HOW A ZOMBIE MAKES A PROMISE

Even as the buildings twisted,

his lips did not miss an inch,

his kisses like concrete,

slabbed against my skin,

his hands,

pulling through the wet cement

digging our initials in,

drawing a heart before I would harden.

I could hear the sirens,

the shrill sounds of last breaths,

a panicked serpent stabbing  through the streets.

But he, he was a light of urgency,

a flash come my way,

like a gift in the blackout.

Of course

I was not blinded, I was blessed.

We were a mess of undone buttons,

zippers, jaws ripped open,

their teeth a bite softer than ours.

This is how a zombie makes a promise.

He whispers,

lets his tongue curl around you,

knots his limbs through yours,

grabs you eternal,

makes love like the world is ending.

When you remember to open your eyes,

you will see flames through the doorway.

When you remember to leave

to run

to be rescued

the humble floor will start to quiver.

He will sniff the pink in your flesh,

supposing how many tulips are left inside.

Your scream will be morning birds to him.

He may even hum along for a moment

as he buckles his belt at the rumbling dusk,

or he may scavenge for you, hungry,

depending on which side of the rubble he wakes up on.

Well, it’s been five hundred and forty seven days

and I have got to get out of this fuckin fortress.

This brick building made of mud, stone, and my

angry

terrified

perseverant

insatiable

joyful

spit.

Stocked with ramen and green beans and chips,

every door every crack

in my house is combination padlocked.

I have a child,

he has forgotten the word for stars.

Every now and then the zombie taps on my window with

a wink and a frothy smile.

He is running free.

He can smell the sweet cedar.

He can waste time in the moon.

He could break something, he could make something, the world is his

He has an ax in his shoulder, he doesn’t even notice.

I have a house full of ammo and more heart than I need to kill him,

but he isn’t afraid of me.

Those days,

those days

I can’t remember if I’m undead

or a survivor.

5 blue balloons and superman

5 blue balloons

3 deflated

2 dilapidating

hanging on a telephone wire above some bar

i could not tell if they were sad or relieved

i didnt have the time to ask them

but i thought about them as i rode the bus

to and from my work

whilst listening to

how to manifest

and breathe

and say thank you for my heart's desires..



i went about the hour

chanting

"5 blue balloons

deflated"

inside my head

while chubby faced grace jumped and shrieked

and tony made some kind of orgasmic noise that 5 year olds know nothing of

and then i said

"sit down"

and kept repeating

"oh yes, good job"

"good job"

"yes ... yes... wow. good job"



all the while only thinking of the state of those 5 blue balloons

wondering

debating

between

"deflated"

"dilapidated"

"withered"

"resting"

and the like



and then i thought of superman

and the poem that i was going to write about him

and that day he went away

as a means of avoiding the word that i really wanted to write about 2 nights ago

or 3 years ago

when i was fuming from it

how superman wouldve been just "man" without the

"super"

how he woulda been the same as a deflated blue leotard and red cape hanging

from a

wire

how one time he gave up his "super"

to just be

"man"

and wound up drunk and deflated at a dive bar with stubble as his only friend

how he was something like

a

sad balloon without its air

knocking shots of whiskey back

how he gave up his "super"

to be "man"

for lois lane

till they both found out that

halfa why she loved him

and halfa why he'd loved himself

was because he had been such a



super



man.



but i got so

inflated today

by those 5

dilapidating

withering

balloons

up there on the wire

that all i could really think about was

that one word

thats been keeping me so high and full of hope

that one word being:



"rise"


- kim thompson. seoul. s. korea. thursday 17 feb 2011 sometime after 4pm and before 7pm

"You Need"

YOU NEED…
Websters vest pocket dictionary

and food and water
and beds and couches
and chairs and tables
and blankets and mirrors
and jeans and shirts
and markers and pillows and mats
and bedboards and markets
and paper

and air and light
and pictures and cell phones
and cds and pills and house phones
and houses and makeup and purses
and football players
and hats and gloves

and color
and internet and computer
and handles
and wood and cement
radios and snowpants and boots
and snow and flowers
and fans
and dogs and cats
and fruit
and clouds and white and blue

and money signs
and poles and pools
and basketball hoops
and cars
and dirty snow
and stinky snow
and sweaty snow and booby papa and …
THE GREAT SHORTIES! d;P

And Eminem <3 And Lil Wayne.<3=>

on ashes and change and so much more

so we stand there

and i can feel the ashes of this

sliding 'tween my fingers

hands open-winged at my side

but i dont say a-thing

i just say

"wait"



perhaps because ive never taken the time

to watch the full decomposition of a thing

perhaps because i hate knowing

before im ready to allow for what i know



so we sit

stand

letting the world make its slow slide into the sea

as if the crumbling will reveal something semi-precious

that we can still grab



but this is not a poem for sadness

not a poem for things lost

things betrayed

things sullied by deceit



this is a song for what can be rebuilt

after cities have settled to the bottom of the sea

this is a hymn for the fertility that springs from volcanic ash

a manifest for what we let go (of) and take in



i let go as the snow fell

i let go as the singer sang her words

and then took hold of what is waiting

knowing one day the words i'll say



that there you are

that i have traveled so far to come back to where i began

and we dreamed to find that we were no longer strangers



i came back to reclaim

all that has been laid out for me

to let the erosion make way for what my heart intends



i came back to rebirth again in the middle of my life



i am as she told me

that angel circling round my own head

telling me

what i have always known



that here

is where i will find

you



with my ashen outstretched hands

and well timed out heart



today the world itself is humming change

change that comes from hope

today the world rejoices

and tomorrow some day when it weeps

we will know what we have always felt



that we have built - destroyed - and rebuilt all this crumbling beauty

from our words



and with my sentences i can create you into being

and form that thing that has just been waiting for me to

surrender

and say

"ok. im finally ready"



today

ok

im

finally

ready.



gathering ashes to breathe new life into.



we were formed from dust and ribs.



selah.



kim thompson. yesterday sat 12 feb. seoul. s.korea

(i am)

(i am)

drinking cold coffee left over from late morning's brewing

smoking dry cigarettes for how they hang from my lips

like they somehow make me look that much more the writer


(i am)

thinking how i want to do (with you) like neruda wrote of spring inhabiting cherry trees

remembering lines by frank o'hare

remembering the lines of the girl who exclaimed "each day i am something new" - forgetting the poet who penned her into being


(i am)

recalling every time when i thought i might never breathe again

which is exactly right now why i know i can exhale quite freely

knowing what i want

uncertain of how to get it

determined to not repeat past ways of running


(i am)

wondering how it is that most of the best lines are in songs

but how poems never work well when sung

and how saul williams has this crazy poem about love that makes me say "hell yeah"

and punch my fist in the air to show my belief


(i am)

wooled down in a blue cardigan that would make mr. rogers proud

and contemplating how much is too many when it comes to leather wrist bands

and how im certain i need more

but not with studs


(i am)

reminding myself i really must do something about eating

as its something i keep forgetting

reading my horoscope on every site possible

with hopes of finding one that tells me what i want to hear

even redrawing reshuffling till i read my ideal spread

and then mumble "yes yes so true. wow these things are so right!"


(i am)

here on a friday not wondering too much about saturday

twittering about nothing to no one

hoping that someone tweets back

for one second making today so exciting


(i am)

listening to what the air is saying

how the trees are changing

and what i think i know

is about to happen


all of this while

still holding cold coffee in my mouth.


- kim thompson. friday. afternoon sometime. seoul. s. korea 11 feb

love poem for the inanimate

dear little blue couch

made for two

how i love you

so many times we have sat

reclined

resting

working

watching

and the poetically unmentionable



dear sanded wooden table

stained with booze and food

sometimes seating 4

with a 5th one standing

how i love you

and your white stained legs

absorbing my words into your grains

absorbing my highs and lows

listening when the world was deaf



dear big mauve washing machine

that clunkers and bunkles into the night

hopping cross my bathroom floor

like a mad rabbit come to life

how i love you

giving me a place to rest my head

when its tired from life's spin cycle

you bounce across the tiles reminding me that i am alive



dear photographs on my front door

frozen perfect moments of days printed onto sheets

half swaying like sentinels upon entering and exiting

how i love you

always whispering to me

"remember?

remember us?

remember when?

remember how you felt that day?

look at where you are right now"

remembering when i forget



dear knick knacks collected from a close to decade's worth of wandering

collecting dust

solid in your sentimental worth

how i love you

having carried you across continents and oceans

and back again

having packed unpacked repacked resettled you

each one of you a sort of talisman of a life well lived for an age so young



dear objects inanimate each and every one of you

paintings

drawings

works of art

notes written

moments taken

moments stolen

mugs smuggled

28 year old pair of pink argyle socks

bears whove been more places than most humans

dear objects inanimate

each time i wonder if or when or how

somehow one of you comes to life to say

"its real it happened

everything now will be ok"



objects inanimate

how i love you


-- kim thompson. seoul. s. korea. friday 4 feb 11 17.52

superhero

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

i got your AK style

repack your piece with a smile

lettin' my peace school you

don't let my cute face fool you

underneath it all

i got the beast of brawl

i may be a lover not a fighter

but don't test or out come the lighter

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

scoop me like fat, man

fly like a bat, man

all your sins i will avenge

who the fuck want revenge

don't try to one up me like mario

when i can 7up you like pepsico

you can't see the "s" on my chest

prepare to be blessed by that which you detest

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

i know you want to look over me in the casket

but my strength make you blow a gasket

can't fight my power source

adamantium unstoppable force

lethal weapons, laser beams

can destroy human beings

you can straight violence me

but you can never silence me

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

you hunt us down like animals

punish us worse than criminals

no protection from sinister tasks

no wonder i wear multiple masks

the ignorance is scary

but i will use that fear to bury

thinking you're the master of this town

the universe can't hold me down

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

lair accommodations for the meek

got that chic sleek freak

to prowl the street

bringing heat to the beat

you would never expect me to go hard

take it from this ibyang korean bard

even though it gets hard sometimes

there will always be power beaming from my rhymes

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

after dreaming

and after the dream fulfilled

"then what?"

waiting

ready

to begin

to want

again


after "wanting" so much

comes "having"

the "having" being harder than the 32 years of "wanting"

and then the greatest hardest newest challenge:

"to want - AGAIN"


where do dreams go after they are found?


where do birds fly after they have

well...

"flown" ?


dreams

true dreams

do not begin at night

but in the middle of the day

somewhere between the bed and the bus line...


theyre tearing down sultang

the night before my dream came true

that is the place that heard my fears over a bottle of beer and a lot of smoke

that is the place you found me at

before i found you the next


these days

i watch them tear down the ugly walls

men sitting on chairs around a fire

the sky exposed from the labor of their hands

the walls smeared in paint as if someone high on lsd or shrooms was having the trip of their life

only to discover the next day why painting when high is a regrettable thing

they are now ripped from the top as if a five year old decided to forgo scissors


and i hear the whisper again

- its time - let go - begin again - only here can you sense the sky

mpls my beloved but mpls my ceiling

seoul my tormented lover but seoul my endless sky


it is not the destruction of a dream

it is the rebuilding of a place that lasted years longer than it should have

that was stunted in its own lack of growth

-- i am so much taller than you know --


what do dreams become after they are gathered in the relief of letting go of 32 years of tears

what do dreams become after you have finally found your face?


where do dreams begin

after the only words to describe fall under the cliches of:

"magical"

"mysterious"

"miraculous"

and

"fairy tale come to life"

-- better than anything KBS could have scripted and filmed...


they tell (me)

"this only proves you can have it all"


"but i already do"

i say to (them)


... how do you dream again

after you did the impossible?

-- am i to turn water into wine?

-- walk on water?

-- turn fishes and loaves into one big surplus picnic?

-- rise from the dead?

i am not holy and i am not one third of some perplexing trinity...


so what is there left to want?

to see the world that ive already 3 to 4 continents explored?

to be what i already am no matter how it is my bills get paid?

to expand my heart when it's already burst?


what does life grow into after you no longer want but instead already have?


"dream the next impossible thing"

im told


to which i respond

"that seems... implausible"


... today ive passed sultang twice

now darkened inside

the trippy ripped up walls challenging the night to finish them off


i see in that corner that still exists but may be gone tomorrow or the next

us sitting shivering heating our hands over a candle

building dreams from fears

how for that moment you cracked

and i saw you for all that is you

and you saw me for all that is me

and for that night we had love that we took the wrong direction


i see us talking

maybe back then i saw the me from now passing by - perhaps that is why i shuddered at the thought of ghosts haunting us into reality


i see us then

in that corner

that each time i sat there after... i drank out of remembrance for the sacred-ness of how life is so ordinary the night before 32 years of an impossible dream is found sitting cross legged with right hand over heart that laurie had foretold me to know...


these days i pass by the bar

watching walls disappear and blue sky reveal itself


and i think the same thing

i hear the same thing

i carry the same thought


"that night is long over - your new day is rising - the sky is revealing -
kim child,
its time to start wanting again."

- kim thompson. seoul. s. korea - thursday 27 jan 2011 - 19.35

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.

IN MY NEXT LIFE

Me (procrastinating): in my next life i wont write haiku. i'll write five line poems. they are so much easier.
Rico: you can do that like next week, why wait for another life?

So then I wrote this, you know, as long as I was brainstorming stuff I might not get done next week. 


IN MY NEXT LIFE

In my next life
I will drive to work on an elephant,
start my days from up high.
The ride will not be smooth.
I will give thanks to the ground.

In my next life
they will call me Chef Squid,
my ten arms will swing around the kitchen,
the average human eye will not keep up with the
tantalizing twist of my tentacles,
I will chop like a humming bell,
I will saute on high heat,
vegetables will cry for their mothers.

I will be a mother
with two spines.
The sky
will not be enough to scare me.

The continents will have moved together,
the land may have quivered at each other’s touch,
we may have lost lives in our unity.

So in my next one

I will catch every wedding bouquet,
fold their petals into cranes.
When I have one thousand
I will wish for a snowstorm.
I will hang my heart on an icicle
and wait for a wanderer to see it
flicker.
I will be safe by then.
I will be a shelter.

thoughts on pain and how everyone feels so (entitled) to it

i think (that) of the many dangers slash pitfalls in life is the sense of being entitled to one's own pain and sense of loss and the idea that somehow whatever "i" have gone through is definitely WORSE than what YOU have gone through "you dont know pain like i know pain"


meanwhile we make shows and documentaries and like to sit around talking about the children who have no food or clean water in some far off land and how that's just really f'd up...


... loss... is. loss


pain is pain


rain is rain... unless of course youre talking about the singer... then that's a different story (shout out to the king of k-pop yo!)


and ive too often gotten attached to the idea that my loss is greater than anyone who doesn't share the same loss as me...


and then i go and make shows about it and people stand and clap thus adding to my attachment to this loss because it makes me money and causes people to pay attention to me...


while i am quite right in claiming that you can never understand the loss and pain that i feel in my life i really hate having to admit that i can never understand the loss and pain that you feel in yours...


it's pretty much like arguing over who enjoyed their amazing dinner of (insert food choices here) last night the most...


that said id like to point out that last night i enjoyed the most amazing meal of boiled pork, radish and cabbage kimchis, oysters, and soup... so i'm pretty certain that i had the best meal out of anyone who is reading this.


id also like to point out that not only is my art more meaningful due to the fact that my pain and loss are more real than anyone else's - every single break up i've ever gone through has definitely hurt more than anyone else who has ever gone through a break up because "you dont know break ups like i know break ups"


the in house fighting of communities is disgusting and abhorrent and though i scoff at the peacenik verbage that comes out of the mouth of tree hugging hippies i really do agree with the man whose horrible attack at the hands of police brutality said so simply "can't we all just. get. along. ?"

(we can discuss the mis and over use of the word "namaste" another day as right now im too fragile to make myself the victim of angry "namaste" sayers. cuz... "you don't know what it is to make yourself a victim like i know what it is to make myself a victim")


so far as i have discovered in my travels (and by the way "you also don't know what it is to travel the world like i know what it is to travel the world") is that ive yet to meet anyone who has never experienced pain and loss so deeply that it is pretty much miraculous that they have managed to love, heal, and trust again.


i confess that at times i become so involved in my own woes that i become so blind to the woes of those around me because "you dont know woes and you dont know oblivious like i know woes and oblivious"


... and when i realize what i have done i find myself to be as disgusting and as abhorrent as i find the communities that i roll my eyes at to be... because "you dont know eye rolling like i know eye rolling"


... to say that one of us is more marginalized or more maligned or is struggling more is probably pretty close to actually defining the word "blasphemy"


not that i am taking away from those who are truly marginalized, maligned, or struggling...


its just that i wonder what the good is in saying "more"


... and i am in no way implying that we must not strive for change in our communities or to not have as the politicians of late have been yammering on about -"truly robust discourse on the issues that concern us"


but it is pointless to point at ourselves as struggling more... in fact i find pointing to be such a waste of time all together as i figure why raise your hand to point when you can raise your hand to drink a beer ... or in my case - a shot (or 17) of soju. ... or in the case of the 5 and 6 year olds i teach - a glass of milk.


as much as i would like to believe that i hold the golden ticket when it comes to loss i must face the sad humbling reality that my loss is equal to yours... different but equal as we like to say


and that sometimes my being an artist and writer and all around self absorbed self reflecting over-thinking re-analyzer of analyzing really does not help things AT ALL.


i think instead it might be a "better world" if we attached the word "more" to the words of "love" "trust" "healing" "unity" "support" "faith" "creation" "creativity" "fun" "joy" "happiness" etc... all the words that have for some reason been labeled as "emo" slash "hippie" slash "disjointed from reality"


i would hope that we work "more" to "support" one another...


of course it doesn't mean pretending like there aren't issues to address or things to have different opinions on


but lets face it


at the end of the day
when all cliches are said and done
(which according to some should be around dec 2012)


"aint no one know pain and loss like i know pain and loss and ain't no one's opinion right but mine"


so let us in the meantime work "more" to create inspire engage love joy and all other good gut rottingly good sweet things in this life whilst keeping our eyes open to both our own loss and pain and the loss and pain of our friends and family and even the people that we find to be annoying - smelly - and obtuse.


p.s. if you can't understand where the "tongue in cheek" in this lies then let it be known that "you don't know where tongue in cheek lies like i know where tongue in cheek lies"



kim thompson. seoul, s. korea. 12.13 thursday 19 jan 11

i think

back when

even just seeing

the bottles of vitamin water on the shelf

made me have to skip that aisle of kuwolskis


back when

just that green tinted incredibly hulk green

was like kryptonite

and id drive avoiding blue suv's


back when

i didnt know

but i knew

and so did everyone else

but i couldve sworn

- i really didnt know


i forget

how much is lived in less than

six


i forget

how short "six" really

is


that if it took

thousands for a heart to form

and thousands millions more

for this shape to house

that primordial sludge


then...

six

is just so

swift


... to have lived so many feelings

to have wondered so many things

to have questions answered by new questions

to have had too many to count on both hands and toes

six is not so much

for so much of this to have

been formed


sometimes i forget

how six is not

an

eternity


how six is just

one more than 5

and it wont be six

till

that

fabled resurrection day

when life re-borns itself


and somehow all the way from there

ive landed here

worried if i can make one year

when that's 1/6 of 6?


so these days are just hours

and these hours just minutes

and these minutes just seconds

and all combined still not enough for

the first

primordial sludge to have shaped into

a valve that beats


so i think

clearer than i have in 2

clearer than i have since the shaping of this 1

that


all of this?


will be like those shelves that now just make me smile to remember

how i can still recall that wonder of that tinted green photograph

how blue suv's now make me smirk

how i did not just get to dance with you i got to know your flaws that for 2 seemed impossible

how i dropped 15

and gained 15

and lost again

and now am somewhere inbetween

and still cannot count

all the valves of mine that have been broken

all the valves whose names i struggle to recall


and thats just in 6


so these seconds

are just so much less than 6


for waiting


- kim thompson. seoul. s. korea 22.45 sat 15 jan

homo-nym

the wind sang on the leaves

just at the first peek of the sun

as night was stolen by thieves

to welcome the world's most beautiful son

his eyes the color of cherrywood

that would blossom during his first sight

parents flushed with joy understood

for the new part of their heart at that warm site

something was odd, not quite allowed

his body betrayed him completely

his parents didn't seem to care aloud

blinded to any difference discreetly

the isolation he felt wasn't just in the town

somehow his synapses always knew

that he was destined for love unbound

something utterly brand new

life hindered by limitations strong

helpless against the struggle he fell prey

but for a change to last his whole life long

his parents would constantly pray

his struggles went unseen

strangled by the burdens he wore

school, friends a new version of mean

who would want someone so young to have to go to war

teased tirelessly for his weakness

lined paper a lockbox for emotions he would pour

black eyes + bruised thighs were signs of the bleakness

how can he maintain with a heart so poor

mono images flashing hopefully

observing the lives of other guys

losing sight of his hopepulley

burying himself behind a deepening guise

digital chats + private phone calls yield hope

sweet dreams of a better life to savor

are quickly eliminated by a daunting tightrope

who will be his saver?

he can't hold on

in his hope he is lone

he can't be strong

his hope is on loan

despite the optimism he has read

he's confined to his mental electric chair

salty lava turns his cherrywood eyes red

he's confined to his metal electric chair

trapped / trapped / trapped

the wind sang on the leaves

just at the last peek of the sun

as night was returned by thieves

to reject the world's most beautiful son

his eyes the color of cherrywood

that would fall during his last sight

parents flushed with anger misunderstood

for the old part of their heart at that cold site

something was right, not quite allowed

his heart betrayed him completely

his parents seemed to care aloud

exposed to any difference indiscreetly

the isolation he felt wasn't just in the town

somehow his synapses never knew

that he was destined for hate unbound

something not at all new

life hindered by limitations strong

fearless against the struggle he fell prey

but for a change to last his whole life long

his parents would cease to pray

his struggles became seen

released from the burdens he wore

school, friends a familiar version of mean

who wouldn't want someone so young to have to go to war

praised tirelessly for his weakness

digital sites a lockbox for emotions he would pour

crooked smiles + tears of crocodiles were signs of the bleakness

how can he stop with a heart so poor

color images imprinting hopefully

becoming the lives of other guys

regaining sight of his hopepulley

freeing himself from a deepening guise

pill containers + deep-punted wine bottles yield hope

terrible nightmares of a worse life to savor

are quickly eliminated by a comforting jumprope

he will be his saver

he doesn't have to hold on

in his hope he is not lone

he can be strong

his hope is not on loan

despite the pessimism he has read

he's free from his electric chair

twisted fabric turns his cherrywood eyes red

he's free from his metal chair

escape / escape / escape

beasting

don't push me cause i'm close to the edge

i'm trying not to lose my head

thinking it through like needle + thread

trying not to be a brain dead thoroughbred

but when the anger is widespread

coursing through the cells of red

make me put you in a dirt bed

you make me develop a complex complex

brush off those rosy colored specs

you see-thru like crystalline plex

i'll work you out like bowflex

running in a loop like cineplex

the unusual suspects

preparing to annex your objects

i rejects your fears of my sex

silencing me will only make me louder

i'll injest your hate like protein powder

i'm nietzsche with super powers

cower in your guarded tower

because it's you i'll devour

for happy rush hour

your grave lined with flowers

saran gift, it's a wrap

i got you running laps

clap back until you're ensnared in my trap

in the shower i got your cap

this is a lobotomy, a spinal tap

you made me snap

this isn't gangster rap, it's fagstar rap

go ahead and martyr me

you'll rupture an artery

no need to carly simon me

in my veins is no vanity

i'm a gorilla beating my chest to be the best

in this guerilla jestfest

i'm dressed to detest

causing you mental unrest

i'm that pest unimpressed with your quest

but my patience you do test

drop off the case pick up my suit

man up + steal your loot

cause a riot with my zoot

i'm an astute brute of ill repute

refusing to dilute

unable to compute

your petty dispute

refute your root square

remember this affair

when i chain you to the electric chair

it isn't fair that when i cause you despair

it helps fatten my derriere

come here to meet my khmer

you're unaware of the havoc i can share

make you beyond repair

no one else can compare

you're a teddy bear, i'm a grizzly bear

you're foursquare, i'm time square

you're solitaire, i'm a billionaire

so stay in your lane you're driving me to think

your mental capacity out of sync

dissolve your mind in my kitchen sink

on the brink of releasing the chink from the clink

soft like a drink

daniels got jacked

the handle was hacked

even if you got the ciroq on lock

i'll still popov and you i will subtract

you've cracked under the pressure of my abstract

you're in dry dock from your shell shock

scared of how my flow knock

like i'm a missionary on your block

my flow is ad hoc

my speed is mach

bow down before my jock

shrink like scrotum

worship my totem

your uptake slow as a modem

you stunned, son

you're just a rerun

and i'm a track star, cross country #1

i refund you, done

the whackness must cease

the creativity must de-cease

my creative release

trumps your life lease

of my problems, you're the least

you're drowning in the belly of my beast

priesting on this flow

got me feasting on the dough

riesling don't got me slow

beasting with the ledge of know

A "Reading"

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

A REMINDER FOR FATHERS WHO HAVE FORGOTTEN THEY ARE FATHERS

Sometimes I weep in his absence,
at dinner, when I call for our son upstairs and
he slides down our family backwards,
his young oak smile, wise in its open knot
as he runs to me, just a girl in the kitchen
that he mistakes for the ground.

This wood flute we made together,
I weep for him, his fleeting songs,
for this poem, undeserving of words,
for the headless horseback fathers,
stabbing into the dark with dull memories,
content with becoming ghosts.

Yet my child, son of the wind,
blows around the room a boundless toddler,
collector of questions,
and he asks none
of his mother’s love,
pausing only seconds
for these promising kisses,

for he is tear-free and peaceful,
and he has no sense of loss.

MADE

My friend NaHaan was telling me one day how he thinks there should not be a difference between poetry we write and poetry we speak, so whenever we speak, it should still be poetry. So sometimes I throw poems into our fb conversations.

mad lib toast

Here is the Mad Lib toast I gave at my sister J's wedding.

Congratulations to the OUTRAGEOUS bride, J + the IRRESISTIBLE groom, A, the BIZARREst couple in the TIVON.

We join you on this, the day of your wedding, a day of DIAMONDS + YOUNG WOMEN.

Five years ago when they met, A's SACROILIAC JOINT was drawn to a GLAMOROUS creature, too OBSCURE for words.

He was overcome with MANIC PANIC and was sure that he had found the woman he was destined to share his SALMON CROQUETTES with.

She gazed at him with her OBNOXIOUS MAUVE eyes and his EARS began to DANCE JOYFULLY.

They kissed and they knew it was love at first IGUANA.

She agreed and he SMELLED her off her feet.

Then, one day, A gathered his courage and asked for J's BIG TOE in marriage.

J was so SHOCKED, she responded immediately with OPA!

And here we witnessed the climatic moment when A kissed J, which he told me tasted like SEXY SHOES.

That's when I knew, this was meant to be.

Their love is as PHAT as the HUDSON SEA.

Anyone who knows A knows that he is SPECIAL + that he can ABSORB with the best of them. He is an amazing guy but he will have to stop JUMPing now that he's married.

And J, my dear sister, who is so WHITE that she can PENETRATE her own COLLAGEN LIPS with her hands tied behind her back. She's not always the WETTest VASELINE in the LIONEL ROBERTS STADIUM, but we love her anyways.

J's ENDEARING TULSA is a great match for A's FUNNY REFRIGERATOR.

Now they are off to enjoy a long life together, enjoying each other's PUPU PLATTERS.

As you set sail on this SEXY adventure, may your love last forever, or until KITTIES can CARTWHEEL.

So raise your PIZZA and join me in wishing the ANNOYING couple a wonderful life together and that they live GENEROUSLY ever after.

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

K-POP

Limited Korean vocab+love for K-POP/my ears=

friend,
love,
don't have,
one day,
how do I,
don't do it,
you,
me,
snow,
rain,
okay,
I'm sorry,
then,
I know,
I love you.
If....

chingo,
sarang,
upso,
haru,
ot toe kae,
hajema,
neo, dangsin
chonin,
noon,
bi,
canchana,
Miana, mianhamnida
krae, krum
Aryiso,
Saranghey.
Negga....

Question marks

To everyone here, my apologies for not posting anything in a long while; I conveniently blame South Africa’s lack in internet speed and connection. It's not thursday, but set my silence right, here is a poem anyways...


They told her poems shouldn’t end in question marks, they’re not questions, they can’t be. So she was told that her words need meaning, metaphor. Brushstrokes and the scratching of the fountain pen’s sharp point needed something more than she had given...

Bowed down head, set to work, assigned to write, to think and feel – with meaning, not questions. And the white paper softens under the trickle of tears... She hates filling it with statements, giving it such meaning.

But the whiteness, the virginity, of the paper made it meaningless; it had to be taken! Had to, so she was told... to rape the words onto it, and take away the innocence; leave it with meaning – statements they meant with that; because questions, well, questions don’t turn the paper into something, they only ask for meaning from something, someone, else...

Take the paper... and fill it...

Perhaps, but the only thing she wishes for is to leave a question mark at the end...

Life

Life is the struggle to hold on.

Happiness is the willingless to let go.

Sadness is the absence of reconcilation of these.

Wah Wah Call The Waaahmbulance

Wooo new people!

I'm going through the folder of poems from NaPoWriMo and working on revising them a little. On days where I have nothing new to present (most days), I'm going to post one of these revisions:

Wah Wah Call The Waaahmbulance (4/17/10)

The truest poet ever plays at softly sentimental,

spinning sad songs for tear drops, love lost, and shock value,

settles for whoever

pays attention--

like he knows inside that he’s just selling lies to strangers,

squares it with his god that

believing him is their choice.

Still he spins his stories, sobbing, spittle flying,

crying so you know he means it--

reminiscing artfully about when they were authentic

while looking for a remedy for happiness;

sadness sells too well and boring folks

love a tearful story over dinner as proof

they still feel anything.

And in fifty years or so no one will care about him

but there’s going to be, like, plenty of replacements

who never heard his name.

CARHARTS, RAIN JACKET

CARHARTS, RAIN JACKET
after Cake’s “Short Skirt, Long Jacket”

I want a man with constellations in his ear drums.
I want a man with long attention.
I want a man who is not sure what to order,
treats the waitress like a princess, and leaves a big tip.

I want a man with intercultural charisma. 
who loves like he means business
and makes last requests.
He is not afraid to get dirty:
He is covered in fish guts,
He is fist up in protest,
and knee deep in my heart.

I want a man with carharts and a rainnnnn jacket.

I want a man with a waterproof smile.
I want a man who always knows where we are.
I want a man who has time for breakfast
who got something scrambled and sees the sunny side up.
He brings home the bacon.
And flowers and hitchhikers and cellphone pictures of the sea.

He is not afraid to get dirty:
He is covered in fish guts,
He is fist up in protest,
and knee deep in my heart.

I want a man with carharts and a rainnnnn ...rainn...... jacket.

I want a man with a marathon imagination
I want a man with bare feet on the earth
He is walking by me at Fred Meyer, he has somewhere to go,
he is in a hurry but he asks me my name.

He is well dressed for a Friday.
He is buying onions, tomatoes, and oreo cookies.
He asks my son for a fist pound and
says he loves this weather, partly cloudy, fifty five.

I want a man with carharts and a rainnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn jacket.

affluenza

can we not supersize the Mickey D combis
can we stop being Aberzombies
can we exchange our Armani
Chrissy Lou-wearing lasses looking bonny
liking mamas looking hoochie with their Gucci
fake Fossils found in the study of Anthropologie
Prada Fendi Dior Cavallie
people thinking they speak a foreign tongue
people chock full of affluent dung
close the Gap and stop being Forever 21
Diesel in our monster trucks
Diesel with our Chucks
lame ducks run amok with jeans full of Luck
fallin' like Dominos while consuming Mangos
can you hear the Holl[ow]ster Eckō?
the H+M got us bound like S+M
FCUK CK DKNY FUBU FUBAR too far
no wonder we grew up on the Phat Farm
trusting an Old Navy to defend us
Dior worship can't transcend us
take a Guess what's gonna end us
reOutfit the Urbana
stop thinking the only Republic is Banana
splitting Sundays into stun days
stop wasting the C.R.E.A.M. in our Starbeezys
learn to go easy breezy
stop thinking Hugo is the Boss
what's the Lacoste?

A New Room in a Smaller City

(I just moved to a smaller city, so I've been writing a lot about that transition):

Let the cats trace the margins of your attention with their ribs, let them play with the thin plume of newness that flickers across the living room floor, where light takes the shape of a cathedral and passing car horns sound like prayers. Let your mind unfurl its attention like a white flag of surrender, let it loosen its tethers and release poems. A new town can do that, spread its arms wide and reveal hidden plumage. Small town felicity will mend your jewelry free of charge and stop for pedestrians in the cross-walk, provide piles of good maps, but will it unmask itself? In this town you smile at every face like yours and search for life on the railroad tracks. In this room the insistent growl of motorcycles outside swallows the stillness of your desk lamp. All the poetry born into this room will be tinged with the gray-brick loss of one city and the amber discovery of another.

ADVICE

Dear women,
Get him now, while he is still a hopeless romantic.
Now, while he will still cross the nation for you.
Now, while he wraps memories in flowers,
while his heart still has room,
while he is in the mood to find words in your hair,
braid them together on a roadside,
on a boat,
in a basement
somewhere.
There, at that moment,
should you have a chance,
you should love him.

Haiku Stand stuff

Ok I've been slackin the last few weeks what with preppin for the show/trip to Minneap, then traveling, then getting back into the swing of regular life.  But! I *have* technically been writing some, since I've still been doing the Haiku Stand in Juneau.  Here's some from this week:

For Maeghan (request: the ever-present rain)

For Anna (request: her new house)

For Rico (ransom haiku. long story.)

For Kathleen, for her husband (request: technical writer + creative writer)

For Stefan (restoring sanity)

For Tanna (request: how we see ourselves)

Welcome 3 New Contributors!

Huzzah! Thursdays blog welcomes three new ibyang poets: Katie Leo, Jung Mee Bec, and Michael Sung Ho.  Hold on to your hats, these peeps have got it goin on.

Mo

The thing with stealing internet at home is that, sometimes, even when I have a poem written on Wednesday night, I can't post it until Sunday. I'm pretty sure this site has a backdate feature.

Mohammed emigrated here eighteen years ago

because Tehran was looking like hell

and he had a little boy to think about.

Two years after they arrived,

his wife said she preferred the Tehran because

any hell can be home and that one was hers.

That was the year Mohammed started going by Mo.

Mo has a shop in the skyway now.

He dresses nicer than I do, most days,

smiles brighter than I do, most days

and, I suspect, has more of a sense of purpose, self, or whatever

than I do every day.

I’ve seen his son helping him

stock shelves or work the register

but, now it’s Fall and I haven’t seen him in a while.

Mo smiles a little less when his son isn’t working with him

but he’s always a reliable destination for a smile.

As I watch art students drive themselves deeper into debt,

I wonder what kind of loans Mo’s son will have

and I hope it is none

and I hope that is the reason

Mo kept his smile bright

even when some gay guy called him a sand nigger.

Thursday poems, Monday revisions

In an effort to compensate for my recent silence, here are two poems about Korean people I feel differently about. Both originated here and eventually got revised and performed at a recent poetry reading event in St. Paul. Symbolism?? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

Poem for Brian

He came into this world harelip split open,

figured it would help him tell more stories

but was just a baby

with nothing to draw from

so lit lies and fanned them

with the books he got for Christmas

but didn’t read--

scorching his story into

pages penned by white dudes.

Twisted leg set his broken pace,

kept sentences unpredictable--

kept one foot where he was born

by choice, helped him look East

while his stories stayed “too yellow.”

Eventually, eyes turned from slanted to hollow.

Felt his heart swell with

a history no one knew,

didn’t bother to read--

but they liked his stories well enough,

felt sorry that he stopped writing

to lay his head in common ground.

Banana, Split

She knows all the words to Weezer,

was Go-Go Yubari for Halloween

and, in her white-washed mind, her chipmunk cheeks are the

the hottest you’ve ever seen

dressing like a school girl-dragon lady-

ex-Asian hyping the exotic East,

Hangul hurts her hands

so she settles for (what she’s pretty sure is) kanji

Reclaims her hanguk saram handle

But failure by any other name

still reeks like rotting from the inside out--

diseased with something awful, incurable

no matter how many yellow-fevered topicals

coat that vapid pout.

Hitchhiking--no, sidestepping--toward self discovery

or identity-reclamation all for popularity--

she breaks a sweat, remains half a hemisphere away--

grows Madame Butterfly wings

but stays grounded, West of anything worth finding,

blathering on to white boys about how much she’s already found,

pukes out a drunken, broken hangul greeting

and doesn’t understand that

solidarity does not make us friends.

She’s unable to speak--no, unable to be,

all her heart’s sob stories about hidden bloodlines

language lost, and guilty conscience

all turn to pathetic cries for sympathy.

The day can’t come soon enough

when she brings those bloodlines out of hiding,

lets her wrong turns pool beneath her

and still can’t tell

if our stories run the same color.