

I think of you a lot and am

grateful. 

Oma, 

I haven’t wanted for mothers, for love.

Lately, I haven’t wanted for God--but that’s another story. 

Oma, forgive me;

Like a ship into the ocean, you wished safe passage and Faith for me,

I only delivered one of these. 

But maybe we can call it even. 

Maybe we can accept fault in what we build up most,

bring the unattainable that much closer.

Language will matter less, 

culture will matter less, 

you and I will matter less, Oma. 

With love, always, 

Your Son. 

I Believe In Harry Holt Too (Two)

The revised version is actually hanging out in 2011. Below is the original draft. 

Somewhere across the ocean,

a woman with my eyes looks at her ruined body every morning

and remembers me,

wonders what might have been

now that it is 2011 and the world is a different place than 1986.

Maybe her heart rips in half again

as she goes to work in a factory somewhere.

Somewhere across the ocean,

a man with my jawline frowns at his monthly wage

(less than I make in a week)

and remembers me,

wonders if I have his jawline

or what the woman with my eyes is doing now

before swallowing his failure like drunken sick

and clocking into a factory somewhere.

Yesterday, I bought a teddy bear for my friend’s kid

because the tag said “made in Korea”

and somehow, that made me feel like it could be less store-bought--

some connection to whoever was sewing it together

in a factory across the ocean.

I doubt he’ll remember who gave it to him.

On Not Writing Enough Lately

On Not Writing Enough Lately

I drink too much. 

I’m losing weight, I don’t look well. 

A fleeting quip about going from jaundiced to Jon dust makes me
smile in the mirror and

I am alone with my recycling--with the bottles that stack up on shelves like books

Each with 750-1000ml of whispered prayers, swallowed regret,
every murmur in between

I hope will reach across an ocean, translate into a language I don’t speak.

There’s no wind today. 

If I exhale hard enough, I can send these gallons of messages across the waves

to a familiar foreign shore where the ghost of a childless woman wanders, waiting.

If I drink enough,

waste away enough,

I can fold her shadow into mine and

tell her I'm sorry for not writing sooner.

My Mind Is No Steel Trap so I'll Put This Here, For Safe-Keeping

I pretend it’s for my benefit that Dad is repeating the story about how he and our neighbor, Sam, spent Labor Day weekend splitting logs in the backyard--

Like it’s his way of etching a simple, important moment into my memory. Something for me to find meaning in and pass on to my own son.

I pretend Dad is telling me again about how his older sister, Dot, suddenly remembered last month that their brother, Ray, had died--that she had been the first sibling his wife had called.

This has to be his way of underlining emotion--both for Ray’s death and Dot’s steady decline. He clenches his jaw.

“I already told you that, didn’t I?”

I pretend it will be for my benefit if I forget this some day.

Balancing Act (I'll come up with a better title later)

I’m the cause that caught up with James Dean--

ended entitled white boy rebellion in twisted metal and legend that

regurgitates itself every few years in the suburbs

I’m where the parents were when their kids brought shooting games

to the schoolyard,

when boys are boys and girls get bought off, mouths shut, thighs wide--

I spread the panic when little white girls disappear

I am the Angel that taught Christians to paint targets on themselves

and the Westboro Baptists are like my side project.

I ghost-wrote the first argument for “reverse-racism” just

to see if anyone would buy it

I made Ed Hardy cool,

took away taste buds to make Miller High Life tasty

took away sight to make Sandra Oh pretty--

invented the word “exotic”

popped collars, bleached hair

that makes you a laughing stock,

created the guilt that makes you condone me.

My name is Balance and I’m here to fuck your shit up.

You can’t set dogs, fire hoses, smallpox blankets, or language tests on me

You can’t napalm, nuke, or legislate me away.

I’m here for your kids’ kids

to show them while they bleed that Justice is a diversion

arrived at only after a short period of Balance.

A NaPoWriMo poem: I Believe In Harry Holt Too

Unrevised with a visual aid (revision 11/27/12)

Somewhere across the ocean, 

a woman looks through my eyes at her ruined body

and remembers me,

wonders what might have been

now that the world is a different place than 1986. 

Maybe her heart rips in half again

as she goes to work in a textile factory.

Somewhere across the ocean, 

a man clenches my jawline at his monthly wage 

(less than I spend in a week) 

and remembers me, 

wonders what the woman with my eyes is doing now

before swallowing his failure like drunken sick

and clocking out of his factory.

Yesterday, I bought a teddy bear for my friend’s kid

because the tag said “made in Korea”

and somehow, that made me feel like it could have

some connection to whoever was sewing it together

in a factory across the ocean. 

I doubt he’ll remember who gave it to him. 

But, seriously, have you heard Monster?

I've been absent recently for primarily stupid reasons that should not have kept me from writing BUT I have recently begun work on a new project in conjunction with Trung. In short, it is going to be about superheroes and it will probably never move beyond being self-published.

2036 or The Day After The Tea Party is Defeated

There’ll be a day when we move beyond political statement--

in being, we’ll be less than a political statement.

We’ll wash the blood of a race war from our faces

just enough to see each other,

just enough to be embraced by being

nothing more than two

(or three--there’ll be a day for that)

and just our names will matter.

That day will be the day our names can swell,

take on the weight of history or personal baggage

but no one will think to ask if it means something exotic.

If my hands are shaking that day,

light my cigarette and smile as a gentle reminder

that it was us or them.

I'm reposting this tonight because Fong Lee's murder case was extinguished today. There is no hyperlink for "Fong Lee's murder case" because I could not find him in the news. What I did see in the news (thanks to Kim) was the case of an ibyang facing deportation from my home state, yet another reminder that, no matter how long we have been here, no matter how good our English is, we are always going to be goo--er, "outsiders" to the entrenched and entitled.


Dear Fong,
I bet right now you're wishing you had been gay
and bullied
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 American Justice,
lock out Hatred with a badge and a gun.
But you can't take your face off
and bullseyes are often brown eyes.

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
drained out of you from thirteen holes
onto North Minneapolis.

A "Reading"

I will do more of these if I can figure out how to get a more Korean-looking "actor."