Banana, Split (draft)

NOTE: Personally, I get way more pissed off about ignorant people of color who ought to know better not knowing better and, in doing so, making us all look bad. This is especially true with other adoptees who "consider themselves white." Shut up; you are not white. Stop embarrassing yourself and everyone else by rejecting who you are. Most of the time, I just feel sorry for people but there's this one person I know who just pisses me off because of 1. how misinformed she is and 2. how loud she is about it.

I should also mention that I am not claiming to be any kind of authority on self-discovery or identity issues but I feel we can all agree that there is something very wrong when a Korean adoptee dresses up like a Japanese school girl at a party and doesn't understand why none of the other Asian people want to talk to her.

This is still a draft.

She knows all the words to Weezer,

was Go-Go Yubari for Halloween

and, in her tiny-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 a piece of shit by any other name

still stinks like she’s 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 reclamation for popularity--

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

darling, you’ve got to go down the road,

not cross the street

and, remember, before you vomit

your drunken broken hangul greeting at a party

that solidarity doesn’t mean

I want to stand next to you.

I’ve seen Japanophile white girls less offensive than she is--

all alternating between being full of shit and white-boy penis

cleavage over-represented like adopted names in suicide rates

bottom-feeding, sub-human, race-traitor, wannabe,

I don’t care about how hard you had it,

Mom not listening or Dad’s whore-habit--

Unable to speak--no, unable to be,

all her heart’s sob stories about hidden bloodlines

language lost, and guilty conscience

all turn into pathetic cries for sympathy.

The day can’t come soon enough

when she opens up a vein or two,

lets her complaints pool beneath her

and still can’t tell

if our blood runs the same color.

my people

* note this is just a first draft and its saturday here in seoul but im posting this for my thursday poem... ive not been writing these past weeks cuz words are stirring in me... this is only a draft its not complete...

- kim



my people

im your people

who exactly are MY people?



the ones with tans who know that theres a dolphin you can eat

and sand crabs you can catch in paper cups

and that worth avenue used to be the place for drugs?

who know that cobbler goes with breakfast

and the grits demand a pool of butter?

who remember polyster blues

and yellow carded tallies?



the ones who know that svyturys is the best

and that the real reason that 1492 matters is cuz its when

stiegl was first produced?

the ones who know the weight of a quid in their hand?

the ones who know a jordie from a manky?



my people?

im your people?

who exactly are my people?



the ones who love their PBR and premo

who call a casserole a hot dish

who are wedge organic?

who sit on stoops

and know what -50 F windchill feels like?



the ones who express through words

through body language gestures

who know the warmth of the light

shining from above

filling your very soul and being

as you do the thing you were born to do?

who understand when i say

"i miss the light"



my people?



you mean the south?

you mean the midwest?

you mean all the crevices of europe?

you mean the bus riders in merida?



my people?



you mean the ones who raised me?

the ones i do love?

the ones in oregon with the most beautiful garden in the world?



my people?

im one of you?



you mean the ones who flaunt rainbows like a flood just ended?

you mean the ones who cry out for equality?



im of of your people?

my people?

who exactly are my people?



the ones who live here

who look like ones from my other life?

the ones who fail to see that

theyre descended of the ones who created that line of divide between a people?

the ones who think they know

just because its been years?

but still walk with a swagger like this is theirs?

but we speak the same

and dress the same

and they brag of their prowress

telling me my people do not sweat

as my shirt is drenched in summer's humid heat



or you mean

my people

like



the ones i see each day

whom i cannot speak to

beyond head nods and

nervous mispronunciations

and confident askings for "mul' and "hana soju ju saeyo"



the ones who turned their backs on our mothers?

who push us to learn faster than we can?

who turn us into high ratings tv shows

and tell us how we're bitter



the ones whose acceptance of me

changes me

makes me better

makes me stronger?



my body is of this place

my blood is of this place

my entire dna was split in 45 degrees parallel

when my people sent me to those who say im their people now





my people?



im your people?



im one of you?



im yours?



we're the same?



only people that i can truly claim

are 200.000 others

some lost

some found

some somewhere inbetween trying to still find their people



kim thompson. 16.56 21 aug 2010 seoul, s.korea

www.thursdaypoems.blogspot.com

Haiku Giveaway Day II

Hi, I had another haiku giveaway day for my Thursday poem this week. Wrote a haiku for anyone who asked for one.  I had a couple requests, too, like "a limitless haiku" and a "climber haiku", which is fun cause it makes me feel (as Tim put it) like a Haiku DJ.

The first one, for my son, is probably my favorite.

DIEGO'S SKILLSAW: Your saw is so skilled / carved this knotted wooden heart / into a hope chest.

HIGHWAY SASHA: Your Way is so High / They call you Bridge now since all  / the people look up.

BRANDON’S LOLLIPOP: Your lolli’s so popped / that center looks too good to / count licks on the way.

PADRA’S TEARDROP: Your tear’s so dropped / even your scary sad days / get down like they’re hot.

BIG WHEEL STEVE: Your wheel is so big / everywhere you turned I just / had to roll with you.

ANN’S WINGSPAN: Your wing is so spanned / the kids called it an earthquake / as their ground took flight

STEEL STRING TREVOR: Your string is so steel / stretched between mountains you walk / no fear, just music

MEGAN’S LIMITLESS HAIKU (as requested): Your hug’s seventeen / syllables playing tag on / your arms, still running.

COURTNEY AT LIGHT SPEED: Your light’s so speedy / somewhere between here and your / hope, the dark gave up.

TGIF THANK GOLD IT’S FRIDAY: Your day is so fried / Everything that you do is / frickin delicious.

CHRISTY’S SOFT COVER - Your cover’s so soft / they read you at night just to / hold you in their hands.

PHOEBE’S FREE REFILL: Your refill’s so free / no one in the room can feel / empty around you. 

ALICA’S SUN SCREEN - Your sun is so screened / it prints on people like a / designer label.

TIM’S WALLFLOWER (a climber haiku, as requested): Your wall’s so flowered. / Jealous, gravity saw you / and moved the ground there. 

REAL SIMPLE SARAH - Your simple’s so real / stressed-out fairies and dragons / pop you like a pill. 

KATIE’S COOL SHADES: Your shade is so cool / the sun wears your shadow on / Fridays out dancing.

CACHET ON THE NORTH SLOPE:  Your slope’s so North / you let it take its course but / it always points home.

KATIE’S STREET LIGHT:   Your street is so lit / the word on it burnt holes the / dead keep wishin on.

STACY’S BRIGHT SIDE: Your side is so bright / ‘course your grass is greener, ‘course / we wanna be there.

HILARY’S GRILLED CHEESE: Your cheese is so grilled / every smile got that burnt flipped / look that’s addicting.

COLIN’S MUD SLIDE: Your slide’s so muddy. / You know life’s more fun if you / get a lil dirty.   

SWEET TOOTH ANNIE: Your tooth is so sweet / that even the cuspids chew / nice when you’re around.

STEM CELL HELEN:  Your cell is so stemmed. / Like any cage, you can just / flower out of there.  

PATCHWORK MALIA: Your work is so patched / the broken places are what / make the quilt gorgeous.

in lieu of...

in lieu of a poem listen to this interview on international adoption, korea, korean ibyangs, etc...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/p008ww0m

- kim thompson seoul, s. korea 13 august 2010

p.s. my brain is frozen hence the lack of poems... but soon there will be words

Poem For the Woman Who Thought Asking Dr. Laura a Race Question Was a Good Idea

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/38684474/?gt1=43001

"Schlessinger also said that if the caller did not have a sense of humor about race, she shouldn't have entered into an interracial marriage."

We had a dog once.
He was friendly enough
but always pissed on the rug--
just all over it.
We tried to train him not to,
gave him a shock collar,
rewards when he pissed outside,
even took him to a doggy therapist
but he kept pissing on the rug every time he got the chance.
We couldn't throw the rug out;
it had been in the family for years, was part of us now
so we cleaned it every week--sometimes twice--
and just did our best to tolerate the damn dog,
did our best to keep anything nice away from the rug.
He didn't see a difference between what was rug
and what was on or next to rug--
Mom said it had something to do with all dogs
being colorblind--I think this dog was just
too inbred to even see contours.
He'd just take a piss everywhere
and then sit there wagging his tail,
expecting you to take him for a walk.
He still does--that dog will live forever.
So don't get all angry if you leave your shoes on the rug
and the dog pisses all over them.
Look at that dog--that thing doesn't know any better.
He won't learn and
we can't just put him down.
Don't blame me--
I wanted a cat.

SPINELESS

Name your night I will find your favorite color in the sunset.

And I am not so mighty of a woman that
I could claim to cut a high
piece for your bedside
or keep any soft ray of it
in my hand safely, but I
would see you in this light for a moment:

let my eyes maze through its lines your lines
our lines, the cleanest shades of gray
pink lavender blue whale white falsetto,
wrapped around over under
its tired chest, and I will
memorize the sharp shape
of your face turned upward, the sky
smiling spineless on your gaze.

Untitled/I Ripped This Idea Off From Christy

He could live for weeks--months

on powdered gatorade and adrenaline.

I heard he built a truck, once, from the ground up,

out of things he found in the Pacific Northwest--

taught me how to drive a manual but my hands were too small

to grip the stick shift that was an evergreen or

ride out a clutch the size of Crater Lake.

I was frustrated but he read me my favorite story

for, like, the millionth time, sang me to sleep

and dreams of being a grown up.

Grayer now, weaver's hands, nurse's hands,

hands that built me a treehouse

move slower but, I suspect,

with more meaning--

weighted down by memories--

he finally begins his memoirs

but all I can read is

"Who says there are no heroes anymore?"

Like Any American Meal

Ho’s father can make the meanest bowl of noodles,
beef on boil for two lovesick days
until every stubborn chunk of it
lets go of their bones and falls
to the good graces of the water.

Y la Mama de Francisco makes tamales
as if corn were lottery tickets.
She picks the gold off the Pasadena summer,
steams it until all the neighbors feel rich,

and for a year I watched Shaquanda raise her voice
so no one could hear her breaking.
She never hugged her children,
but she fried chicken
like she believed in it.

Well my own Irish mother from the heartland,
she whipped bisquick and milk with the best of them
and we ate pancakes sunday mornings,
looked just like the picture.

She had a cake pan, shape like a dome
and every daughter used it at least one birthday,
plopped the top half of a blank barbie in the center, and
my mother worked for hours frosting her into life,
piping each ruffle like small miracles, every color,
and it wasn’t about the princess,
it was the dress.

Halibut, she would switch off, sometimes
fried in the depths of angry oil, sided with tart yellow sauce,
sometimes slow baked, blanketed 
in soft mayonnaise, full fat sour cream, a whisper of paprika and
bread crumbs, yes,
I could follow it home.

She has learned, over the years,
to buy white bread, because that’s what the rich people buy,
to buy wheat bread, because that’s what the rich people buy,
to buy all natural organic bunny crackers
but only once, because they taste like cardboard.

And when someone else
made a competing jello dish at Christmas,
we each still ate a serving to be polite.
Though we hailed our mother at home later,
silent pride was our tradition.

I was never my mother’s Korean daughter
just her daughter daughter,
so she steamed minute rice from
an orange box with a white uncle on it,
reached into the freezer some evenings
and pulled a costco bag of vegetables with
STIR FRY scrawled across like a kung fu movie,
like a battle between water chestnuts and snow peas,
and in a different life, my mother may have
high-kicked them into bits between blinks.

But in our family,
she gently sprayed a pan with PAM
fried them over medium heat,
shook only enough soy sauce to barely brown them,
and stirred like any American meal,
except she secretly knew
that this one,

this one
was my favorite.

The View

i.
I had a gun it was shaped like love
except it didn’t tremble.

It gave me warmth as I walked across campus,
concealed under my eyelashes.
My looks could kill.

And peace was a white thing.
An enemy in blue jeans standing on the corner of Snelling with a raw food smoothie and a sign thing.
I couldn’t hear anyone
over the nuclear bomb in the room
so I yelled for the hell of it,
sent my words out like kamikaze bombers
or gardeners in the wrong garden,
rocking plants suckin on radiation water,
dying fatherly deaths.

I was ready for war,
even as my brass knuckled belly grew large.
The revolution was pregnant
and armed

and unarmed

and armed...
the color of Joseph’s coat in my naked embrace,
a soft sword
as he saved me,
and i split open, imagining
how we’re gonna win this
with his skin my skin and our breathless connection.


ii.
I had a lover he kissed like columbus.
A tongue like three ships
and he smelled like used cannons
but he bore gifts.

We threw so many starfish back into our bed
we skinny dipped slept with good intentions
until the waters churned with his deep dark curses
and I had to wake him before he murdered
someone in his dreams.

He has 9 scars and only 7 stories.

He went to jail he got out of jail he called me from a pay phone
said my eyes were like all four seasons
and he buckled in the parking lot talking bout
spring.


iii.
I had a son he thought I was the sun.
He woke up and looked over
and if I rose the day had begun.

Some mornings I was so angry
i burnt myself to a crisp
and my charred lips
could not even offer a
faint kiss
without breaking.

So we slept in,
letting life fake it.
Gonna be brave
just gimme a minute.
I dropped cast iron fists on my forehead,
hope somewhere in the squeezed hot middle of them

and my son,
who does not miss a bird,
a single ray through the curtain,
or a heart worth breaking,
cocked his head like a horizon
and squinted through my grip.

He’s still there,
smiling on the bedside, waking.

monsoon memories of leif

19
20
feet propped up on the dash
filling your little white car
with blue grey smoke
sunroof opened
to let the night in
"the sky is never black... its deep blue"
everyone's asleep inside
but we're outside
inside your car
drinking beer
smoking cigarettes
and feeling so full of knowing
and yet so new
to this world
thats hanging overhead

and you tell me how
youre gonna play a song
thats gonna rip my heart right outside my
arse
and you push tape deck play

and this becomes the song for then
and the years to follow there
lying on the rooftop
drinking wine
smoking cigars like we're refined
speaking poems
and everything we think we know

who spends their 20s lying on castle rooftops
up above the trees
in the middle of the night
crawling out windows
listening to ben
staring at the stars
watching satellites spin in orbit
to the point of something beyond terrestrial

here below the cars - another friday
somewhere beneath the seoul
the sky has gone from night to monsoon grey

knowing now how ive been
carried

home


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9I9M4H9n_I


kim thompson. friday. 23 july 2010. seoul. s.korea

IOU

I failed to post a poem last week because I was busy releasing this. I fail to post one this week because I don't want to post an embarrassing first draft of a poem I care about--it's a poem about getting manslaughtered on my way home through downtown.

pair

we're a pair of headphones
held together by a melody
we're a pair of handcuffs
held together by a felony

we're a pair of earrings
held together by a connection
we're a pair of headlights
held together by a direction

we're a pair of chopsticks
held together by a hand
we're a pair of crutches
held together by a stand

we're a pair of dice
held together by a chance
we're a pair of shoes
held together by a dance

we're a pair of lungs
held together by a breath
we're a pair of tombstones
held together by a death

we're a pair of contracts
held together by a decision
we're a pair of eyes
held together by a vision

love

Morning Stories

Good moms read books at bedtime,
Great moms tell morning stories.

Where there are no mice to say goodnight to the moon
only bright eyed salmon hatching without their mothers, tasting
the width of the water with their clumsy thirst.

They are waking, at the break of the fog,
and there is so much to say.

How a boy can row to shore on his tricycle,
greet the robots with smoked halibut and jellybeans,
he can dance with the best of them, he can
ride the hills until the hills are tired, until they
blow their sand like a silk dress around the sun and the
sun wears it to work all day and everyone wants to
comb her rays and look for treasure.

Oh, good morning.

Did you hear about the prince who was not a prince
just a mailman with a river of love letters and he
slept on a feather there, dipping his toes in
promises and pictures and signatures
so that when he walked in triangles his footsteps left
everlasting bricks until they were pyramids.

Open your eyes, baby,

There’s a dinosaur outside our window and he
picked all the neighbors flowers with his teeth
while they were sleeping and he
took a shower in their sprinkler and they
wouldn’t have known but he started singing so
Mrs. Bingham is banging her Toyota Sequoia
against his ankle and it tickles.

Wake up! See the T-rex laughing. 

He can’t help but catch his breath and start a tornado.
We are flying, here in our small white apartment,
the plants, the books, the couch, the dishes,
shooting like stars in our living room,
and we could make a thousand wishes but
i only wish one, you only wish one.

I roll my shocked body over yours and ask for peace,
but you, you
hold out your brave young arms
and I and every scared stuffed animal
fit there.

Let the day begin.

Troy

An older story... written Monday, 01 February 2010



The empty page on my computer screen mocks me, haunts me, it doesn’t have eyes but stares into mine nonetheless. Fingers hovering over a black keyboard – oh, do I miss those old typewriters; at least the paper wouldn’t stare, lest it be ripped and mauled by frustrated writers.

Sweet coffee had forgotten its own bitter taste; avo-and-cheese sandwiches with a dash of pepper and too much salt; water turned mellow and lukewarm from neglect and jealousy, but I can’t help preferring the sweetened coffee that had turned as lukewarm as the water; they’re keeping me company on a desk that hasn't celebrated the New Year yet…

And when noon arrives, I will face my sorrows head on! Charge it! Rush it! Like amazons, with raised axe, riding chariot; some old forgotten Scythian war cry will strike fear into heartless demons. And I’ll forget that over time and decades, those demons had become my friends…

And I will rebuild the great gate, put stone on stone; hide behind Ilium’s great walls. I will build in my heart yet another Troy, to be burned…

to my lady friend korea

* i actually wrote this on a tuesday *

dear lady korea
seoul-mate
we have been apart for over 30 years
but seeing you again
well it was
love at first sight

ive had a lot of other cities in my life
some of them the most beautiful and desired
lusty damsel london
the elegance of sultry songstress paris
the bad girl moscow and her sister st petersburg
the unfettered perfect beauty of the all alluring bella alps
educated elegante courtesan venizia
mistress merida south america of the party salsa sweaty night bus rides
cold tempting sleek seductress stockholm
and
the envy that is an oh so svelte salzburg
to name a few

but korea youre the one i was always heading to
you with your crazy nights
you with all your big bright lights
you with all your noise
you with your long sleek winding river
and your contoured shapes rising beautifully in the mornings

korea you who never sleeps
lady korea
land of sisters mothers lovers friends

lady korea with your well swept sidewalks
winding up and down
lady korea with your proud peaks
lady korea with your beckoning streets

i have known and even
loved
a lot of cities before you
i have known their inner streets
slinked along their alleys
photographed them
sidled up to them
made my mark and left

but lady korea youre my love
youre my heart
today in the midst of seeming heart ache
i fell in love with you again

- kim thompson. seoul, s. korea... written on 13 july tuesday posted on 15 july thursday

My Son Runs in Riots

Well, another f'd up moment in american history.  My heart and grit teeth go out to the family of Oscar Grant, another victim of police brutality and the legal system.  More info: http://colorlines.com/archives/2010/07/oscar_grant_verdict_merhserle_guilty_of_involuntary_manslaughter.html  

MY SON RUNS IN RIOTS
for Oscar Grant & other warriors

I don’t use playpens,
my son runs in riots.

He took his first steps towards burning buildings
and he carried a molotov cocktail in his right,
draggin his blankie in the left gripped tight,

half brushed cotton, half tear-stained satin,
he lets the tail gather the dirt and screams of the street,
he can’t sleep without it.

When I sing lullabyes
we are often running
and he keeps up cause
he loves the sound of twinkle twinkle
little star
to fire alarms.
He think ashes are diamonds in the sky.

I breast-fed for a year,
as recommended,
and weaned him to household chemicals.
We are only as strong as the bomb we mix
and my son’s lungs glisten.

Listen
I don’t want another language to be lost
so I whisper the traditions of tamed lions
I grip his wrist
for his attention
I purr the words
how we were told we could not be wild
and i clench his shoulders
and i hold him
and I told him
they said we were not real lions
they said they were not real gate keepers
they said the cage would not come between us
they said this was justice
and i swore for whatever mother this earth was supposed to be and i said,
the truth. is.
we are free.

Unlike me,
he didn’t pause at the thought.
My son stood up
sucked on a switchblade and
took off.

He met men with gray hearts and silver badges
and he has
bullets in his back,
he has
bullets in his front,
he has 56 baton blows, six kicks in his ribs and

when you watch the video
it’s tough to tell whose son it is.

2010:
all my children cry tear gas.

gladiator

i am tired of fighting
everyday to keep myself alive
can i go a day without picking up
my weapons of war
wreaths of victory fill the world arena
but who wins when no one can celebrate
and why celebrate victories laced with crimson life?

i am tired of struggling
everyday to keep myself sane
can i go a day without picking up
my pieces of mind
particles scattered to the wind
but what can grow when the land is poisoned
and why does poisoned water satiate ephemeral needs?

i am tired of battling
everyday to keep myself happy
can i go a day without picking up
my pillow stained of tears
endless streams cascade down an already dismal face
but when will these rivulets not burn my face as they run
and why do i keep drying these volcanos when they will just explode?

i am tired of striving
everyday to keep myself going
can i go a day without picking up
my body weary of wear and tear
scars rendered irrevocable with a single word or glance
but how soon will this endless ennui eradicate my existence
and why does my body have the strength to get up?

i am tired of warring
everyday to keep myself optimistic
can i go a day without picking up
my soul of faith
tired eyes open but apathetic, closed but restless
but where can i look and find my heart
and why do i never recover?

i can't be a gladiator anymore

Venetian Blind Geisha

The mattress built for two with the valley in the middle
squeezes us together--just two pieces of meat in a cloth bun,
the girl who sleeps in moments meets the boy who knows better
but ignores it, ignores her except when she sleeps;
she's only pretty with her eyes closed.

During daylight, she dresses in layers against
the Minnesota cold stares and niceness--
keeps her heart like her eyes, closed
nose filled with icicles blocks out the air
and errant questions in a work setting--
sticks to cut and dry numbers for warmth.
The office babe only when she's blinking,
she looks surprised by it.

She sleeps past alarms and leftover lovers,
pretends to be asleep, meek, and satisfied
at thirty long enough to peek at where she's going next,
walking with her eyes closed.

Ndinamahlebo

Ndinamahlebo...
I have secrets
or perhaps it's just the one?

A girl scout selling out, she ran away, turned back, got lost again. Scouts honor, she'll behave she said; didn't try, it's just what she does. Swim in expectations, earning badges for 5 dollars on the sly.

But there is not one easy way out...

비밀들 너무 많아~

yesterday

yesterday
i saw myself
saw us both
and three

not knowing i knew
who and what they were

that she was me
and she was her
and she was the third

yesterday i saw myself

the awkward silence of sipping

most days i see us here

on the subway
on the bus
on the streets
in the shops
waiting for the light to change

what could have
what i cant help but at times think:
should have

been.

i see us here

in coffeeshops
unobserved by others
but taken in by me

... yesterday
each day is same
i see us here
never two but three

visible specter speaking
words we can only
phrase

lost and found
found and lost
its all the discovering that happens
somewhere inbetween the middles...

in the stolen outside observations

each day
i see us both
hand in hand
crying out her name
begging for ice cream
skipping just ahead

yesterday i saw me
yesterday i saw her
yesterday i saw the third

yesterday i rose up
turned on the podcast
walked outside

and thought of us three still sitting up there
how i share more in common with that stranger me
than with most dear friends...

nervous daughter
chiding mother
transmitter
and their sentences always broke by
awkward
lack of chatter

yesterday
for five minutes
i was not alone
and though she did not know it
nor was she

kim thompson. thursday 8 july 13.56 seoul, s. korea

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
babies
mothers
fathers
korea
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. 

SHE HAD SOME DRAGONS
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. 

Nursing Home Romance

She sets her sappy sadness down,
lets the bliss-blisters smooth her features
back, somehow, to when she felt younger,
thinner,
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
whatever.

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
memories
all at discount prices
'cause aren't they useless?
aren't they keeping me behind?
stuck in the past?

ode to the south

re-posting from the past written: 19 Jul 08 Saturday 22:46


ode to the south:

there is
just enough
of florida left
in me
for the love of all things fried
to remain deep inside my heart
- to salivate for grits with pools of butter
and okra fried
to moisten at the mouth
for white gravy
bridging
mashed potatoes
buttermilk biscuits
corn
and
chicken fried steak

there is just enough of southern east coast life
to wake dreaming
of
"hey y'alls"
and
howling long with
lynryd skynyrd
and don mclean

west palm's so deep seeded
that when i say i miss childhood
in there are the memories of
smashing coconuts open in the driveway
collected off the ground
beside the palm fronds
with my brother

we loved the dukes of hazard
cuz we liked to whistle
dixie
and tie our tee's like daisy duke
whilst hanging out with our good ol' boys

hush puppies were a standard staple
i love you minneapolis
but your hush puppies are wanting
as is your cornbread

there's 18 years of southern tropic living
where i can still miss
things like
blackened catfish fried just freshly pulled from lakes
and
driving long the bee-line and swampy canals
sugar cane fields standing stalk tall
orange groves for endless miles
conch fritters
and fresh atlantic crab legs the most kinda common
and dolphin served at potlucks and kids in squeamish fear of eating flipper till parents explained the two kinds of dolphin to them

and even though i was so glad to leave as soon as highschool ended
and have rarely if ever looked back

theres still enough of florida in me
to miss sailfish
boats pulling up to restaurants
sawgrass
the boonies
hibiscus and grapefruit trees
starfruit
kumquats
ponderosa lemons
avocados the size of softballs
and
catching scuttling sea crabs in paper cups

theres enough of the south in me
korean born
south florida raised
european lived
midwest middle age
to still wake

craving


- kim thompson posted friday 23.52 seoul, s. korea

Monster Under the Bed

A friend of mine is going through some rough stuff, bad stuff, with her baby daddy and it's dredging up all this crap in my own heart. This poem's part my experiences, but it's a collage of other women's experiences, too, all of whom have been dear to me, and all of whom have also found themselves wrapped around a man (or several men) who was abusive - either physically, emotionally, mentally.... and, not knowing the real name, we called it love.  But it's really a:

MONSTER UNDER THE BED

If my son found the monster under the bed,
I’d say:

Some monsters are hard to kick out
so I let him live here.

On the plus side,
He has a great smile.

And he can cook!
Boy, when he cooks I could eat an army,
but I don’t.
Cause I try to set a good example.

But what I’d know
is that monsters have short term memories.

They can’t remember who punched those
moon craters into the wall.
Or halfway through a sentence, when
it got so loud, so goddamn loud in this house.
Why are you lying there, at the bottom of the stairs,
singing songs to your crimson tide womb.
Why did you make them choke you hit you pull you push you like that.
Who threw that lamp.

They don’t love you.
Wait.
They love you. More than anything.

Minutes, days, weeks with holes in them.
I wonder how monsters keep track of time this way.

My monster,
he has all the time in the world anyway.

He hovered there like
A drunk angel
watching me
sink through the cement,
my knees so weak,
my heart so heavy.

He was on my back
as I limped outside,
parting a smile through my river of tears,
a joker,
a joke.

No matter how far I swam
to drown my thoughts,
throw the things I’ve said the things I’ve done
into the water like farewell ashes,
my monster was the end of the ocean,
calling me closer.

And I can’t get the sound of his choked voice
out of my room.
The sawing of his lips as he begged for forgiveness,
held me tight like his arms could squeeze me into
something softer,
cried kissed cried kissed
into my granite forehead,
and I broke enough
to let a little of his toxic hope in.

So he lives under the bed.

I don’t want my baby to know.
I hold him close,
closer than a safe boy wants to be held
kiss him more than strong boys want to be kissed,
tuck his feathered head into my chest,
and I never fall asleep before he does.

I curse the monster for being there,
for sinking his teeth into our lives,
for twisting my love into a boomerang bullet,

And I watch my son drift to dreams in my arms

Unafraid,
as he should be.
as his mother could be.
if only she
could let him go.

A Quick Note About Where I Work

No one smiles in the skyways--

though I suspect they are communicating

happiness and hope,

“I love you’s” through text messages

that sweeten blackberries,

make iPhones about the “me’s”

under the fancy clothes

we woke up early to iron--

the tie that weighs heavy in the afternoon

or until coffee is gulped

(or until the girl with coffee-colored hair

notices it).

A story above the sidewalk,

it’s too easy to sink into

a place where stories don’t live.

precipice

have you ever stared into a precipice
only to realize you're staring into a cruel mirror
that reflects contortions rather than confirmations
who knows how far
who knows how deep
who knows how much faith will leap
have you ever reached into a precipice
only to realize you're reaching at a slippery slope
that confounds rather than rebounds
what makes this so hard
what makes this so unending
what makes this so ultimately offending
have you ever given attention into a precipice
only to realize your attention-giving goes unheard in the abyss
that mocks understanding rather than false landings
when will i learn
when will i grow
when will i remember the extent of the low
have you ever inhaled into a precipice
only to realize your inhaling is but a fragile excuse
that deliberates rather than just liberates
where does this go
where does this mend
where does this find an end
have you ever spat into a precipice
only to realize you're spitting on yourself
that taints the soul rather than this black hole
why does the precipice call to me
why does the precipice feel so comforting
why does the precipice not frighten me as much i thought
why why why

A Rerun

NOTE: I went out tonight to celebrate Mexico's victory over France and lament South Korea's loss to Argentina. While I was out, I also lamented the Lakers' victory over the Celtics--I don't care about the Celtics but I hate the Lakers. Kobe Bryant is a terrible human being whose only redeeming value seems to be his ability to deliver like fifty three-point shots every game. Fuck you, Lakers.

This poem was part of the April challenge and I want to dedicate it to Christy and Rodrigo.

The Story of the Boy Who Tried to Run With the Giants (April 3, 2010)

This is the story of the boy who tried to run with the giants.

Always saw them strutting around, planting beanstalks

that reached up past the clouds, past where he couldn’t see

For the giants, the beanstalks were like the front stoop

where they spent afternoons getting bombed before dinner,

sipping their 40s and shooting the shit.

They poured a little out one day and that filled the Hoover Dam.

The boy tried to impress the giants by doing a wheelie on his bike

but his balance wasn’t right and he just skinned his knee

they laughed at him, told him to come back when he was grown

He spent the next week practicing every afternoon for hours

Before dinner, he would go and run his mouth to the giants,

too drunk to really hear him,

and tell them to get ready to see the coolest thing they’d ever see

they drunkenly nodded along

By Sunday, he was sure he had his acrobatic bike routine down

but Sunday was the day the giants played flag football in the Sahara

so the boy joined in in earnest

For their part, the giants played easy with him--

they liked having him around, didn’t want to grind his bones beneath their treads

and they even let him score the point that won the match.

He was so excited, he forgot to show them the tricks he learned on his bike.

Drunk White Boy I Heart You

Drunk white boy,
I heart you.

Let me count the ways!

Kick start jump and you’re up
hand standing on a grey keg with
beer foaming at your mouth,
you tiger you
you wild thing you.
Marley shirt fallen at your neck,
your balsa wood chest flashing flabby,
just the kind of man I look for
these long, lonesome nights.

So you wanna take
long walks on the sidewalk,
kiss my ground with your leinenkugel,
drape an easy arm over my shoulder
like a hit single.
And baby I’m amazed by you.
Do that hop onto every parked car thing again.

Keep drinkin, I’m swimmin, and you’re so deep.
Maybe General Vang Pao did invent sriracha sauce.
Yah I get it, I got the fever.
You loved Korea because you slept with so many Korean girls?
I love Korea too!
We have so much in common.

YES, I text back.
Let’s definitely get married.

Oh, drunk white boy,
where you been all my life?
No one can say hello to me in 3 Asian languages like you can.
No one calls me Ming like you can.
No one tells the boy I came with about the baseball bats in the trunk like you do.
Your penis is so much bigger. I know it.

Across your dank and dirty basement,
I only have folded eyes
for you.

Cheers.

i miss the light

i miss the light
i miss the dark that is broken by
one circle shaft of light

i miss sitting in the black of the back
waiting for
"10"
"5"
youre up
curtain call

i miss the beating heart all day
i cant eat
but i dont wanna faint
fritos and slim jim will get me through until tonight

and then
the pulsing in my stomach
slows
breath begins to even

sit in the black in the back
reciting lines to self
the zennest thing i'll ever do
just me and words
and breath and breathing

walk up
find your mark
UFO suspended light
beams down

and its otherworldly

time suspends
speeds up and does not move an inch

because...
i know this

because the words were written
long before i set them down to any kind of
page
electronic
or
inked

its like marriage

its like

sex

words body soul heart brain being
all just merge as one

and people say
"you just like the way we look at you"

... but ive never done it for you
only ever done this for
... me
because i need to
because i have to
because there is no other way but this

standing in the light

its the one of only few times when i am
100% plus the other parts all there

... i can hear you breathing
i can hear you shift your feet
turn your pages
sometimes
sniffle
i can hear a tear drop slide

and the words take shape

here in seoul
these days

there is no light to walk out into
i am waiting in the darkness of the under
maybe 10-20 feet below the surface of the city
i am waiting
for the
10
5
youre up
curtain call

i am waiting for the light
to call my name again

only next time
its not just gonna be one single shaft of circle light
not light just from the side

next time it says
"youre up"

we're all going blind

- kim thompson 15.49 thursday 17 june 2010 seoul, s. korea

Ibyang Muñeca

They called her “Ibyang Muñeca,”

“China Doll from the Midway"

and like a thousand other monikers

she’d answer to

drunk with friends that she adopted,

made a family out of strangers--

knew her core but like two of them knew her name.

Tough lover and a Turf Club regular,

slammed every door decisively--

some function of her nature--

and danced out loud to car alarms,

bathed in sweat or rain

twisted fluently, twisted fluency

when gawkers gawked--

“out-of-town-tourist-trash,” she’s sing.

Loved it when people asked her

“where you from?”

told them “like a million different places,

depending on the day--

wouldn’t recommend Wyoming

but you knew that already.”

Flew her independent nation flag

without it being stupid bangs,

esoteric ink, piercings, or pulled together poetry--

told me I was dumb to look for meaning in her laugh lines.

going home

Due to a writers block... I'm posting an old one today

Three days, just one night
Took a train into my soul
No Idea what I would find
Three nights and I'm gone

A home in my head
I wish I could find
The way through hell
Then I'll never look back

Three nights, just one day
I stared into my soul
Missed the train
I'm going back home

Haiku Giveaway Day

HAIKU GIVEAWAY DAY
A haiku for anyone who asked for one today.

RASSACIN’S PLAYPEN: Your play is so penned / every run skip jump cartwheel / leaves a trail of poems.

SPEARAMINT RODRIGO: Your mint is so speared / if I’m cravin something fresh / I look to your sword.

TATIANA FIREFLY: Your fire is so fly / logs jump into your burnt arms / just to hear you spit.

PADRA’S SWING SET: Your set is so swung / even wind can’t flip your kicks / keep em high, so high

SKY HIGH ALICIA: Your sky is so high / the kids send their balloons up / just to dream with you

FULL MOON MEGAN: Your moon is so full / the werewolves are dressing up / to dance in your glow

MIXTAPE FOR LIZ: Your tape is so mixed / it’s like kimchi flavored Bach / looped on a dove song

CHRIS’S KITTEN: Your kit is so ten / it’s double thumbs up, peace sign, / pinky promise plus

DAN’S BIG BOX: Your box is so big / the world is guns and villains / till wife turns it off

ROCK STAR KATIE: Your star is so rocked / you can shoot and make a wish / both feet on teh ground

MIDNIGHT MADDIE: Your mid is so night / Sofia got her eyes tight / dreams sweet on your chest

VANESSA’S GREEN EGGS: Your eggs are so green / I would eat them in a box / or with you, you fox.

ANGIE’S BLUE BELL: Your bell is so blue / it rings wild razz lollipops / on our grown up tongues

CHRISTY’S WILDLIFE: Your life is so wild / giraffe spot love and snake smiles / you just can’t cage that

MELISSA SPICE JAR: Your jar is so spiced / gotta warn em, don’t get too / crazy shakin ya

WHAT’S UP MARY: Your what is so up / the who when where why and how / got nothin on it.

FREESTYLE SARAH: Your style is so free / and your hugs are golden so / I think I owe you

STACY JAY Z: Your Jay is so Z / or is it Lo or is it / Ray? You would know this.

SASHA’S SMALL TALK: Your talk is so small / I keep it in my pocket / rainy day savings

KRISTIN’S STARFISH: Your fish is so starred / I saw him swim crooked but / you see his best strokes

GOLD’S STRAIGHT TALK: Your talk is so straight / it squares up like a window / mmm that’s some fresh air

JULIA’S CITY BANK: Your city’s so bank / the sky dumps its purse in the / million dollar sea.

KAYLA’S SMALL FRY - Your fry is so small / I won’t tell if you won’t, so / buy a large let’s eat

SMOKE STACK JANELLE: Your stack is so smoked / he stopped breathing and fell when / you walked in the room

FAST TRACK JOSHUA: Your track is so fast / I thought I heard you but it / might’ve been the wind

EMILY’S STOP WATCH: Your watch is so stopped / no fuss no rush no mom mom / bear hug, who wants that.

NEON DEB: Your ne is so on / a lighthouse in the city / pink red lime flash arms

nostalgia

and if i chant your name enough
will that change a thing?

even cs lewis said
"it changes me not you"

this thing this thing
what is this thing that i cant stop waiting for?

like arms outstretched invisible
but shoulders that are pinioned...

writer/poet i say i am
but am l-o-s-t with spelling bees

am i just another of those
washed up wannabes?

some days... art... the word... the world
run sliding 'tween my digits...

some days... liking... loving... heart
sit empty void inside my chest

and i just sit in dim light listening to my fan
oscillating on its stand...
(as if its wind will whisper something that i need to hear)


- kim thompson. 11.51 am thursday 10 june 2010 seoul, s. korea

Champion

Who loves Mexico?
He does! says so right
on his double X L teeshirt verde
and I can only see a couple inches of
copper skin wrists
and soft knuckled fists
as he huffs and puffs and
blows his silver medal breath down.

Asphalt black lipstick streaks
every other time his floppy kicks kiss the pavement,
and later some stove sweat mama’s gonna
warn him that’s his only pair.

I’m gonna win! he yells,
a shag of a missing haircut bouncing in
and out of his endless knot eyes,
and he grins like a champion
as every skinny stick of him runs down Julep
alone.

sucking it up

* for all the ones i know who "suckit-up" each day*
* i know i already posted my thursday poem but i decided to do one more to make up for my writers block from last week*


suckit-up
thats what i was taught to do
suck it up
thats what my father did
31 years in a job he never even liked
and when i asked him why he stayed
he said
"thats just what you do kim
suck it up"

suckit-up
thats what my parents did
for 30 something years
in a marriage that ceased being happy
15 years before
and when i asked them why
they said
"thats just what you do kim
suck it up"

suckit up is what my coaches said
when my shins were splinting
"no pain no gain"
they chant
"you gotta suckit up and jump those stairs"

suckit up is what my boss said
when he'd mis bid that job so badly
and he sat in his van waving crystals
whilst our bodies broke
and when he'd come in giggling about planets in retrograde
as my tendons ripped
he'd chirp
"sometimes you just gotta suckit up"

suck it up
suck it up
kim you gotta suck it up
cuz anyone who gets to do a job they love
is rare and lucky
and thats just not life

suck it up
suck it up kim
cuz anyone who gets to be with one they love
and like
is rare and lucky
and thats just not life

suck it up
suck it up kim
cuz youre young and your body will heal
and dont complain
no pain no gain
go pop another pill
and stick some needles in your arms
one day the planets will re-align

suck it up
suck it up
"i always wanted to travel
but kim you know
thats just not how it goes
i have a car a house
i'll travel when im old
sometimes kim
you just
gotta suck it up"

suck it up
suck it up

suckit up i say

you dont know what suckit up means! is what i wanna say

suckit up is
im so scared to do this
but im gonna try

suckit up is
id rather be broke and stressed about all the digits missing in my bank account
because the only reason that
doing what you love
happens to the rare and few
is
cuz
so
few
and rare
ever even
suckit up to try...

suckit up is what she tells me
when we're in rehearsal
and moving my body on a stage
is the most self conscious uncomfortable please god let there be another way do you know how much dancing scares me and now you want me to do this in front of people all by myself in a spotlight?
suckit up she tells me
suckitup is what i do
and when the light is shining
and everyone out there sitting
thinks im so comfortable moving exposing myself like this
"suckit up kim" is what im moving to

suckit up is
apply apply apply and re-apply
until the rejection turns to
"dear miss thompson,
we are pleased to inform you
that you have been selected to
receive the xxxx travel grant for literature"

suckit up is
never accepting the repeated emails of
"dear kim
dear miss kim jong ye
we have your mother's name and address
but we won't tell you"
until one day they say
"her name is
her address is..."

suckit up is
knocking on that door
and not running
knocking on that door
and waiting for the answer
knocking on that door
and knowing just how much you have to lose
knocking on that door
and being more scared and alone than youve ever been in your entire life

suckit up is
freshly minted out of highschool
turning down the scholarships and marketable double majors with a minor
to cross an ocean alone
to see what that whole world is that youve been reading about your whole life
in that school
and church
and family
thats been telling you to "suck it up" and be safe...
go to school
get the job
get the house
get the car
get the mediocre marriage
because happiness and doing what you love
thats just a fairy tale
so suckit up and settle for a life you never wanted

... suckit up and when youre 60 look back and say
"i never liked this job
i never liked this marriage"

suckit up
suckit up

you know who sucks it up each day?
the poet-ress who was told from day one
"you will never be an mc"
and now she makes her full time living offa words
and changing lives of others
through her words

you know who sucks it up each day?
the single mother who despite her past
puts herself through nursing school
gets straight A's
takes care of her son
and everyday wonders if she shoulda given him up
because she feels like shes failing
but no
she
she
she sucks it up
gets herself through school
graduates with full honors
and gives her son the kind of life she's worked so hard for

you know who sucks it up each day?
the woman who raised her daughter in the back of a grocery store
who never traded in her words for the money that fame can bring
who won the awards and accolades
who to this day at no longer young and spry
still writes
still creates
still directs
still invests in pups like us
teaching us what it means to
suck it up

suckit up is
this

suckit up is
never trading this one time
this one chance
to live
to suckit up and even though it scares you
quit your comfortable job
leave your beloved dog and friends behind
and move across the world
for a people and a language thatve turned their backs on you
to find
that thing
that even though sometimes you say youre not looking for
you sucked it up
to find it

suckit up is
never giving up on the possibility of
being
fully

you

and

happy

so that you will never hit 80 looking back
too broken down to travel
too scared to explore
wondering
"so this is what i get
for having sucked it up?"

instead
that when you hit the day of
a body aged

your life is full of a past so rich
from having

sucked it up.

- kim thompson. 4 june friday. seoul, s. korea

banana

white on the inside, yellow on the out
that's not what I'm all about
though I did sprout from roots stout
I ended up growing a different route
but your mind is clearly without
the necessary faculties for the nonsense you spout
I won't let myself pout
I won't let myself shout
I won't let myself doubt
I'm not a banana

need I remind you to stop being racially blind
be kind + rewind that thought
I'm disinclined to believe that your mind
only thinks of me for my rind
and not what you find
inside what the universe designed
I won't let myself be confined
I won't let myself be defined
I won't let myself be maligned
as a banana

check yourself + right this slight
your impolite, outright fright
your delight is now contright
I'll rewrite you til you're upright
I'll relight you til you're tight white might
is insignificant in height to the blight I will incite
I will let myself ignite
I will not let myself invite
I will let myself fight
that I'm a banana

stop + smell MY flowers
so you will be cleansed as I scour
my yellow tower of power won't cower
myself is empower + in power
for it is YOU I will devour
keep your eyes on the final hour
this shit is bananas

One Moment in Summer

Half way
between my arms and your tan lines
Four feet from the door--
moonlit neon signs illuminate every word
whispered into shoulderblades--
sweet nothing substantive
mixes with the summer air
and beer breath
and bated breaths
and you.

Stars

It was as any other night, looking above and wishing with every shooting star. It was like any other day, searching for four-leaved clovers in the fields, hoping for a a bit of luck. It was as any other life.

But she struggled, always, to be the honest person she wanted to be; searching ever for that moment in time that would spell change. She wanted so much, do so much, but couldn't walk on cold feet, couldn't do what she thought she need.

Days turn in to nights, years and decades pass her by.

Tears dried into patches of salt, rubbed the blood out of her skin. Smiles were memories, she thought she once had, but they seemed like dreams only and faded, disappeared with nightfall's end.

She hoped for more, didn't try enough. Fell out with the stars, and died for love...

for grace darling

(lea) i remember when you wrote this song
how your outside did not match
your inside

how everytime you played a new song youd been working on
i knew your heart

how we'd break down your word choice

"put a copper penny on the tracks now
see what it will do
take all of that curiosity and put it
to some use"

... today
riding the bus
like im half now
half then
half here
half there

its like your words
are caught between worlds

... its not the banjo and the viola
its crystal brinkman and barb...
its not a harmonica and lusty voice
its lea...

its lee's liquor lounge
its minneapolis and seoul
all trapped between my ears
and my seat on the bus
is a booth in lee's

and some voiceover in my head
is your voice
talking about the words you chose
and how you like flattened copper pennies
and how youre wondering if youre ever gonna find

and its the backyard of the barn
and someone's shouting
"play freebird"
and im chanting whining
"blue... play... blueeeeeee"

buildings and construction rise
blue nets to catch the accidental
seoul is rising up around me
and i can smell kimchi
mixed with the smell of city fumes

but my feet feel humid midwest grass

walking to the doctor for my aching body
i'm half planted on the stoop
drinking beer with you

and at the crosswalk

before the light turns green
1,001 faces that ive never seen before
my smoke in their faces

tap my feet and
hit
"repeat"



- kim thompson. thursday 3 june 2010 seoul, s. korea

im out of words today

some days... some weeks
even writer poets
have no words to write
so i figure
why force the sentence
if its not wanting to
come out.

- kim thompson. seoul, korea friday 28 may - 1 day past thursday

Poem for Brian

NOTE: An adopted friend of a friend just got diagnosed with cancer and will be starting chemo in a couple of weeks. I have never met him but have heard horrific stories about him and his sister, also an adoptee. I guess this is for all adoptees who wear a physical reminder of their adoption.

Came into this world harelip split open,

figured it would help him tell 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 broke his 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.

Dealt a dick hand by dirty dealers

full of history no one knew,

didn’t bother to read--

but they liked his stories well enough,

felt sorry he stopped writing

to lay his head in common ground.