skipping stones

i want to

take you like a pebble round smooth stone

from the shorelines of duluth

and skip you across lake

superior

watching you sink

my blessing

to some bottom

of a disappearing point

-- to stand where the jagged point of land

juts out into the water

(one single solitary tree)

say your name

and fling you

sky

high

water

deep

screaming silently

of burned out fire pits

and wood turned

blackened coal

like tar soaked

egrets wings --

(i took your photograph in fields

beside some bursting orange

of your flamed out

hair

making green look more

green

and the white border of the photograph

more

white)



i want you

jangling in my pockets

loose change

that i place on railroad track

an image only i recall

"i hear the train a-coming"



i want to

drain you bottomless

to the rounded curve of my finnish iitalla blue wine goblet

liver soaked

brain



i am not

love hurried

not love weighted

i dont believe in first sight

unless its in a movie

(and i dont believe in hollywood

but i wish their stories

were sometimes true)



i want

full release of

stone flinging

in the vio-lent lines of poetry

that occur between each word

like i did back then

off the edge of

where midwest

water

meets the

sentence

uttering what i needed to mutter

to god invisible

naming stone with yours

and freeing you

to be polished by

freshwater

lake like sea



i want to write your name

in whiteboard marker

on my hand

watch it washed off

running

in this late june

rain

call you

"stone lake skipper"

flinging my hands

sky high

rain puddle deep

in city without

egrets

only

tar paved streets.



i want for

past earth

to break off

clumping

jagged granite

smoothed by great lakes

and a only half decade of history

i stand here

solitary stoic solid tree

jutting looks across watery abyss

releasing rounded flats of rock

that my roots reveal

into

that disappearing point

of

skipped stone

meets

oceanic lake...



-- all blue roads still lead to

water swallowed by

the light of

letting go

pure hearts

release

somewhere up off the edges of

duluth

somewhere on the quiet paragraphs of

some lake

that we call

"superior"


kim thompson. this was written 26 june 2011 sunday. seoul. s. korea

chick-a-dees or maybe they are something else

my friend
likes to say the word
"chicks"
A LOT


i dunno why
it makes me laugh
probably cuz when she says it
i think about
how probably some
white liberal in the tit cities
would find this
offensive
and it makes me laugh
because then i think of how
these same people
are really into
"eastern religions"
and
hang chinese prints around their house
never wondering if
my friend who says
"chicks" A LOT
and i
and others
find this to be so
reducing in its
blatant
objectification
of everything we've spent our lives
running from...
and are now falling apart at the seams
from trying to
reclaim


(how does one express in writing
GENUINE
amusement?)


and i think about all these things
this morning
as
chickadees
or whatever they are called
all swoop down
in a gang of
five
hopping about
looking for something i guess
cuz they look back at me
with this look of
"whatever you are
we dont really care
we're doing quite fine"
and hop up to the top of
an iron fence


reminding me of how
insignificant
MY
existence is for
them
they just like to
skip
jump
hop
and dont care if i call em
by the wrong name
cuz unlike ariel
i couldnt name a bird if i had to
unless its red
or blue
or speaks
or looks like it belongs on a silver dollar
then i know its name

and im watching how
they just
dont seem to care
about the traffic
the sun
the heat
the bongo trucks
the sun-brellas
the stench
the things i worry about
the things i think about
the things i label "good" or "bad" or
blah blah blah


chicks
chickadees
they remind me a lot of just how much
"blah blah blah blah
BLAH"
goes on in my head
how i doubt theyre very concerned about their own
"evolution of becoming"
making me wonder if im not just
adding to my own bullshit
maybe if i had a brain the size of
a chick
a chickadee
id be better at
hopping
flitting
jumping
hanging out on fences


but then i feel the cold
of the ice coffee in my hand
and how much im enjoying the taste
and i doubt that it registers with a
chick
chickadee how pleasant
enjoying
is
cuz... its not like they get to listen to
adele
or
even the pop music that i never admit to liking
and
they dont get to
read poetry
and have their hearts flipped inside out
and yes
though they dont know just how much a break up hurts
they also dont know just how beautiful
love
is
i doubt when they do what
birds and bees
are
want to do
that it leads to any form
of
deep rooted connection
i doubt they write songs
or long winded poems
as odes
to such moments
im guessing they just hop off
and though i
sometimes
envy
such ways
every time ive ever just
flown away
my amount of care
seeps through and tells me
"you know
there is
a
better way"


so...
today
watching them
come and go
thinking back on who and
what
and all
that is
over
across that great body
of water
that even the things
that at times sicken me
(like my recent
- legitimate -
rants on
the objectification
of my people
by those who claim to be so
equality for all)


think to myself how
im really quite fond of
"chicks"
and
chickadees


even if
im using the wrong
words
for
both.


kim thompson seoul, s. korea tues 21 june '11 11.49

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

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

ended entitled white boy rebellion in twisted metal and legend that

regurgitates itself every few years in the suburbs

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

to the schoolyard,

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

I spread the panic when little white girls disappear

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

and the Westboro Baptists are like my side project.

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

to see if anyone would buy it

I made Ed Hardy cool,

took away taste buds to make Miller High Life tasty

took away sight to make Sandra Oh pretty--

invented the word “exotic”

popped collars, bleached hair

that makes you a laughing stock,

created the guilt that makes you condone me.

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

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

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

I’m here for your kids’ kids

to show them while they bleed that Justice is a diversion

arrived at only after a short period of Balance.

tomorrow this will be a poem and now it is "tomorrow" and now this time has passed...

note to self: when you wake up in the morning do something with the following words "tonight's moon sliver" "the things" and "give-her"



-- and now it is tomorrow --



------



i love you

whole or

slivered

moon shape

imprinted in the never black

but deep ocean blue of evening sky



(you could be a white hotel fraction of a bed sheet

in the background of her beauty

you could be a fraction of her beauty

in the foreground of an entire mirror)



when you are giving light

or resting like the imprint of

a finger's very edge

up behind

the night

it is as if

everything thats happening on the streets

both here

and

over there

have zoomed up

and

back

from space

and galaxies collide on

tumbling city pavements

as patrons pour out from

sunday night revelries

and late night

fryings up of meat



the things

that you give

the things

that you take

-- the tides you create

-- the desire that you command...



... i cannot help but stare

and wonder on

this brevity

feeling fully how we are witnessing one another

in our waxing turned to

waning

i let go

to know this moment is a gift

i let go

to know everything of this is just a sliver be it whole

or splintered...



sliver of white light matter

comprised of particles

just as we...

nothing lasts near even somewhat close to

what we like to call

"forever"

and yet

words

matter

as they are comprised of such invisibilities of

the very universe

(that)

i carry on the inside of me

which holds me in this present



so that in the morning

when i wake

i remember you as fresh

and am reminded

of how

even moon

and sky

like love

in shining

are merely signs

of

mere short lived

mortality



and i inhale my world

and exhale my departing

with reverence for the sliver

of that moment

in between

which plants me here

on planet earth

inside

my spinning satellites

of

words become flesh

and

how nothing

even moon

can be found

outside

of



me.



*photo of another moon now passed from spring... back when it was almost full and not in last nights slivered state

last night i...

i remember you

dark haired and lovely

as if through a window

and not a pixelated screen



i know the beauty of what i have been given

so much that this morning sun is blinding me

in my seeming cavern dwelling

i have filled myself with sustenance

and memories

love of you

is a love of

me



i know your transgressions

that you tried to hide in secret

but they do not erase

what once was good

because i also know

all the things youre pushing down

so even in a poem i can forgive

because of how even in life

so much i have been

forgiven

in (my) own days of

suppression



i know what this place does to the soul

yes,

it does rebuild

but,

it also does tear down

and you cannot look without being changed

han river is both contaminated and so seoul cleansing



i am here

so fully here

but i feel how my heart

it is

expanding

to outside of here

(this day is not the day for decisions

but one day will be)



but last night i loved this city

as if it were my own

as if we were friends separated by time

only to return to life as lovers

i loved it as i nursed my beer

and sat beneath some city planted trees

i loved it as i squelched my dunhill lights

into orange glass and tin shaped

ashtray 재떨이

i loved it as i



remembered you

dark long haired beautiful

as if vibrant

through time's window

pre sleep

pre our waking

and held

everything over there

and here

inside my ever waking

ever mounting

ever rising

ever growing



heart of truly ever green



kim thompson seoul. s.korea 28 may sat 10.23

dare...

“I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated /that had been sleeping in your soul.” -- Neruda



i watched

as wind flew out from your center

a crash of wings

a crash of claw and beaks

(i have seen crows mourn their brethren)

(what this thing is now

i do not dare to

name it

i cast my eyes down to the earth

where my hand rests trembling)



half of my self

is still over on the other side

of all the unknown waves that sing out from the depths

where mermaids swoon

and the leviathan still roam



my body sits here planted

before a metal rectangle with plastic

and wires

for guts

my feet one footed on a metal bar

and the other resting 'hind it

legs crossed

i do not dare to call out into

what should not yet be

uncrossed



a black fly stealths its way in

taunting

"i know

i know

do you?"

and these birds are

gossiping about what it is

im

thinking



there is sunlight in the alley

and invisible utterances of

flutters through the

"interweb(s)"



"yes you must"

i mouth to j.alfred prufrock

but he just rolls his trousers

eats a peach

picks up his coffee spoons

and



flies



out the

room


kim thompson 23 may 2011 seoul s.korea 14.19

random thoughts on reunion

* this is not a "poem" this is... words thoughts on life since finding her 2.5 years ago



"some things

cannot be

are not meant to be

reconciled"



those were her words

and i took them as mine

to sum up everything with

her and her and also with her



adoption and its disorders

which lead to relationships with disorders

adoptees are a form of oh so most "disorderly"

cannot attach

but always prone to cling

cannot let in

but always looking out

and those who can

i pray to meet

because some days being the ones to create the model

is too exhausting



she makes my heart a whirl

she makes my brain collapse

she takes the breath from my lungs

and slams it on the city pavements

and leaves me gasping

there is nothing simple about our love



she took my language

she took my understanding

she took my trust

she took the beat from my heart

and drowned it in the pacific

our love was birthed complex



everyone wants to know

how things are with her

these days all i can say is

"its so damn complicated"



you have this moment

where all the light shines in

when the moon is magical

and time stands still

and it moves

and youre back in real time

and the light begins to burn

and the moon looks bored

and time is poking you in the arm

our finding was beauty turned upheaving



and so then theres the drinking

and the over sexing

others find their other ways of coping

and youve just been spun in circles

and life's saying "hey walk straight"

and the ground waves up and down

and people say "whats wrong with you?"

as youre reeling from the booze and the goddamn so drunk sex

and you cant even pull the line back in

because how do you unravel and repiece a ball of yarn like this?



and some days you hate her

and other days you love her

and then at times you just choose to forget

and sometimes its the whole damn country

and sometimes its every woman whose ever done like her

and then theres this quiet calm

and other days theres grief deeper than any child who has a mother could ever know

and inbetween it all theres the knowing

and theres the guilt

cuz youre 2% of 200,000 who are without all you have

so the 1% that you know of the 2%

sit together huddled over dinner

saying things that only the two of you can understand

and what this new lonely feels like



there is no happy ending

you knew that

and yet you didnt



shes got a world of guilt to pay

shes got a lifetime of trying to forget her own flesh and blood

thats out there somewhere wandering...



so you drink

and you fuck

and you dont sleep

and you say crazy shit

because youre drunk

and screwing anything that shows up

and then sleep deprived from not being able to walk in a straight line



and then one day

youre with your friends

youre with a lover

youre with 1% of that 2%

and you realize

how youre no longer drinking to forget

how sex has regained its status and youve said no 9 out of 10 times

and youre sleeping

and even though youre not walking a straight line

at least its a slow "s" shape that youre treading and the floor's stopped moving everytime you lift your foot.

and everything that was beating up your heart and brain

is punching so much softer

and the 15,000 emotions that you were living with all at once

are now down to maybe 150 all at once and those 150 have been stabilized by

realizing you are living in her words



that

some things

cannot

are not

meant to be

reconciled.



kim thompson. seoul. s.korea sunday 22 may 2011 11.00

mpls

and in that just before the dawn

when lilacs breathe through open windows

i finally know the song in full



when i mistake the moon for a street lamp

and utter a sound of awe...



all the shattered pieces meld together

and the broken becomes whole

to form a perfect window door that swings wide

open

(its always been how the light gets in...)



and the laughter inbetween our teary tasting drinks

revives each part that was

forgotten

put in boxes

put away on shelves

not for shame but for

... wishing for a better day

that never gets

any better...

and in the wishing

forgetting spilled over



and when we sat repeatedly

in front of the red and yellow bricks

staring into the park

through sweaty owled glasses

dogs digging earth

your son looking 15 frantic childhood times before crossing the street

the forgotten crossed back over and into

the again of "now"



and when you popped the flower between your fingers

i was for the first time

awakened by the memory of a scent

that we'd inhaled moments before

the opening of flowers



and when you slapped me on the back with a guffaw

and high fiving cuz that's just what we do when we're saying

"i love you"

breath re-entered to my desperate lungs



when i saw each face

heard each voice

consumed each bite of tenderloin

and breakfasts in the afternoon

all so present in the moment

every bit that i didnt know id lost

came back full fledged

in a newer brighter

yet

familiar way



leaning in

has allowed for

all the joys of

leaning out into open hearted ways of

light

and

of

love

and

of

ee cummings wings



and all (of) that returned me

back to



here



the place that being "i" first

began.


kim thompson seoul. s.korea friday 20 may 2011 14.03

for (my) 엄마

the past cannot be undone...

it is not a string that can be

unknotted ...

nor unwound



and yet (i) have stood before you

unraveling since the moment that

you let me

(halfway) in



and the half of me thats still outside

and the half of me thats been let inside

are divided into broken splinters

my heart a human form of flowering



but i love you

and have done so

since you carried me sight unseen

back when your flesh was my shield

back when we stirred each other into waking

i have loved you always

even in the midst of every righteous tantrum fit of anger/pain for all you did

and did not

do



and our past is the world's largest ball of seemingly unworkable yarn

but the train keeps speeding forward

and the solitary street lamps

are shining down on this

slowly knitted path



so today

just like back in the beginning

and all throughout the middle...

i love you with the heart

that you and he

made for me.



-- kim thompson. mpls, mn the states. sunday 8 may 2011. 13.15

about being here...

shes outside sprinkling seeds on the corner of her block

and while shes crouching scattering life into

a corner patch of seeming dirt

i see the visual of whats been going on inside of me

and the purple blossoms reaching up from mossy greens

and suddenly i have something to write about

(cuz how do you write a poem 'bout eating

and drinking

and

eating more?)



but then she goes and sprinkles seeds into the ground

with the green hose resting obediently

like a long green dog

and i wish to "god" that id been born

"a dancer"

cuz they have these gestures for

seeds

and

joy

and

home

and planting things

and everything else it is

that ive been feeling these days

inbetween the

gorging



and there were rocket trails in the sky

and i dreamt with aerial zoom vision

only,

the world zooms out from me into the expansiveness of space

and i loved a dancer once

(i have loved too many for the count)

(i am guided by their choreography)

but my mouth could not move

(even though it knows the gestures for

desire)

and i awoke

my hands rotating to last night's

music

and

twisting feet



and i sat this afternoon

consuming food and buttered lemon sauce

my heart still gesturing long lines

with the seeds that

have been

sown

from these days and weeks of

being

here



knowing that

in (my) seoul

these things

will

blossom

beautifully

with

grace



-- kim thompson. mpls, mn, the states 13.36 friday 6 may

done

so you want to provoke me

then i will choke thee

pipe to your broke knee

don't call it murder, call it mercy

i'm not at the edge i'm in the chasm

make you see phantasms

while i make your spine go into spasm

we at the point of no return

you should be concerned

you i will adjourn

you know this won't just burn

more painful than tax returns

no more option of peace

i will not cease until you're deceased

whittled down to the littlest piece

need to call a priest to release

from the beast of the far east

i feast on your fear

your lease on life's end is near

chug down your blood with a chaser of beer [gombae]

you thought the queer couldn't commandeer

let's get this clear

so you know i'm sincere

i won't stop until your lifeforce disappear

i make you bloody like a pap smear

flesh so disgusting even worms won't go near

no more birthdays this calendar year

blow out all the candles in your chandelier

your lights go dark

no question mark

i am a great white shark

my massacre about to embark

i'm a carnivore, a predator

i embrace you with c4

leave your body busted on the floor

add your head to my decor

you trying to start the third world war

go ahead, i got an arsenal for days

hand on the matches ready to set you ablaze

i'm not here to coddle + amaze

i'm here to make your brains go all kind of ways

here come the extinction

dinosaurs won't just have the distinction

you'll be wiped out like a giant wave

even if you change your behave

you waive the opportunity to be forgave

i'm razor sharp, no close shaves

time to dig you a shallow grave

you messin' with a goblin

this ain't no petty squablin'

your legs ain't the only thing that'll be wobblin'

a nose job is the least of your problems

thought your ugly face couldn't get worse

your plastic surgeon won't get reimbursed

shoved off the building headfirst

insides all dispersed

you'll wish you were cursed

and i'm not even at worst

shouldn't have stepped to me in the first

medical institutions goin' mental

tooth fairy can't identify your dental

your pain is not accidental or coincidental

i'm a force like elemental

the build up is incremental

until the payoff is monumental

brains stewed like lentils

how's that for oriental?

your weak shit is obsolete

it's alt control delete

i flip you to downbeat

wearing boots made of concrete

no parachute in your ejection seat

call an agent you about to be cast

slash your throat with glass

make you want the tear gas

i'll mummify your insignificant ass

fuck you with embalming fluid

draw + quarter you like a druid

splay your carcass on my shield

make you run track on my mine field

fingernails back + peeled

my lips aren't sealed

my words is rough

but my fists is tough

even when you've had enough

i still beat you into a bloody cream puff

see your blood run

anger hotter than the center of the sun

i got the formula to f1

regrets are none

torture is for fun

this is my entertainment with no refunds

the noose has already been spun

you're a stun gun, i'm a machine gun

i lay you out, done

WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID

One time I was sort of seeing this guy.  After one kiss, he blessed me with a long speech about how he needed to know what I wanted because he didn't want to be a father.  This totally pissed me off, which you should never do to a poet, because then they'll just write about you (a line I learned from Bao Phi).  I dedicate this poem to all men who date single moms, because NEWSFLASH, we don't need you like you think we need you.

WHAT I SHOULD’VE SAID
for men that date single moms

Do you
think
I am the kind of woman
who lets love storm her judgment?
The kind of woman
who saves spaces in her sky for any
bird who kisses her?

Do you
think
I’m the kind of lover
who doesn’t respect men enough
to have favorites?
The kind of lover
who is so lonely
she’s forgetful?

What kind of mother do you think I am
that I would think
my son needs the kind of father
you think you are,
who considers this family a charity,
like we accept any donation?

A NaPoWriMo poem: I Believe In Harry Holt Too

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

Somewhere across the ocean, 

a woman looks through my eyes at her ruined body

and remembers me,

wonders what might have been

now that the world is a different place than 1986. 

Maybe her heart rips in half again

as she goes to work in a textile factory.

Somewhere across the ocean, 

a man clenches my jawline at his monthly wage 

(less than I spend in a week) 

and remembers me, 

wonders what the woman with my eyes is doing now

before swallowing his failure like drunken sick

and clocking out of his factory.

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

because the tag said “made in Korea”

and somehow, that made me feel like it could have

some connection to whoever was sewing it together

in a factory across the ocean. 

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

response to frank o'hara

자전

프랭크 오 하라

한역 김 연복



어렸을 때에 난

학교 운동장 구석에서

혼자서만

놀았다.



인형도

게임도 시들했다

동물들은 나를 피했고

새들은 날아가 버렸다



누군가가 나를 찾으면

난 나무 뒤에 숨어서

" 난 고아다" 하고

소리쳤다



그러다, 보라, 오늘 !

난 모든 아름다움의 중심에 있다

이런 시들을 쓰면서...

상상이나 해보라.



Autobiographia Literaria

Frank O, Hara

When I was a child

I played by myself in a

corner of the schoolyard

all alone.



I hated dolls and I

hated games, animals were

not friendly and birds

flew away



If anyone was looking

for me I hid behind a

tree and cried out " I am

an orphan."



And here I am, the

center of all beauty !

writing these poems !

Imagine !



-------------

response to frank o'hara:



a little dude ranch

all alone

eating lunch

and for the first and only time

feeling peace

cuz the two boys whod mock were inside

(two boys whom i later learned to tame

through self deprecation ...

which became both my salvation and my jail cell)



i couldnt say the "r" in mark

i was (so) afraid to speak words like

"world"

"art"

"write"

"word"

and my very brother's name or who he was...

and yet all i wanted was to be

an "aw-tist" and a "ww-iter"



childhood was threatening

from an early age i mourned

how id never have sun bleached blonde hair

or eyes of blue

* such shortcomings were sure signs of ugliness

id never be...

maria von trapp in any school production



jesus and his dad were these nice but mean guys

who lived upstairs

always loving

but always threatening

with their thug named

"angel of death"

who usually liked to pass-over

just before easter

i had no choice but to

swear allegiance

if i wanted to make it to the 1st grade all intact



i'd lie on the wall to wall

carpeting

playing with words

drawing up blueprints for

a future house

and life



id tell her all the things id wonder about

HER

and she'd tell me

id see HER in heaven so not to worry

* this only made me worry more... as from what i knew of heaven... by the time i saw her there i wouldnt care id just be strolling streets of gold whilst stuck in a church service that was scheduled to run for an eternity...



id dream of london

and the world

id dream of women

and songs played out on the piano

id dream of tattoos and cigarettes

and sitting up in trees drawing it all out

id wake up thinking

how i never dreamed of HER

and yet... and yet...



when i was 9 and met poetry

thats when i suddenly knew that

all of it could come true...



so here i am

artist writer of words who has seen the world and who found HER (bringing my kind of heaven down to earth)

and so...

here i am...

this orphan turned woman

with jet black hair that gets more attention than a gangnam pampered poodle

here i am

this child who in hiding found respite

this tattood smoking kim hae kim

who has lived where maria von trapp once sang

this dreaming kid afraid of most but drawing up blueprints for the future

this who i was

and

who i am

this me

who no longer has to eat alone

no more afraid of things that involve the letter

"r"



... yes, frank o'hara this life i did

imagine!



-- kim thompson. tuesday 11.35 12 april 11. seoul. s. korea

my heart

my heart is the flower that blossoms

pink and bright

outside the dry cleaners

i live downwind from their scent


my heart is

the smell of bread baking

from the bakers round the corner

i live upwind from its scent


my heart is

the sentences i write you

when time whispers "wait"

and the words say "soon"


my heart is

the rain that wakes me in the morning

collecting in my alley

in the space between two walls


my heart is

the joy of knowing trans oceanic flight

and the hearts that wait

for mine


my heart is

awake to knowing that

i will know when to

send

when to go

when to stay

and when to

meet.


my heart is

the painting above my door

arms up in the akimbo of

surrender


my heart is

that silver coin

oblong shape indented

piece of memento


my heart is

wings tucked in

wings unfurled

always ready for the soaring


my heart is

the morning coffee in my cup

and cigarette smoke in the air

and music from small laptop speakers


my heart is

yours for always


my heart is

mine from the beginning


my heart is

living upwind of baked bread

downwind of cherry blossoms

in between two walls swollen with rain

silver smoke wings singing

akimbo'd ready for flight

and well

caffeinated


my heart

it just

is.


-- kim thompson. thursday 7 april 2011. seoul. s.korea 14.00

2 days (of [eternal] perfection)

"There Will Come Soft Rains"

by, Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;


And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;


Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;


And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.


Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

If mankind perished utterly;


And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

------

(she) speaks and writes to me of

sunflowers

and cherry blossoms blooming in the present

telling (me) how

the brilliance of sunflowers

is only for 2 days

"so short for so much beauty"

she explains

and how (oft) we forget reality

thinking things like such are somehow

bound to a

forever.

(how is it that i -love- you

without knowing

and without

quotations?)

(another)(she) writes to me of

the devastation and toxic water now around

but how

cherry blossoms have bloomed early in japan

... (recalling the lines of sara teasdale...

"there will come soft rains...")

and how (my) remaking of the words of how and when

spring itself shall slumber on...

sunflowers and how they stand

"like people"

she reminds me

-- so short

-- so brief

this beauty

-- so short

-- so brief

this life

-- so great

-- so immense

this beauty

-- so great

-- so immense

this life.

(how is it that when breathing

i see you

bodiless

and full?)

(her) words and images

play out with the steam that fills my tiled bathroom

thoughts collecting in rivulets that appear and then dissipate on the tiled walls and floor

sunflowers and seeds cascading down my flesh

cherry blossoms running down my hair

and into the drain

all being carried away by

by

by...

air and now

(i tell you of my day

and your ghost responds

with

"yes me too")

(i) want all the slices of my heart

to expand their shreds into

flapping wings

(i know this unfolding

i see it everyday/ noting "everyday" as "매일"

and drifting off into 내일

coming back to "오늘" "지금" the today of now...)

this morning when i awoke

ready to rip up the stalks of dead sunflowers

and curse their stems that knock me in the head

i found peace

in the blossoming of

cherry blossomed breaths...

and opened wide my

wing-ed (shredded) heart

and wrapped your words like

green as green so newborn green tendrils about

my neck and wrists.

so short

so brief

so unearthly

so sublime

so classically "magnificat"

all this

"2 day blossoming"

kind of

love and knowing.

for in the spring

we re-awake

even in the frost of

winter.


kim thompson. friday 1 april '11. seoul. s.korea 14.01

now

and the hammer swings

and the sound passes through the air

whilst a pigeon cries outside my kitchen window...

a window,

that is half blocked off by kitchen shelves

- a sort of inbuilt window security system

(the shelves, not the pigeon...)

-- (then again this is korea so pigeons could keep many a female intruder away)

and theres the digging and drilling of the new airport subway line

filling my mind with the shape-sound of a well oiled drill bit

(sometimes when walking past all this noise i fear the snapping of chains

and objects plummeting from the sky

whilst the giant metal slabs covering the cavernous gorge in the earth

collapses and we tumble

samgyupsal, automobiles, ahjumas, ahjushis, students, and myself beneath)

all this whilst birds that i no longer want to shoot

are chirping about something

"you dig and toil whilst we sing"

is what i like to think theyre saying

happy with their own song

unbothered by the noise we make with machines

the whir of my now much beloved

air purifier

is a steady sort of hummmmm...

my pint sized refrigerator also joining in on the

white noise harmony going on inside my flat

-- sometimes i could swear that i can hear the smoke

drifting up and off my cigarette...

each day

with every passing moment

the sounds change

ceasing from memory

only to return with another passing breath

only to fade again

with the sound of my slippered feet slippering across my floors

to refill my mug that was made with love

with more

undesecrated morning coffee

this piece of writing

at times interrupted by the sounds of

editing

and spell checks

this piece of writing

comprised of the sounds

of my fingers speeding across the keyboard

(do you know how quickly a person can type with just three fingers?

and yet even with all ten i can barely play a tune on the piano)

a car

bongo truck

speeds by

as if pedestrians never walk these streets

im amazed at the lack of accidents that occur here

im amazed at and by a lot

why im here?

i dont always know

and sometimes this unknowing will break me down at night

and i fill the air with the ache of unknowing

but then the space fills me

with the joy of

becoming

... its no longer just

"the life ive lived"

it is rather now

"the life im living"

filled with daily sounds

filled with daily

"is's"

filled with daily

habits and routines

i am what is

and what is

i

am

brought into

being

(fully)

present

in all this symphony

of

"now"



kim thompson. 11.37 thurs 24 mar 11. seoul. s. korea

Car Crash Love Poem/No, Not Like Cronenberg

Whiplash whips eyelashes back at

metal bending around metal,

whips memory back to

my arms bending around you.

This was all so avoidable--

road signs ignored, talking about milkshakes

instead of looking ahead.

No matter--no one was hurt;

this was just a minor accident,

between two people

and insurance will cover the damage

so we’ll sleep well tonight,

unaware of the refrain spoken

before work or a car crash--

let the last thing I ever say be I love you.

... today

lean into it

"lyrics to a song"

she tells me



lean into the wind

lean into the pain

lean into the waves that crash

lean into the disappointment



flip in the air like ravens play with thunderous drafts



i remember how we were

back then

drunk

tying each other up

choking for relief

my skin scarred for a month



i remember how we were

back then

too scared to admit the size of our

love

the size of our

fear(s)



how the ink was about

cover-ups for the past

how the bottles were about

cover-ups for the present

how we leaned away

not

into

tippling back and forth in the backseat of a taxi cab

shouting directions repeatedly

cuz even close to home

we could get so

lost



i think of your message today

in the light of the past

how we once were

and

now are

how my joy leans towards the

love that you have found

and how i now love without

attachment



i think of

a town of 10,000

disappeared

swept away

consumed by the earth in a flash

and the 10,000 times millions more who

find our lives exhumed

to lean towards

not away

from the pain of a world that can do little more than

let out one collective:

sigh



i think of

all that has transpired these days

compared to the past 2 months

and how i know all it is that you run from

and know how the plates of your life

will one day shift you into an upheaval

to bring you back to your

soul

to bring you back to

leaning towards

the winds

the waves

the pain of your past



i think of

who we were just winters ago

my first winter here

how mountains may crumble

and the earth may slip into the sea

but we stand here today

leaning forward

hands clasped

and joined

by a shared

time of

yesterdays



i think of

the letters i would like to

write to you

so that you understand that we have peace

but instead

for now

i trust the wind

to carry to you

in the form of ravens tumbling joyously in flight

the words that (i) compose to you each day in my head

of how one day

i will say

"i think of who we were back then"

and we will sing with the song that is still being written

that



the past is the past

and we stand here today

joined by what was once shared

and though the very planet itself

can swallow us whole in one violent shake

we have so much to live and

lean

in

to



-- kim thompson. mon 14 mar '11 seoul. s.korea

she...

she

makes me wanna write so much

that i can't find a word to begin

so i just say

"she"



she

makes me wanna tear down my walls

to find the open fields

and run towards the

light



she

makes me wanna take my world

spin it upside down

shake it inside out

collect all the change

and buy her a

ring that completes itself on end

and say

"here is my beginning

here is our end"



she

makes me wanna breathe in

and

breathe out

not caring anymore if there's a ground and

say to her

"don't groundlessness just feel so flight?"



she

makes me wanna take all my woes

turn them into mustard seeds

plant them in the earth

and wait for spring to

take

full effect

and then take what's grown and tell her

"this is faith and this one's hope"



she

makes me wanna wrap my wrists in leather and cloth

put on my red hoodie

wear my striped black and white trousers

with my soviet era brass belt buckle

and tell her

"i say trousers

not

pants"

and then stand in front of a mic

and say all the things

that

she

makes me wanna

do



she

makes me wanna wait for perfection

that ive too long been sub-parring for

and then take that perfection

and label it

"her"



she

makes me wanna sit in my home

clean the dust off the floor of my

soul

do laundry

and

write

until the day that i can say

"ive prepared this for you"

and give her my soul

all cracked clean full of light

radiant like that moment that ive seen from the window of an airplane

just before the sun is seen by those below

but we see it up above the clouds

purple - orange - and pink

shooting out like we've all just seen the colors of

the

rapture

and i know

what a beautiful day we're gonna have when

my plane touches land



she

makes me wanna put down my ways

that weigh me

down

so that i can be

pure

poetry

for

this great immaculate

"she"

who is out there

waiting

for



me.



--- kim thompson. fri. 11 march 11. seoul. s. korea

heart shards

i wonder what its like for you

on the opposite end of the same

(pain) line

as

(me)



the leaver

and the left

a place for where there is no "right"

only

somewhere

in between



used to think that

mine

was worse

than yours

but being here

knowing (you)

i think now maybe

(yours) is worse

than

(mine)



we (both) live with loss so deep

but (yours) is also mixed with guilt

and (mine) with only lack of comprehension



i used to think

(fear)

that only i was wondering

now,

knowing (you)

i realize how deep wondering can go

to the point of

burying

denying

and running

(mine "towards"

and yours "away from")



i was both

your

redemption

and your

reminder

(i often wondered how much it hurt you

to know

just how flat your excuses sounded

when bounced off of one like me

who is a reminder of

a name like mine that my own blood did not speak for years

but kept deep inside her heart)



we are together

broken shards of hearts

only

ive found out

just how large my heart is

and what i can make with all those broken pieces

"stained glass windows"

is my new cliche

"stained glass window"

is my new constructionist's belief

of what i'll build from

broken bits of heart

to make a window for letting in

and not a wall for keeping out



and i wonder

what its like for you at night

when you feel the loss of what your arms once held

(youve) helped me to understand that

i cannot

blame

or

understand

(her)



that like you

she too

was once

young

and

scared

and in that one last act of

oddly labeled time of courage

lost everything



today

as the wind blows into my windows

i think

of you

opposite side of me

as i gather up my shards

and rebuild

and you and she

slice your hearts to pieces



- kim thompson 9 mar '11 wed. 18.02 -- seoul. s.korea

But, seriously, have you heard Monster?

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

2036 or The Day After The Tea Party is Defeated

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

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

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

just enough to see each other,

just enough to be embraced by being

nothing more than two

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

and just our names will matter.

That day will be the day our names can swell,

take on the weight of history or personal baggage

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

If my hands are shaking that day,

light my cigarette and smile as a gentle reminder

that it was us or them.

on love

* thoughts after having seen "the illusionist" by sylvain chomet



i will buy you red shoes

for you to dance in

will buy you

white heels to match the coat

that you thought

i made

magically

appear



i will let you believe

that things appear from

behind your ears

and that with one wave

flick

of my wrist

all that you wish for will be granted



i will give you 3 of my 6

cobalt blue glasses

till the point that you have broken 2

and i am down by 4

later to return to 6



i will bury my letter to you

under the ducks and garden gnome

beneath (one of)

your favorite

backyard trees



i will drink champagne to your memory

and plant roses on ice

and sit on the edge of the deck

(sobbing) with my back to your now unmoving rocking chairs

and remember how you would pull slivers from my feet



i will be angry at you for 34.5 years

writing you words that no eyes should ever see

until finally the words appear

that can be sent

and we have

peace



i will raise the arms of my heart in surrender

letting you in

and one day almost one year to the day

letting you go

whispering with the note

"magicians do not exist"


-- kim thompson. posted on a thursday (3 march) but written on a tuesday and wednesday. seoul. s.korea

HOW A ZOMBIE MAKES A PROMISE

Even as the buildings twisted,

his lips did not miss an inch,

his kisses like concrete,

slabbed against my skin,

his hands,

pulling through the wet cement

digging our initials in,

drawing a heart before I would harden.

I could hear the sirens,

the shrill sounds of last breaths,

a panicked serpent stabbing  through the streets.

But he, he was a light of urgency,

a flash come my way,

like a gift in the blackout.

Of course

I was not blinded, I was blessed.

We were a mess of undone buttons,

zippers, jaws ripped open,

their teeth a bite softer than ours.

This is how a zombie makes a promise.

He whispers,

lets his tongue curl around you,

knots his limbs through yours,

grabs you eternal,

makes love like the world is ending.

When you remember to open your eyes,

you will see flames through the doorway.

When you remember to leave

to run

to be rescued

the humble floor will start to quiver.

He will sniff the pink in your flesh,

supposing how many tulips are left inside.

Your scream will be morning birds to him.

He may even hum along for a moment

as he buckles his belt at the rumbling dusk,

or he may scavenge for you, hungry,

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

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

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

This brick building made of mud, stone, and my

angry

terrified

perseverant

insatiable

joyful

spit.

Stocked with ramen and green beans and chips,

every door every crack

in my house is combination padlocked.

I have a child,

he has forgotten the word for stars.

Every now and then the zombie taps on my window with

a wink and a frothy smile.

He is running free.

He can smell the sweet cedar.

He can waste time in the moon.

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

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

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

but he isn’t afraid of me.

Those days,

those days

I can’t remember if I’m undead

or a survivor.

5 blue balloons and superman

5 blue balloons

3 deflated

2 dilapidating

hanging on a telephone wire above some bar

i could not tell if they were sad or relieved

i didnt have the time to ask them

but i thought about them as i rode the bus

to and from my work

whilst listening to

how to manifest

and breathe

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



i went about the hour

chanting

"5 blue balloons

deflated"

inside my head

while chubby faced grace jumped and shrieked

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

and then i said

"sit down"

and kept repeating

"oh yes, good job"

"good job"

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



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

wondering

debating

between

"deflated"

"dilapidated"

"withered"

"resting"

and the like



and then i thought of superman

and the poem that i was going to write about him

and that day he went away

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

or 3 years ago

when i was fuming from it

how superman wouldve been just "man" without the

"super"

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

from a

wire

how one time he gave up his "super"

to just be

"man"

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

how he was something like

a

sad balloon without its air

knocking shots of whiskey back

how he gave up his "super"

to be "man"

for lois lane

till they both found out that

halfa why she loved him

and halfa why he'd loved himself

was because he had been such a



super



man.



but i got so

inflated today

by those 5

dilapidating

withering

balloons

up there on the wire

that all i could really think about was

that one word

thats been keeping me so high and full of hope

that one word being:



"rise"


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

"You Need"

YOU NEED…
Websters vest pocket dictionary

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

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

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

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

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

on ashes and change and so much more

so we stand there

and i can feel the ashes of this

sliding 'tween my fingers

hands open-winged at my side

but i dont say a-thing

i just say

"wait"



perhaps because ive never taken the time

to watch the full decomposition of a thing

perhaps because i hate knowing

before im ready to allow for what i know



so we sit

stand

letting the world make its slow slide into the sea

as if the crumbling will reveal something semi-precious

that we can still grab



but this is not a poem for sadness

not a poem for things lost

things betrayed

things sullied by deceit



this is a song for what can be rebuilt

after cities have settled to the bottom of the sea

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

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



i let go as the snow fell

i let go as the singer sang her words

and then took hold of what is waiting

knowing one day the words i'll say



that there you are

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

and we dreamed to find that we were no longer strangers



i came back to reclaim

all that has been laid out for me

to let the erosion make way for what my heart intends



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



i am as she told me

that angel circling round my own head

telling me

what i have always known



that here

is where i will find

you



with my ashen outstretched hands

and well timed out heart



today the world itself is humming change

change that comes from hope

today the world rejoices

and tomorrow some day when it weeps

we will know what we have always felt



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

from our words



and with my sentences i can create you into being

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

surrender

and say

"ok. im finally ready"



today

ok

im

finally

ready.



gathering ashes to breathe new life into.



we were formed from dust and ribs.



selah.



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

(i am)

(i am)

drinking cold coffee left over from late morning's brewing

smoking dry cigarettes for how they hang from my lips

like they somehow make me look that much more the writer


(i am)

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

remembering lines by frank o'hare

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


(i am)

recalling every time when i thought i might never breathe again

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

knowing what i want

uncertain of how to get it

determined to not repeat past ways of running


(i am)

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

but how poems never work well when sung

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

and punch my fist in the air to show my belief


(i am)

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

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

and how im certain i need more

but not with studs


(i am)

reminding myself i really must do something about eating

as its something i keep forgetting

reading my horoscope on every site possible

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

even redrawing reshuffling till i read my ideal spread

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


(i am)

here on a friday not wondering too much about saturday

twittering about nothing to no one

hoping that someone tweets back

for one second making today so exciting


(i am)

listening to what the air is saying

how the trees are changing

and what i think i know

is about to happen


all of this while

still holding cold coffee in my mouth.


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

love poem for the inanimate

dear little blue couch

made for two

how i love you

so many times we have sat

reclined

resting

working

watching

and the poetically unmentionable



dear sanded wooden table

stained with booze and food

sometimes seating 4

with a 5th one standing

how i love you

and your white stained legs

absorbing my words into your grains

absorbing my highs and lows

listening when the world was deaf



dear big mauve washing machine

that clunkers and bunkles into the night

hopping cross my bathroom floor

like a mad rabbit come to life

how i love you

giving me a place to rest my head

when its tired from life's spin cycle

you bounce across the tiles reminding me that i am alive



dear photographs on my front door

frozen perfect moments of days printed onto sheets

half swaying like sentinels upon entering and exiting

how i love you

always whispering to me

"remember?

remember us?

remember when?

remember how you felt that day?

look at where you are right now"

remembering when i forget



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

collecting dust

solid in your sentimental worth

how i love you

having carried you across continents and oceans

and back again

having packed unpacked repacked resettled you

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



dear objects inanimate each and every one of you

paintings

drawings

works of art

notes written

moments taken

moments stolen

mugs smuggled

28 year old pair of pink argyle socks

bears whove been more places than most humans

dear objects inanimate

each time i wonder if or when or how

somehow one of you comes to life to say

"its real it happened

everything now will be ok"



objects inanimate

how i love you


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

superhero

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

i got your AK style

repack your piece with a smile

lettin' my peace school you

don't let my cute face fool you

underneath it all

i got the beast of brawl

i may be a lover not a fighter

but don't test or out come the lighter

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

scoop me like fat, man

fly like a bat, man

all your sins i will avenge

who the fuck want revenge

don't try to one up me like mario

when i can 7up you like pepsico

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

prepare to be blessed by that which you detest

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

i know you want to look over me in the casket

but my strength make you blow a gasket

can't fight my power source

adamantium unstoppable force

lethal weapons, laser beams

can destroy human beings

you can straight violence me

but you can never silence me

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

you hunt us down like animals

punish us worse than criminals

no protection from sinister tasks

no wonder i wear multiple masks

the ignorance is scary

but i will use that fear to bury

thinking you're the master of this town

the universe can't hold me down

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

lair accommodations for the meek

got that chic sleek freak

to prowl the street

bringing heat to the beat

you would never expect me to go hard

take it from this ibyang korean bard

even though it gets hard sometimes

there will always be power beaming from my rhymes

you may not accept us

but you will respect us

put on our capes + soar

this world is ours

after dreaming

and after the dream fulfilled

"then what?"

waiting

ready

to begin

to want

again


after "wanting" so much

comes "having"

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

and then the greatest hardest newest challenge:

"to want - AGAIN"


where do dreams go after they are found?


where do birds fly after they have

well...

"flown" ?


dreams

true dreams

do not begin at night

but in the middle of the day

somewhere between the bed and the bus line...


theyre tearing down sultang

the night before my dream came true

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

that is the place you found me at

before i found you the next


these days

i watch them tear down the ugly walls

men sitting on chairs around a fire

the sky exposed from the labor of their hands

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

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

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


and i hear the whisper again

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

mpls my beloved but mpls my ceiling

seoul my tormented lover but seoul my endless sky


it is not the destruction of a dream

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

that was stunted in its own lack of growth

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


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

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


where do dreams begin

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

"magical"

"mysterious"

"miraculous"

and

"fairy tale come to life"

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


they tell (me)

"this only proves you can have it all"


"but i already do"

i say to (them)


... how do you dream again

after you did the impossible?

-- am i to turn water into wine?

-- walk on water?

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

-- rise from the dead?

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


so what is there left to want?

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

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

to expand my heart when it's already burst?


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


"dream the next impossible thing"

im told


to which i respond

"that seems... implausible"


... today ive passed sultang twice

now darkened inside

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


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

us sitting shivering heating our hands over a candle

building dreams from fears

how for that moment you cracked

and i saw you for all that is you

and you saw me for all that is me

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


i see us talking

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


i see us then

in that corner

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


these days i pass by the bar

watching walls disappear and blue sky reveal itself


and i think the same thing

i hear the same thing

i carry the same thought


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

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

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


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

There are no hotlines for kids who like to ride their bikes with friends
and your roommate didn't film it when who you really were
drained out of you from thirteen holes
onto North Minneapolis.