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.

In Full Bloom

Like every year about now,
the same plain stems are yawning,
their first words brilliant red petals,

And a grizzly in a rock hole,
alone at the end of his dreams,
does a sun salutation.

The ice has broken,
if you haven’t heard,
soon only to be crystal pages,
another winter someone’s father’s father
will read from memory, will turn
with bestseller lips.

And Lena, woman of pauses,
takes two when I ask her how she is,
fifty something rivers and
my winged minutes between us.

Towards me,
the generation she sees through,
the cardboard snappers with exhaust in
our shoes, our noses, our stories,
a water wheel that will only turn over ten more times
this morning, she
nods and puts her words in anyway,
says,

Today,
I woke up happy
for the first time
in a long time.

And like that
I can’t see the ground,
her voice in full bloom.

train

a shinkansen of smells tells
the stink of the day pervading invading
a symphony of sniffles ripples
past my wide-open ears tears
dribble down my cheeks silent violent
convulsions shake my heart apart
searching for something aimlessly gainlessly
feeling alone in a people field yields
not a single emotion worthy of thought wrought
with feelings warm + pure sure
i'm enveloped in the glow though
blow by blow i fall all
i know + love gone song
waves cascade + provide hide
behind colored yarn harm
still finds my core bore
deep, deep inside past my breaker faker
and faker my emotions become mum
is the word I can't express chest
full heavy weighed down found
not the reason why I cry
from the inside but not out doubt
still rakes its fingers down my spine time
doesn't heal a wound that opens again defend
against these assaults is futile while
I die inside at every train station inundation
of sadness at every stop made laid
damage to my spirit aflame game
played + overwhelmingly lost cost
to my heart is more than the fare dare
I search for the reason season
changes mean nothing to this gnawing drawing
upon my mental faculties belies tries
I've made + failed trailed
back towards the road less traveled by try
as I might I can't stay on track back
in time I progressively regress less
of myself I bring back to the next place erase
my face from the window happy sappy
songs lip-synched but never manifested arrested
heart drops crimson like dew new
situation arises never forever
burning under my own match catch
myself running back to moments long past fast
journey back if I can fan
not turned on I sweat let
it drop from my conscience swift gift
to myself for leaving behind mind
situations that find me constantly
despite sequestering attempts exempts
my mind hurdling any obstruction construction
of barriers mindless + weak streak
lights dazzle my eyes but not my soul control
of those plastic walls falls
upon the part of me that never rests requests
a return ticket to my dark corners foreigners
don't understand this why should these please
I'm too tired to stand demand
a window seat to rest confess
my sins to my mind to allay parlay
a compromise to this emotional discontent repent
all the wrong I've done none
can offer comfort complete replete
with kind words to alleviate deviate
does my mind towards the effects rejects
the kind comments as laden with the devoid avoid
like an emotional plague vague
unclear the course permutates fates
get me off the beaten track back
I can't go until I know so
much confusion turns my spirit gray day
or night it doesn't matter shatter
the windows I see myself in win
my heart desperately screams dreams
mix to make reality soup hoop
is the shape of my progression regression
renders my soul raw thaw
my soul from it's slumber cold hold
my soul in your arms until returned life knife
my soul into pieces to remind find
my soul injured + uncared for bore
my soul with a sharp drill kill
my soul until I can rise disguise
my soul before someone will decieve receive
my soul unto a new sun one
day I will ride this train car far
into the distance without thinking sinking
down towards the depths of despair care
not of these problems pervasive abrasive
thoughts will never again hurt curt
stopping of these processes will prevail veil
necessary no longer stronger
will I become one day soon moon
will be welcoming to be return burn
with passion to love once more door
will open and through it I will file smile
will once again shine thru darkness

Desert's blush

She has no questions, no words or sentences; a language is made up of sounds that don't spell meaning, only feelings. A simple touch, or a smile, comfort the silence; except for sweet laughter. The desert is home to many a family, but even there she learned to be alone, to be more; she desired to be more.

It was long before a wayward god or goddess had, on a rainy day, come up with poetic love. It was even before clouds could bring rain, before water would bring life; instead all just was, flowing on endless sands. There was no love yet, there wasn't sorrow either.

And one day, while she lies asleep in the vastness of it, a soft blush of red and purple appear as a soft breeze caress the desert, changing the colour of the sand. There was no sun, as the night hadn't been invented yet; stars - iinkwenkwezi - have forgotten their shyness and appear on a canvas of deep ocean blue. Before the very first daybreak, long before that, she learns to make love to herself.

Fiction

I laugh at the jokes, wondering if I'd cry if I didn't. Time is marked by wounds on my skin and in my mind; patched up with spare bandages from an old army kit, a relic of a forgotten war. The scene around me continues, plays before my eyes; it's like watching TV really, only here the fourth wall doesn't exist, the shouts hurt, I can taste the tears and touch other's faces - surreal, so much so that it can only be true. Hiding and escaping, retreating further away, trying to shield myself from reality intruding into my fiction (or is it the other way around?)

You Bring Out the Korean Adoptee in Me

Wrote this after Sandra Cisnero’s "You Bring Out the Mexican in Me".  I've seen other versions, including one by Bao Phi- "You Bring Out the Vietnamese in Me."  I wanted to write one for us too. xoxo
YOU BRING OUT THE KOREAN ADOPTEE IN ME

You bring out the Korean Adoptee in me.
The snowdrift eyelids.
The unripe peach arms.
The knee jerk kisses I take and save for rainy days.
You know.

You bring out the red button heart in me.
The flashcard Korean nouns in me.
The message in a bottle but the bottle broke.
The fancy chopsticks.

The five year old Asian bob with perfect curled bangs in me.
All of my pink dresses, every laced hem, every inch of frill
every warm white tight in me. You bring out
the tacky bling
in my iris.

You bring out the frozen stir fry vegetables and soy sauce in me.
The four inch, no,
two inch heels so I still look good and you still look tall in me.
The fourth Killian and sloppy secrets in me.
The Dance Dance Revolution in me.

You,
You bring out the airplane in me.
The flame start turbine jet stream flight in me.
The Pacific, in tablespoons, in me.
The quake of migration,
the tsunami of children.

Our mothers’ treasure chest memories
sunken to the bottom of their throats.
The family tree with ghost branches.

The hum
of trains pumping below the pavement skin,
the hum
of one woman singing arirang into the dusk room of
twenty one babies not her own,
lives paused on lullabyes.

I want to sing this song for you,
roll my Korean Adoptee tongue into
quarter notes on your lips.

I want to make you failed Asian recipes and
steamed rice outta my twenty pound bag I will
never finish.

I want to tie donated hanboks loose
on our long lost bodies, take photos
of how Korean we are some days.

The Korean Adoptee in me, I am
always looking
for someone to save me.

You,
broken history you,
bulgogi smile you,
half cigarette and sunglasses
on the flat roof of a Seoul building you,
Come here,
let me un-Levi, un-American Eagle you,
let me play your fingertips like a grand piano and
spread our palms out like last flimsy pieces of a
two hundred thousand piece
puzzle

You got it.

Breaths upon my chest,
your midnight hair in my full moon hands,

and not the language we lost
or the language we were given
has a word for this,
this tear streaked love,
this yinyang heartbeat
beneath your cheek

1984

And now, for something completely different ...

The Orwellian year of lore
Was musically-packed with action galore
Guys got "Footloose" + busted ghosts
The poem below is Dru's Thursday's post
This year, Lionel Richie said "Hello" to the top of the charts
And Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" warmed people's hearts
While Chaka Khan stated I Feel for You
REO Speedwagon couldn't fight their feelings for their boos
The Pointer Sisters jumped for love
A Gaye man was shot by his father + went to heaven above
Sheila E. lived "The Glamorous Life"
And Janet Jackson [temporarily] became James DeBarge's wife
Queen wanted to break free
While George Michael whispered carelessly
Wham! wanted "Freedom" and to be woken up before they went
Who knew new Menudo heartthrob Ricky Martin would be bent?
Suddenly, Billy Ocean wasn't looking for love on the run
And Cyndi Lauper screamed: "Girls Just Want to Have Fun"
Girls like Madonna, who said she was Like a Virgin
Or Tina Turner, a Private Dancer with an urgin'
Because "What's Love Got to Do with It"?
Smooth Operator haters Sade asked the same on their first hit
The Revolution said that when doves cry
For Apollonia Kotero, Prince would die
Purple Rain caused quite the chart-topping scene
Interrupting the U.S.A. reign of Bruce Springsteen
Some foreigners wanted to know what love was
And Alphaville wanted to be "Forever Young" just because
1984 was a year of the good + the whack
With great music to throw you back.

"A (very) Loose Reflection on SB1070 by an Arizona Poet" or "Jan Brewer Doesn't Care About Your Faggy Poem"

Gonna write a story about a poet that mattered--

poems were more than performance pieces

playing for that pussy--

wrote real protests, rhyming prose

and politicians listened,

traded out Andrew Jacksons for poet-influenced decisions

Gonna write a story about a poem that made a difference--

line breaks broke police lines better than bottles could have

and a rhyme scheme at play with no ulterior motive

like “I just came to read my poem

with no rising inflections, no silly affectations,

just feeling”

Gonna write a story about getting lost in my stories--

wrapped up in pages,

curled up cover to cover

and sweet sugar plum dreams

that poems are more than catharsis

for under-rep’ed frustration,

fragments of community

or a voice for the voiceless.

this is for...

* inspired in part by christy's recent poem "You Bring Out the Korean Adoptee in Me"



this is for
the
west palm beach
chlorine green-bleached
blonde
peeling
tan
that
i could only
see

never

be


this is for
the
corrie aubrey alli katie stephanie dana brooke karen becca becky
cheerleading
homecoming queens
- and her court
that i could only vote for

never

be


this is for
the
other karen
other clara
other roland
- chinese family parents look like them
that i could only wonder at

never

be


this is for
the lake worth highschool varsity
this is how you do defense
all african american
plus one white girl
and then me
basketball team
whose bench i could only
warm

never

be


this is for
the mrs prill
p.e. and french language teacher
who mistook me for the
karen chin and clara li in class
but never saw my hand when she called my name
"kim thompson"...
whose face was always a reminder that i could just
shout out "hey thats me"
but

never

be


this is for
the tka we love jesus
go to church 3 times a week
plus sunday school
plus wednesday chapels followed by prayer meetings
plus daily bible classes and devotions
plus memorize the old king james kind
dont drink or smoke
dont have sex before youre married
and its "adam and eve" not "adam and steve"
"if god said why should i let you into my heaven"
evangelism exploded
kind of christian that i tried on for so long
but just could

never

be


this is for
the baltic, alpine, scandanavian, venezuelan, occasional british
beauties
that i could only walk with
talk with

but

never

be


this is for
the tatt'd queer-do's
artists
best friends ive ever known from the p-horn "represent"
shout out to "the gayborhooders"
mama mentors laurie carlos'

that never made me think of all the ways

that

i

could

never

be

only helped me see...


turned this poem to


who its really for


all the ones lost like me at the beginning
raised between two three maybe four or five worlds

all the ones who are han born... han kang / river han separated...
umma seeking
umma found
umma bound
umma umma which one of yous my umma
and what am i s'posed to do about my western white mom who
- praises jesus for
- is threatened by
- is scared of
- wants to meet
- wants to thank
- thinks 3rd world
- thinks not mine
the woman i always called "my real mom" now "umma"

how this poem is really for

all the ones 1st - 3rd who sometimes spend too much time in house fighting
forgetting we are bound by K-100 numbers
forgetting that which was created of the war
is not the same as that which was created of the greed and need
and social failings of our motherland
forgetting that
we are white assimilated
sometimes korean forgotten
forgetting that
anyways we're just people
trying

how this poem is really for
all the ones whose roots feel washed away
by our sea of korea not japan
loss of knowing

how this poem is really for

not all the things and ones that we could never be

but all the things

we


are.


- kim thompson. wed 19 may 11.39 seoul, korea

Ain't It Grand

Halfway between population and scenery,

too flimsily constructed to fit in with the bricks,

not constructed enough to look like he belongs there--

He’s still got patience for their pretense--

those overgrown kids in overgrown, super-sized toys--

adult-sized babies trying to hide

that they were never cute behind bangs and mismatched clothing

like a diversion from the vapid steam that rises off them--

or maybe that’s because they didn’t shower today

for fear of washing off their inspiration.

Either way, they don’t have any spare change for him

because they’re in art school and all their extra cash

goes to PBR and Parliaments.

If a building disappeared during the coldest winter months,

maybe we’d all wonder, read about it in the paper

but no one seems to mind his absence--

no one seems to mind having that extra few dollars in quarters

smoldering in the ash tray;

that change adds ballast when you’re driving on ice.

Groundhogs can suck it--

I know it’s Spring when he’s out there again,

quietly scratching his history into the sidewalk

with thrift store shoes

bought by necessity, not choice.

Whether you give him money or not,

he’s the only real smile,

the only real person inhabiting Grand Avenue

and it’s his weathered cardboard sign,

not some grandiose bronze statue

that spells out so concisely

“there is still beauty here.”

garden

hello/how are u
stale words to choke on
endemic ennui entrenched in every esoteric example
tasteless/formless/shapeless/colorless
futile invigoration attempts grave-digging
plant the sullied seeds in tainted soil
where the planters grow green with envy
jealous of the ungrateful dead
rotting on the vine
fruitless/lifeless/worthless/powerless
strangle the incessant agony
weedlike
a pestilence
channel it here around my wrist
my charmbracelet of voodoo dolls
my anger chained and noisy
blood-constricting
power-lessening
sustenance never takes root in my body
so i feed off it all
i awake to suck the damaged dew from my weakened heart
breakfast time/lunch time/dinner time/dying time
i sleep to sup off the tainted thoughts from my weakened mind
why can't i erase my mind?
images in permanent marker
scrawled behind my eyelids
so that i'm always blinded to see
broken expectations
shattered afterthoughts
fractured dreams
paths pathetically pathologizing my pathos
dandelion beauty/dandelion damage/dandelion infestation/dandelion bouquets
infectious, my precious
how are the fruitless fruits spread?
don't let it go to ur head
blow away to a different garden
where ur appreciated and wanted
blink once, twice, three times
u remain like a bad hangover
drunk with ur egotism, narcissist
uproot/get the boot/remaining is moot/scoot
get away from me
i can't stand u
diligent asp/diligent ass
diligent slum/diligent scum
rot on the viral vine
where u deserve to grow stale
goodbye/good luck to u

whale standing in the water

Naahaan Dakhl’aweidi,
whale standing in the water,
bravery on freedom,
heart on fin,
a harpoon pen and
an eye for an eye better
to see you with.

Straight hair so long it could make
a settler’s shotgun look crooked,
burnt leather bible ashes braided down his back

hands hazeled by heartbeats he inherited,
carried close in an open canvas bag.

He has drawn his people,
their calm curves and their whipped tails,
carvings sailed into ink

and he looks fresh
all 2010 “real Indian”
says he’s
gonna hustle the tourists for some prints.

I told him to bring his drum, too,
that they’d pay hot white money for a song.

Between beats,
Naahaan skims the blood soaked ocean,
chin up against the rising tide,
with flood gated eyes,

a sage smoked star shooting
as he tells me,

I don’t think
they can afford a song.

Morning

My poem doesn't rhyme; doesn't fit, just flows

Words flooded with style, filled with life.

Sitting on the porch; looking out to passersby and faces, rushed and late for work. I'm drinking thoughts, hot and sweetened with too much sugar - If i'd just could savour it, a single moment in time, just one - When a women brushed my leg, walking past... She smiles, and apologizes with a word. She smiles and then, tastes my eyes.

on hippos and a crab and the evolution of the word made flesh

i write her -

"하마

하마 동생...
넹 넹 넹???

소 주 나는 원해
네꺼 꽃게"

or romanized

"hama

hama dongsaeng
naeng naeng naeng

soju na nun whun hae
naeguh goke kae"

(hippopotamus little sister
yes/hello yes/goodbye yes/hello/goodbye???
i want soju
my little crab)

stringing words together like when i was 6
only that
when i was 6 i was less confined by lack of language
than i am now at 36
or is it 34
lately its just easier to stick to the year when asked

so at 6 i could say more than i can now the years aged after birth
in 1975

little sister hippo
my crab

i began at six with birds
or was i 8?

so i began in 1981 moved by dreams and birds
and now in twenty-ten reduced to rhyming words of
younger hippos and short slang salutations
i dream of words for one day
when i can look back
as i now do at 6 or 8 or the early 80's
and say how

"once upon a time
back in twenty ten when i was 34 or 36
i began my life as poet/시인 here
with silly rhymes that made us laugh

and it was in that time that neruda did arrive
and langston's dreams i lived"

i begin again - korean born, american raised, european shaped, as i did at 6 or 8 or sometime in the early 80s only now with

korean western rediscovered

one day my "little sister hippo"
when we are future eating crab and drinking soju that i want
i will tell you all the words in ways you feel
all the ones that i was saving
back in
twenty ten

- kim thompson. seoul, korea - thursday 13 may 2010 at 16.27

Into endlessness

I drop, into endlessness
there is no air left, no ground to catch me brokenhearted
there is only the fall
further
down

I hoped one day I could take my heart with me, give it what it needs
perhaps a parasol decorated cocktail, on a beach half a world away. Tequila shots, 2 dollars each, and skinny dipping at night; a taste of salt water, drown my head and cure my heart...

Poem for L.

Some stars were bright but burned out early

while others only looked bright

when the night was at its darkest.

Your star was the one that stuck around

when it was so dark I could barely even see you

smiling next to me

so maybe the greatest thing I can do

is to spend bright days and dark nights,

every second I’m breathing,

trying to make you smile

so your star shines just a little brighter.

new girl

there’s a new baby girl at daycare.

bertha tells me that
my son will only sleep
when she sleeps
and today
that was not very much.

at dinner
he is someone else’s boy -
hand slapped in sweet potato,
face tear laced,
wailing,
and i can’t tell
if he’s tired
or in love

beautiful

the world is all a-swirl
"ugly's" been replaced by
"beautiful"

and i stand
in the middle midst
hands invisible

inside the sentence chamber
words are all a flutter
cradling
not wings
but rather
- unborn poems

inside the seething of the hole
inside the writhing of the seething gaping whole
inside the twisting turning churning of the all increasing
sanities
and well earned
vanities

i stand
alone and full
one of one too many
still not knowing what to make of
all this

swirling whirling whispering seething writhing twisting turning churning burning yearning wriggling while-in' fold up in upon
collapsing

beauty


- kim thompson thursday 6 may 21:29 seoul, korea