lines

i walk beneath
the lines
telephone
and
power
some heading
north south
others
east west
and all the rest
criss-crossed

over there someone is chattering
of something
their words
passing o'er my head
and i
seemingly
oblivious
to what these lines
are transmitting

over there someone is not saying
anything
the lines sagging
in anticipation
and
i
not hearing the
difference between
chatter
and
silence
only seeing
the lines
that seem to
hold the sky
in place

some of these lines
hang looped in heavy circles
dangling down the sides of
former trees
now
poles

and i
walk back
towards
you
knowing full well
the weight
of truth
and
the written
spoken
word
and how
even the unsaid
is an answer
and the lines
do not wait
for
me
or you
to speak

the lines
they just
streak
from
post to post
moving
from the wind
of communications
standing still
when people
have nothing else to
say

i live
beneath the lines
gazing upwards
waiting
for a sentence to drop down
and splash into my ears
snow
or rain
it does not matter
everything is still water-based

and i...
i have always been one to
swim
outside the lines of
in between
spokens
and
un-saids...


kim thompson. saturday. 14 jan 2012. seoul. s. korea

thoughts...

there are nails
re-drawing lines
in my palms.
everything is
shift-ing.

and no
thing can
change
all the changing
moon tides.

sands collecting
falling
in a glass
without a sound
there are no cairns
to scatter on your shore lines.

i have stood
at the world's edge
3 times
watching gondolas
bob for water...

you are but another
in a story line
that keeps expanding.

but you are not
just
like all the others
(each grain of sand
its own
called by name
by the collector)

but yes...
you are
a single seed of sand
falling through
my open
hands
(for i have long ago
given up
mud clinging.)

and
we are running
along the canals
of venice
in the rain
beer
and pretzels in hand
we catch the train
(i was once 19)

and even now...
i let go
all the places
you will never know
that i will never
show
you...

still
building
memoric cairns
in the sands
of
my own
still
unfinished
pages.


kim thompson. 13 jan 2012 friday. 19.41. seoul. s.korea

for k & k

how were we
to know that night
that some kind of
darkness
was already penetrating
your very calcium?

how were we to know
when hiding with a bottle of tequila
behind a bed
in that hotel room
that this was what was coming?

how were we to know
each time we shared a stage
that this day of
"wordless"
would arrive?

and i know
there are no guarantees
and i know
that life is not a thing of
"fair"

but this?
these things?
these days?

how were we to know
on your most joyous day
that connected to it
in an all too near
imminence
was
to be
your greatest
nightmare?

would we
have treated any moment
of joy
and laughter
differently?

and
all the things
we are too scared to say
too scared to risk
would we have just
said
and
risked
more
if we had known
that
these days
were part of
all that joy?

and there are
nothing
but
cliches
right now
nothing but
the same kind of
reactions
every single
human being
has
when things like this
take place.

and there is
no
escape.
no hiding behind a
hotel bed with
tequila
laughing.

no
keeping your perfect
most wing-ed moment
in some kind of
static
space.

but would we
have
loved each moment
any
more?

and its not
that i dont care
about my own
"situations"
but it is
that your
and
your
and
your
...
"situations"
these days
well...
they are teaching me
to love all of the uncertainties
and silences
and possibilities of
"yes"
or
"no"

because
we didn't know
that night
at the theater

we didnt know
that night eating
jjigae
and
platters of fish

we didnt know
that
these days
were coming...

and
right now
i dont know
what else there is

except that
there will be more grief
but there will also be
more
joy

and that none of it is known
even the things dreamed ahead of time
can only be
premonitions.

and so today
and these days
in betwixt this seeming
river
of
broken hearts
and
blackholes

i do the one thing i can:

i gaze at the rose bush
now sticks and thorns
watch the smoke push through
it's naked vulnerabilities

make time to see the moon at night

and i carry you
both of you
in my heart

and love
this moment
for all its pain
just that much more.

because...
these days we are reminded
how
we dont know
what kind of days are coming
we don't know what seeming darkness
is working its destruction against our
bodies

all we know is this:

that loving this life
is worth
every risk

and even darkness
always at one point...
must
give way
to

dawn.


kim thompson 12.30 6 jan 2012 friday. seoul. s. korea

Triple A

Before posterity was secured
Empty wombs made unfulfilled
Houses temples of prayer
Or homes of natural science

But in the ruins of civil war
Carrotfuck had a dream

For the love of nation
And its pawns
Exportation of its own

A baby is born 
Bought and sold
Cabbagehead of the east

Sanctioned in the name of christ
Abductees in the mist

Alterations and machinations
Erasure of identity

Adaptee in production

Traded in for capital
Extracted in plane sight

Posterity has been procured
Lives as a scanner darkly

this thing

(*upon viewing Miwa Matreyek's work -- link to her work below)

this thing
birthing
in
and out

this thing
happening
in
and
out

this thing
nameless
groundless
space
inside of
outside of
all at once

windows open
life flies
in
and out
(can hear the beating of wings
rushing in and out
from this basement
room)

calling selves each day
out from
in
to

beckoning future
in the expansiveness of
now
for the fullness
of
later

heart pours out
from
within

and from with the out
it
fills
to
overflow

... beautiful
is
this
now

beautiful
is this
was

beautiful
is this
then

each and every
if of then and to be
... we are flying
towards
the beauty of
our
selves.

http://www.ted.com/talks/miwa_matreyek_s_glorious_visions.html

kim thompson. thurs 29 dec. 2011 @12.39 seoul. s. korea

she says...

"we used to give gifts of poetry"
"tell your true mind
little
by
little"
"i wish i could understand your writings"
"poetry isn't easy to write..."
she says

as words swirl through the mind
like smoke churls out from this
cigarette
that is semi-permanently stuck to the lips...

"i want i want"
chants the mind
always william blake's ladder
stands ready...

"i'll wait i'll wait"
says the true mind
not needing anything to do with
ladders...

gifts of words
gifts of truth
"but sometimes there's such a thing as
too much honesty
sometimes its better to hide it"
she says

"네 언니~~~"
flopping head to table
grinning
"cuz... you know...
my blood is korean,
hence the propensity towards dramatic reactions"

"you speak like a 시인"
she says

"we speak in circled layers
so i know she understood
my...
'true mind'."
says korean blooded i
-- still table flopping
for her entertainment.

"i should be paying you"
we laugh

gifts of poetry
... gifts of circled layers
everything's a play on words
but everything is spoken oh so
blatantly...

"maybe ...
(after being reminded by the words of another)
its been this striving for some kind of
better self
thats been tripping me up"
stumbling down the street full tilt...

"maybe...
(after being reminded by the gift of words)
its just accepting
this is how I am...
and perfection
as spinning off
has not been pleasurable
and fact is
my contradictions walk alongside me
whispering
'no youre not'
'yes you are'"

maybe i just need to as the other she said
"invite them all to sit down for a cup o' tea"

"cuz i cant fix it
cant change it
let your reaction be what it will
im a master architect of making
mountains
from the hills of
moles...
today i retire those tools
every day i must retire
them
instead of trying to sink them to the bottom
of a sea that never swallows
only
floats."

gifts of poetry
thats gift of words

today is then like
some kind of
birth
day

the sun
outside
sweating in the cold

and me indoors
assembling all the presents
she said to me.

letting you exist

and if you return
the
gift i shall give to you
will be
a poem greater than this...

born of an imperfect heart
that commits confusing actions
seemingly contradicting my
"true mind"

but you know
as do i
we speak
in circled layers...

and your eyes
absorb
this
ocean of
too much
truth.

"want?"
says she.




kim thompson. 14.28 tuesday 27 dec 2011 seoul. s. korea

haikus on "is"/"if"/"then"

is.
focusing only
on the wave, forgetting the
whole sea. we are foam.

if.
all things known in the
middle of some new start. there
is no "if" just "is."

then.
the future waves from some
oceanic grey. i know
then, the state of now.

kim thompson. 11.39 26 dec 2011 monday seoul. s. korea

yet another meditation on the rose bush no longer blossoming

passing by you now
as if you are no longer there

(i) recall you from half way beneath the street
do not have to see you
to know
of all the roses that you contain
within your winter silent limbs

these days
we do not speak
do not look at one another
as we did
i have not gazed up you in weeks
but still
i
see you
without eyes...

you stand
quietly
in the courtyard of my heart
suffering the cold
of december
recalling your unexpected
autumnal appearance
when i just happened to glance out
when i did not want to go out...
when i had given up on seeing beauty...

i know
we do not speak as we did
but i do not feel
that you are any further
than you were
when you last let me
gaze upon you
in your
just before
unannounced retreat

even now
from this too chilled room
i recall you
as if you were some past
lover
still know the beauty
that now lurks within your frozen veins...

i think ahead to knowing
of what these months will bring
how it will seem as if
you will never return
and then
one day
youll wave to me with
your
tendril
kiss me with your
petals

and though we'll never say it
we'll both know
as i gaze upon your fullness

that

we were waiting
all along...

to be

seen.


kim thompson. friday. 23 dec 2011. seoul. s. korea. 18.07

yesterday/today

catching up on the latest "gossip"
news
from back home
-- home being whatever that may mean
no indicator of the actual place grown up...

interlaced with a lot of
"oh my fuckin' god are you kidding me!"s
(a lot of gods got fucked in that conversation)

realizing maybe life here
isnt so bad
hearing the ridiculousness back there
-- my choices being just that
- mine -
and i got let go of just in time
-- salvation beginning in the first act of saying
"this has been let go of
now let go of me"
(not that heart stringed attachments are bad
but
knotted strings
only trip me up)

and im supposed to drop the "i"
to evolve
but what else can "i" speak of
with some form of actual
certain knowing
when in truth even knowing "i"
can be
perplexing to
my own
eye.

to try to unravel
my "i"
only winds my eyes
into a blur
-- better
i begin to think
-- to just let be.
--- followed by a string of cliches on
the key of b

... like how
im not waiting for you
but im not closing any doors
"i"m gonna let this space
fill itself"
and like how...
that seeming act of letting you in
was a door closing
as "i" filled the space
with
my own past repeated habit
-- im sorry that sounds so unkind
... this is how honesty can be.
(its nothing personal
its not "you"
its that theres this "you"
and that is the "you"
that my "i" is looking towards
all the while knowing
it could be that this is how
my eye[s] must look in
order to see
some
unknown
"you"?)

and they say half the key to cool
is not admitting anything
-- so lets say that for most of my life
ive been frozen
and now im done with cold
and prefer the heat of just saying
even though the lack of certainty
makes my eye sweat salt.
(but im still done with palm trees
and
palmettos
and the hurricanes of late summer)

and theres a cigarette stuck to my lips
and im supposed to be considering quitting
but
ive never been good at quitting what i love
so
one day when i cease to love
i will let the filter fall butt end to the floor
for good
and sweep away the ashes of this form of love
but for now
we remain synonyms...

and its still early in the day
but the sun has turned its winter
soul
and
we spin on its axis.

and all the darkness of yesterday
(did the sun even ever rise?)
my eyes sank deeply into
too dehydrated to shed tears
so eye just dribbled salt
from the side

and "i"
dont expect
a thing from any "you"
but that does not change
what the
eye
wants.

and all this news from that place
that once was home
where they misname a patch of lake sand
"beach"
not knowing of the tepid heat of the atlantic
as my "i" does...

how they still preen
too old
for not having let go of any "i"
or
"you"
they speak buddha out their ashen-ed butts
and cling cling cling
so tightly
to
something
that was never
theirs to
keep
because
thats not how
"you"
and
"i"
is meant to work

but then
who am "i"
to cast my eye(s) downward in their direction
when
"i"
prove to my own self
time and time again
how
caught up in proving nothing/something to my "me"
ruins all this unwinding
that is being done

fists opened
palm lines
shifting in new directions

just when "i" thought
"you"
were gone
you returned
with flowers

and so today
for the "you"
who has been with "me"
since the beginning
and the "you"
who let go when "i" needed
and the "you"
who does not want to be a "you"
(but then maybe "you" do)
and the "you"
who wants to be a "you"
(but then maybe "you" dont)
and the me
who wants an
"i"

... i think of over there
and right now here
pick up another smoke
let the words drop where they may
though it is now
the shortest day
it feels like
the beginning
of this
next
that ive been waiting looking for
and in the throwing up of surrendered
hands
in the utter loathing
of what "i" can do
(its not that it was that bad or wrong
its just that "i" know that "i" am better
than such doings
and my eye does not like cheap)
in looking towards "you"
i's
are
seeing

me.

kim thompson. thursday 22 dec 11 18.09 seoul. s. korea

language

she reaches for something
flipping her wrists
jumping into the arms of he or she
she contorts to fit the others limbs

we pull our masks off each morning

she jerks in the embrace
fingers extended
to some other dream of life
her feet moving to the rhythm of her
own
heart

collapses without falling.

she takes a hand
between her own
elbow extended
her knees
buckling
under some
imaginary weight
of
being

we are not alone.

she drops her head
to a silent rise
as if proclaiming
all the words she will never write
whilst in this arms akimbo moment

we hide because we must.

she straightens her toes
touching floor
as if gliding on some kind of
table made from air
her abstract
so
intended

we yearn.

she jumps to the opening
of the others
extensions
and rides them until she
arrives in otherworlds

because there is no other way but this.

she is the pressing down
of each key
the arching back of
some form of
ecstasy
that can only be known
with two

we run from what we want.

she steps towards
because
today
she
cannot run

today we can only confess.

today
she crumples
mid reach
and
begins
again

as do

we.


kim thompson. wed 21 dec 2011 @ 19.16 seoul. s. korea.

re-working of an oft written piece

as a child
feeling safest when alone

yesterday wondering
(as often)
how life became so
beautiful
after having only been
afraid

growing up
seemed this
distant thing
so far from reach.
belonging an
impossibility.

the darkness of no longer wishing to live
those days of succumbing to that wish
but still waking

(sometimes all of this
seems like a dream
from another version
of living)

daily wondering now
if it wasnt this now
and that then
keeping
breath from leaving
allowing time to age
and all this
now
beauty to be known.

and everything
that seemed like the heart
could never contain
the heart now overflows with
ready.
letting go the control
because there is no
thing
to
control
no future to
predict
just now.

yesterday
so much
joy.
so much perfection.
even the lazy exhaustion of
yesterday's pleasures
perfect in its own way.

and wondering
as often

how did
she
go from that
lonely child in the schoolyard
to this
she
living life
in the pivot point
of
exceeding
breathtaking
annunciated
joys?
-- where
no one walks away
only just comes towards
as she runs towards
and where

i...
need never
stand alone
even when in the silence of home
typing on a
screen...

its everywhere
this beauty
sliding backwards
beside that lonely child
whispering
"its going to be more than just ok
its going to be
better each and every day."

each day a mask falls
each day the playground
no longer
unfriendly
nor
friendless.

oh how great his
"imagine!"
speaks.


kim thompson. 19.33 sunday 17 dec '11 seoul. s. korea.

the russian

the guy behind the counter is russian, unless he is lying, but he is tall and pale, looks like one, talks a bunch of shit. obviously the prick is a moron with his fucked up glasses and snow white skin. the dickhead is polite enough to avoid a drive-by, but he just won't shut his arse from which shit keeps pouring as if he in an instant went from a year of constipation to sudden diarrhea seeing an oriental for the second time in his life. aroused or repulsed? hopefully neither, but being a nincompoopeatingcocksucker his prescription of the oriental is complete:

"you asians all look so young it's disgusting"

MN oriental

whitey is tall and weird, misplaced between two worlds.
he studies korean, for what?    why not?
anything is better than pure snow.

the baldness of this country makes corn seem more yellow
and the craving for rice expensive and ridiculous.

this is a house of starvation, exploitation and subtle violence,
its universe hungry for pie and nobody questions its lack of colour.

there is a need for more amerasians and miscegenation
to sell over the counter, in this state

oriental with oriental equals authentic oriental
but oriental with white equals adoptee or bride.

contemplations on growing up ugly... an essay of sorts

*based on recent conversations that keep coming up on how we grew up and where we grew up and who we grew up around and what we were taught to believe to be "beautiful"

---

our exceeding obvious
lack of
blonde hair
blue eyes
and white skin
being an all self perception shaper

"you could be a model for benetton" j.s. said ... this being at the time when benetton was going through a period of putting what we all considered to be highly unattractive people on their posters... this being after she had assigned vogue, gap, the banana republic, and 17 magazine to everyone else on her private my dad's a lawyer party bus for jr highers... magazines and stores that we all considered to be the creme de la creme of beauty... (we were afterall 13 or 14)

exceedingly clear to many of us
that
due to lack of dates in jr high and highschool
the only thing we were good for was
being the "asian friend" or some kind of forbidden exotic fruit

"you know you asian girls have really tight p*ssies" was c.s's idea of a compliment ... and as the student council president he "bequeathed" this statement as some kind of boon from his elevated status.

for many of us growing up where we did
as we did
we accepted "being ugly" at a very early age
without any sense of drama
it was like accepting
that the color of the sky is what it is.

"t.d. likes a chineeeessseeee... but you say she's just a friend but you say she's just a friend... oh baby you... you got what i need... t.d. likes a chineeesssseeee..." was the response that was sung at t.d.'s school upon his stating that he would be taking his best friend k.t. to his jr. sr. banquet. (christian schools dont do proms they do banquets... another story for another time)

exceedingly clear that if we were
just
blonde
blue eyed
white skinned with a tan
maybe we wouldn't actually be so ugly...
but never really needing anyone to tell us this was not the case
because well
we just knew it was.
suspecting that the only other option our ugly selves would have would be to become the school slut...
or to hedge our bets on others wearing beer goggles...
the highest compliment back then being the standard staple of
"so you know karate? you related to bruce lee?"

"i know karate. so if you dont leave my friends alone i will...... HI-YA!" 6 year old version of k.t. threatening a bully at church... it worked... k.t. was small and didn't even really know what karate was except that you said "hi-ya" a lot

many of us growing up in the kinds of towns, villages, or suburbs
where the homecoming court mainly consisted of
white girls
with good tans
we'd accepted we'd be voting from the sidelines from a very young age.

"like ohhh my gawddd you are like soooo popular and beautiful and nice of course you'll be queen" we squealed to the white girl with the really good tan and long line of boys queuing up to date her...

... exceedingly clear that our "ugliness" was not so much a defect
but a fact
and so we probably would one day end up marrying some white guy that we met in college
a white guy who had a thing for asian girls...
so we were free to worry about other things like
where we'd go to school
and what kind of job we wanted
as our looks were not going to be getting us anywhere
and some of us weren't inclined to being the school slut
and those who were never got a sense of being beautiful from it...

so
we have these conversations now from time to time...
adults... in our 30s
having had it only recently if at all begin to dawn on us that
maybe we aren't ugly
that maybe we never were ugly
but that we still see ugly or nothing in the mirror
and
like everything else about our stories
we cant go back and put ourselves back together
and tell our past selves
"ermm listen youre not actually ugly you know."

whether or not knowing this... would have changed anything for us
we speculate on...
some of us may have been a little less... "easy"
others of us may have been a little more... "easy"

the good side being (if there is one) is that none of us tend to fish for compliments when it comes to looks due to having accepted so long ago that there were no compliments to fish for.
so no matter the bravado we pretend
many of us still feeling
just like that duckling
startled to see a swan
staring back
and still living like ducklings.

but the fact that many of us
have finally begun to move into the idea that
beauty really isnt determined by
having
blonde hair
blue eyes
and white skin
with a good tan...
is a step in the swan's direction

and for today
that step
is
enough.

one day perhaps
we shall be able to
trumpet proudly as swans
but even if not
at least we're finally getting that
maybe
we
werent ugly all those years.


kim thompson. posted 15 dec '11 thurs 12.08 written 14 dec. wed. seoul. s. korea

3 years... ruminating pt 1 of many

this feathered thing
re-tracing
the lines in (my) palms
(what is this new story
"i" am creating?)

in one sliding of a door
in one letting out of light
all lines re-drawn
a heart returned
from beneath the grapefruit tree it
had
been unearthed from
(florida a long ago
k-mart aged photograph
to recall)
(this here now
reality)

but this is not an
"ever after"
story
never forgetting the 98% still
digging
for what has always
been
rightfully
theirs

this feathering
giving wings
but also stripped/plucked
from the wings of others

when everything that is
coexists at once
and all the other of the everythings
knocking at the door.

id like to put the milk
back into its container
id like to put mother goose's wall fallen egg
back together again

instead i eat this rotted sulfur of a scramble
because there is restoration
in the fermenting of time

today
i stand
walk
full of wonder
with a heart so full
of 19.30 on a saturday

there are so many ghosts
spirits
here
they stand behind
and
beside
and my own self
just inches from the mid-space
between my forehead and my heart

they come out from the han
they rise up from the sea
they fly down the mountains
hanging overhead.

the moth became a guide
the guide she is a moth.
she leads (me) by the wrist...

there can be no
smooth connect in this...
the words
are too strewn by years

but there can be
joy
in amidst this ocean of milk
spilled out
all around

every 200
thousand
plus
of
us.



kim thompson. 13.53 tuesday 13 dec. 2012. seoul. s. korea.

Whorestaurant

A meal is best served with clothes on.
Sometimes skin offends the eye,
Dragging appetite down to the docks.

Nausea comes dressed to the nines,
Bulging from inconvenient places
And mini skirts aren't for everyone.

Untimely nakedness of skin
Turns the stomach into a maelstrom,
Opposing that which should have been

A delikatesse.

after reading poetry posted

we move so close
remain so far
like a gangly limbed blue muppet
racing to and from a screen
"nearrrrrr"
"farrrrr"
hit.
send.
repeat.

(it is not an ocean
it is not a land
it is...
a space unnamed)

having stood on the stones
that have been calling out for
26 years
built dynasties before becoming
(or maybe we too carved them
our reward to see them in a more luxurious life)
the past present and future all
collided in the blue
sending out
flashes of light
and a visage in the sky
all the way back and all the way forward
hitting right into the exact present
which is now
past
still happening.

time being a conundrum
time exceeding hands...
perhaps... it has already happened
this thing that has not.
perhaps... it too
just waits hanging in the blue of above...
appearing only in the after.
like a star that died long ago
but only now from the edges of this black hole
do we see it.

whether we race towards or from
whether we stand cocoon still -- not moving even (one) wing
still time flutters
still time moves
still time cannot be
stilled.

and the muppet running madly
near then far
far then near
repeating
hit.
send.
arms flailing
does it really matter?
does it change a thing?

and yet
and yet
as issa wrote

... and yet...

opening rumi's window after last night's moon

each eve
letting winter's light in.

hitting send.
repeat.

and the muppet sleeps
so
peacefully
upon stones smoothed by hard fought battles
whose losses and winnings
spun today into as it is.
relieved of
controlling hands.


kim thompson. seoul. s. korea. 22.10 on 11 dec 11 sunday

poem of love for mpls

we were at best
at first
at
odds
wanting nothing
if anything
to do with you
- pushing you away
and kicking your streets
telling you each and every moment
how you paled in comparison to the previous
drinking just so as not to see your face
even your air stung
even your club called c.c. brought ache -

as to when
it shifted
as to when
this kind of disdain
turned to some kind of
love
was somewhere in the middle streets
of uptown and lyndale

as to when the some kind of love
turned to
complete
balanced
dependence
give and take
equal reciprocation...
was somewhere between
35th and bloomington
and
14th and elliot...

you are no longer the one
there is another now
another whose river calls
another whose streets beg to be explored
another whose side alleys gesture alluringly
another whose air gasps to be breathed

but you will always be this one
of
6
or
7
years
giving and taking so much
you will always be this one
who opened a closed heart
who made beautiful a country
that had become a place to reject
after 8 years with others

and it is because of you
that now here
can be embraced
that now this seoul
can be known fully
by this soul

numerous
have been the places loved
numerous have been the
drunken one night explorations
in lands that can never really be described
whose scent still lingers
whose rivers still beckon

but yours
is a
river
a park
a lake
a clustering of
bodies
loved so
ardently
loved still
loved always

never fading in forgetting
always rising
up in dreams

never diminishing in time's ticking
always
always
always

whispering
"and how... we loved."


kim thompson 14.49 tuesday 21 nov 2011 seoul. s. korea

time... the sea... then... now

images from the o.k.a.y. book 2009... (so much happens in 3 years)






-- and now... (an) epilogue of many 2 years 11 months 2.5 days later--

jesus didnt part it
moses didnt do one damn thing

wandering like a nation
in the deserts of the world
never knowing just how close you were
circling for stale manna
eaten rotten meat

you were never showing up in dreams
instead you sent the sea

you were not a cloud
not a holy fire

you were cross-legged on the floor
hand gesturing
that had been predicted 2 years before

speaking to you in that empty seat
speaking to you in that empty chair
speaking to you in that empty space

weeks away from what will be 3 years
29 to be exact in days

you were always absent
always omni-present
sacrificing on an altar
in place of harvest

that sea's been flooding land
for 30 plus
2 years
only to be calmed

not by their savior
but by

you.

kim thompson. 20-21 nov. 2011 (sun/mon) 12.50pm-1am seoul. s.korea.

movement: contemplations on dance(rs)

*(an ode of sorts for friends who are movement artists)
----

they
move in between the sounds
hitting the beat unheard

landing like feathers
gliding across the stages of this world
paris
london
moscow
st petersburg
new york
chicago
seoul
and all the other
planks
in between (minneapolis)

hand wrist flip
hand wrist inward stock motion
animation

toes
ankles
bent just so
pointing us to
look anew

degas understood

they do the things that
poets
painters
cannot

they move the mysterious
from
invisible
to
visible

they make real
what is only felt inside
they make what is inside
real.

they make sharp
what is so often blurred to sight

they are the gods of details
making us all mortal
they are the ghosts we carry in our heart's hidden pockets

they are mortals who transcend all the
spaces
for a moment

blackholes projecting new dimensions
taking all this seeming empty void
and giving shape
to
moments that
escape
all words
written
spoken
put onto paper/cloth
canvas

... oh so
lithe
are
they.


kim thompson. wednesday 16 nov. 2011 @12.54 seoul. s. korea.

something new

something new is birthing
something inside these clammy shells
something greater than a pearl
a diamond in the bottom of the sea
something new is growing wings
something new is outsmarting even the
intelligence of crows
impregnated in the darkness of the end of winter
formed in the unexpected moments of the spring
sweated through in the heat of summer
timing its emergence
in this late autumn month
the loss has been great
the floor pulled out from beneath
and with the loss of ground
came the gain of some kind of
albatross-like flight/soar
and something new is
waking
something new is
rumbling
"soon
soon"
it whispers
each and every morn...
announcing its own entrance
without fanfare
but in the space time fabric continuum of a
still
small
voice

something new is
being
rubbed into shape
between the grains of each day's dirt
something new
is
rolling endlessly into the
art of
becoming

dancing in between the beats
skipping in between our feet
when autumn feels like the birth of spring
and spring a distant gauzy memory

something new is --
knowing not what nor how
only knowing --
something new
is
becoming.
from out of the darkness
and into all this
lightness of
today.


kim thompson. 8 nov. 2011 tuesday. 11.23 seoul. s. korea

Thy Name Is Religion

Evil has a name.

Deep, deep in the bosom
Of a burning cauldron
Laughs the lizard.

Ultra Catholic sunblock
Can’t save you from abduction,
Child trafficking by pope mobile.

Rage has flooded the nation.
Men in ties calmly sit
In fascist condescension,

While doctors, in freezers,
Babies keep.

Penguins can be evil.
Human theft part of prayer.
Money exchanging hands.

Franco isn’t dead.
The stolen generation lives.

Unbelievable

Whenever I hear
예수님 믿으세요

I think: Fuck Off!
Verbal selfdefense justified

When I hear the question
교회 다니세요?

I want to reply: In Your Arse
You Fookin’ Cow!

When the word repent
Scratches my ear

I put on my shitkickers
And kick some shit

angels/demons

im an angel full of dark
a demon full of light
one on my left
the other on my right
a bastard in the middle

angel's name is c.s. after lewis
demon's name is charles after bukowski
bastard's middle is named
kim.

theres an outer and an inner
a shade between the grey

the kindest sort of naughty
the raunchiest sort of reverent
the dreamiest cynic
the most jaded kind of resilient hoper

and every reason
(my grafted)
family tree
thinks me
damned to hell
is every reason why im
heaven bound
but every reason why you think me paradise headed
is every thing im trying to
reckon with my
night.

yes.
i AM a poet who weeps at falling leaves
and stares slack-jawed at the sky
but im also
the jackass who takes irreverence one/two/three step(s) too far
and the pervert who is tied to
devilish delights.

i don't worship any name-ed god
(even humanism smacks of some kind of
pre-prescribed practice)
(and anyways
im tainted from being gagged on
jesus and his goddamned fuckin' cross)
but still each day i take the time
to sit
and
breathe
the here
and
now
because it's balance that i seek
between my
outer
inner
in betweens
of
c.s.
charles
and
kim.

keep my lust in check -
let it dance dirty in the cage ive built for it
to keep it well behaved -
but sometimes
the demon charles whispers through the fermentation of a night
and it flies free
like some kind of
angel in heat
with an impish bastard's grin.

my halo is held intact by horns
my forked tail kept from lashing by my not going to tat em on my back-
wings.

i will weave you the most
lovely gown of
words
all true
all meant --
but in the next
i'll shred them off
to take you then and there

and for so long
there was always some kind of
holy battle waging 'tween these seeming
splits
one side always winning
and always getting / causing
pain

somewhere in the midst of
finding
has been this calming
of the seas

where the dark angel c.s.
and the sentient demon charles
now allow the
full truth bastard kim
to
float a line
of
calm
alarming
swayful
balance
in the breeze of their
windy incantations
of
lust
desire
poetry
inner peace
and all things
seeming
contradictory.

angel
demon
bastard
we are coming one.


(rothko moment from my airplane seat in the sky above the sea -- the sky as it was... the light and dark as it is)

- kim thompson. mon 24 oct @ 13.13 seoul. s. korea

Death to Barthes

the young die hard and violently
to the song of the moose.

time is not what separates us
intellect is. smoke the last thing
seen before the moon opens her eye.

the mending of the chasm is left
to doctors who understand nothing
of the rising tide of misprision.

a heart stops beating because the author dies,
the sound of sirens faded into oblivion.

Lorelei doesn’t dance anymore,
the echo of waves against her breast
is the last trace of an obsolete sun.

further rose bush meditation

do i dare
pluck the last of
two
remaining
red/pink magenta
petals
on the daily baring sticks
of what was once
full blossom
blooming?

do i reach out my hand
to touch the last
colors of a cycled life?

touch with my mind's fingertips
taste them on my tongue
they are velvet perfume bittersweet
they are wings
they are the last two months of this year

and the once vibrant green
is now
a stickman version of
a former fleshed out luscious being

and like always
i dare not to
reach out and grasp
the last signs of life
like always
i stand
stare
let the understood felt into taste of these last petal shaped drops roll around in my mouth
crush their svelteness between mind over matter fingertips
like always
i want to tell them
"please just stay"
"dont leave
i love you"
but like always
i just gaze
take them in
turn them into words
and let the memory of desire
fall upon the page.

trusting in the spring
they will return
brilliant
brand new
remade
after winter's
slumber.



-- kim thompson. tues. 18 oct. 12.36 seoul. s. korea

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

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

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

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

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

“I already told you that, didn’t I?”

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

Charlton Heston is alone again

the streets are silent this afternoon,
almost deserted,
the city’s bosom laid bare.

today, madness is on hold,
men at work not rushing
into inevitable decay.

the day is red like a face
talking too much shit
the night before.

the hour is hung over,
a nation deep asleep
behind motel doors.

lazily the apes will rise
one by one, wondering where
the hero has gone.

The Shindorim Crowd

a mixed bag of nuts
phalanxes of sheep
waiting for the cowboys
to bring 'm home alive

I don't believe in Djins and Daemons

i wish i were a better poet
then i could write a golden sonnet,
prevent poor Romeo from dying.

but could i blame this withered flower
on empty air, when golden boughs
drop manna everywhere?

i can't keep count of all the notes aborted.

where is the palm that holds the tree,
the black feathered bird that speaks?
why are they silent, those ghostly walls?
there is no other ggod but me.

rose bush - an object of meditation

in the silent throes of autumn
what seemed
dead
from spring
a violent burst of petaled red
- as if to remind
from the midst of naked thorns
and limbs -
that life
nor death
are never things
to be
assumed.

no start
no finish
always
unexpected.

what came to life in spring
then faded
only to appear today
as full formed
new found
cycle defying
blossoming -
against the
seeming
odds.

and i
i
am reminded
- as oft i am -
of words by another
of how life just carries on
no matter the
passing of one hope
to the next

beginnings
and
passings
anticipated.

but then there is always
that one
that one almost as if
"death defying"
act of nature
of living
to remind
that
nothing

no
thing

is ever truly gone

even when all dreams of
spring
seem seasons far gone

you walk up the stairs
out the door
doing as you always do

and then

and then

there
she
is

waiting silently
without announcement
face
arms
open
to the day
bowing only
to the
breezes.





kim thompson. wed 28 sept @ 13.29. seoul. s.korea

and in.

and in the quiet

of the in between

of night

and dawn

when lights go dim

and only monitors illuminate

when the world is full of

original silencio

and thoughts rest

to leave space for the core of constant

(i) map a mental choreography

of invisible long stretched arching limbs

that extend past the realm of now

moved by a song

moved by the pauses in the song

- rhythm

drum beat

(my)

fingers hit keys in time with

the piano

weaving a dance of their own

a blank screen

(my) stage

a dim and glow

(my) stage light

... raise

arch

float in thought

(i) circle with

this song

like all others

directed by some kind of

inner

sense of

of-otherness

everything but me

is fleeting

and even i

am passing

with each tap down

on these lettered squares

one day

all that will be left (of me)

are these traces of thoughts

traces of moments

translated into a form of

typed out

language

its words that brought us here

it is words that will lead us out

i

we

each

the spoken reclamation

of a single act

of

another's

exhale

i

we

each

solitary

in communion

joined by inner

strings and strands

of

phosphor-essence

tonight

i yearn for nothing

wanting everything

in the

eternal

silencio

of

a temporary

now

though my body does not

my words

they dance

through space and time

weaving you into my

hear and jigum.


kim thompson. written on monday 2am or so 26 sept 2011 seoul. s. korea

beginnings (cont.)

i want to

go back to a beginning that ive forgotten

to swim the chasm of the sea

to walk on water

fly on air

float through breezes

to grow my life from dust formed trees

and

to watch night dreams

grow into

day life.

i want to live

that space between

the words

the thoughts

want to

let go all the edges

watch words shoot forth free flight

from the center of my chest

we were all born of

silent explosions

born of

the connection of spaces

born of an act

born of a desire

born of a grief

born of a mystery

a void

a realm

born

of other.

i want to go back to that beginning

that i can no longer recall

go back to those first breaths

born of this very air

over by hongdae

next to hapjeong

i retrace the steps of my own carried feet

i want to return

to the place of their act

to whisper to self

the truth of the future

for those days when all would feel so

lost

to remember

what i have always known

i want to take the sea water

that swells in my chest

that drips down my cheeks

to the tips of my fingers

transforming to the smoke clouds of words

take all these words

all these half finished sentences

all these fragmented starts

and build bridges within my

galaxial self

i want to

live in the middle

right in the center

of everything now

and then fling it all

upwards

sky high

to watch it all be transformed

into

the art

the act

of

letting go

and rebirth.

i want to pick up the past

sling it over my shoulder

and release it dead weighted to

the bottom of some kind of

deep azure blue

so that the day you call

i can tell you

"ive let it all go

and found my center of being

way back in my beginning."


- kim thompson seoul. s. korea. sat. 24 sept @ 19.11

Once Removed

Hello Thursdays! I am new to writing poetry and eager to learn and grow from being in community with each of you. I want to thank you for sharing your art and inviting me to be part of this project. I am sharing the piece that I started while living in MN, and continued to write as I begin learning Korean language while living in Korea. Thank you for giving me a space to share it. Peace and love~

기 화영
******

What good is half the story?

Told in tortured tongue, twisted and tamed.

Recoded Korean complete with English Talk function. 

Even she daydreams of songs I sung and sounds undone.

My first language once removed.

Case K85-160. 

Another non-native English speaker numbered and claimed. 

In two-world paradigm of white-normative worthiness.

Let’s call her Lori Jane.

I wanna blow up this “East meets West” bullshit--

That never let me beg the question:

How do I claim the class privilege that cost me my mother?

How do I hug her when she hid her white guilt in my humanity?

Can any of us consent in this time of capitalism?

Each person made product, produced by imperialist consumer culture. 

“Get your…bootless mail-order baby."

Easy addition to your four-person family equation.

I’m gonna pass on the long-winded rant about global white supremacy, dominant narratives of heteropatriarchy, and constructions of hegemonic masculinity...

But for now, let’s consider my desire: 

To talk to her, my birthmother once removed.

Three decades. 

Two continents. 

One ocean. 

I came all this way just to say “I love you,” to first mother once removed. 

Is it anything but injustice that when I hold her hand, 

I can’t tell her about my day. 

The friends I made at school today. 

The stories we shared over kimchi and rice, mystery meat, and baby fish soup.

To third mother now removed: 

Even “I love you” fails us when my brown skin betrays your good intentions. 

“I love you.” Three words held hostage by the histories of violence that I carry with me, each day, on this bruise called my back. 

“I love you.” English language on lease as long as I don’t call you racist.

This is my orphan love story. 

Crafted in American-made, Midwest English.

I am your bootless mail-order baby gone bad. 

Gone evil.

Raging against the capitalist machine.

Waking up the rebel sleeper force of overseas Korean adoptees. 

Calling all Yellow Devils! 

To reject our constricted status: language-less Korean learners when living in our motherland.

I want to learn at school today--

The other half of my story. 

Reclaiming Kee, Wha Yung!

Self-determined Asian American and deconstructed transnational adoption symptom.

Blue Eyes

in this morning light bright,
the weather cock is silent.

not an atom moves or rubs its back
against this sea of matter black
and velvet air

one pearl in cosmic ellipse.

i doubt that angels exist.
what colour would be their eyes

i wonder

could i catch a silver trout,
pretend that i am Hugo?

those pearls, they are her eyes
and i fear not death by water.

Thursdays Blog Update!

Hey y'all,

I'm glad to see us all writing and reading some, even if it's not every Thursday.  I think it's a blessing for us to have a forum to share our work with each other, and props to those who keep up.

I wanted to do some quick announcements -

We have two new contributors! Mads Them Nielsen Lee and Laura Klunder - both adoptees currently living in Korea! I'm excited to read both of their work.  Welcome Mads and Laura, thanks for joining us.

Reminder to contributors to add your name as a Label!  This came as a suggestion so that folks can easily sort by name if people come to the blog looking for a particular poem, by a particular poet. 

Peace. namee

PROFILE

I gotta get back on top of posting on Thursdays.  I apologize.

In the meantime, here's the poem I did at the APIA Spoken Word Summit, and at the Woosh K August Slam. I feel like I've been working on this poem for a year, in different drafts, but it was never clear to me what I wanted to say, so it was never clear to anyone what it said.  I think I've finally got it, or come close, for this poem at least.  Love to my adoptees, and love to my birthmother.

PROFILE
8/4/11

I wish my birth mother
had Facebook.

If she had Facebook,
my newsfeed would repeat her name
and I could know how many carrots she cut for dinner.
How the sun kisses her and skins her and calls it summer.
Whether work is slow,
     or alive and steaming,
     when it’s not just a dark square on the street and we are in a taxi pointing,
     when she is counting the till at night
     and mixing sugar into the kimchi.

She could poke me. I could poke her back.

If my birth mother had Facebook
I could know her favorite quotations.
Is she a live life to the fullest, don’t look back kind of lady?
Is she stuck in song lyrics?
     Home
     Let me come home
     Home is wherever I’m with you.
Or is she obsessed with love like it’s a blessing worth repeating?
Maybe she left it blank, like I do, because there are too many words that lift us in this world and it’s hard to nail them down.

I would stalk her mobile uploads:
samgyetang on the first dog day of summer,
her son, stooped by a street vendor, buying onions and tea.
Cabbage and radishes stretching into her corner garden,
a couple, squished together on the subway,
her new shoes.
An entire album of little moments,
her moments,
the ones she has to save.
And the glow of my screen would catch my smile
as I got to know her.

Would we both
have a photo of the fog
soaking up the sun,
like the bright haze could lift our own shadows.
Is there only one sky,
showing up on both our profiles
over and over across the ocean?

If we were Facebook friends
she wouldn’t have to call me at 4am to tell me that she’s sorry.
We wouldn’t have to blubber in broken Korean about how wholesome we’re eating.
She wouldn’t have to let her tears out, I wouldn’t have to receive them,
she could just post on my wall that she loves me, and I could “like” it.

We could invite each other to events we can’t attend and Facebook could send us birthday reminders

would my mother curse the screen every august 13th like an annual birth pain?
would Facebook remind her to breathe?

If there was Facebook on the night I was born, my mother could have asked for more courage.
Her friends commenting that they hoped everything was okay,
sending light and love
and my naked mother holding me on her blood stained floor,
skin to skin,
my fist clenched around her finger,
us, weeping together
and still a secret.

Someone, somewhere, would say a prayer for her.

Maybe she would have 811 friends.
Maybe she would have ten.
Maybe she would have closed her account,
closed her doors,
closed her heart, her laughter, her words.

Maybe there isn’t really anything to say
when you’re dressing your baby for the last time.

But I want to know.
I want to be a mobile upload, too precious to forget.
I want to hear her quaint descriptions:
how long is the train ride to the city?
what is the woman next to her reading?
does she get lost in seoul?

I want to follow her check-ins:
to the payphone,
to the social worker’s apartment.
to the alley outside, where she threw up a piece of her.

I want more than an apology.
I want to know what I was wearing.
I want to know what I was doing, what my mother’s eyes looked like as she said goodbye.
What song was playing on the radio?
How many other mothers were in that black book,
sat on that sinking couch,
handed their children away
in return for their hope?

for how long did she sleep that night?
Has she woken up
yet.

Mother,
time-drenched broken mother,
let’s not wait another 21 years for a birthday party.
for you to teach me what it means to prepare your skin at night,
to scrub our bodies before bed,
to measure a red hanbok around my waist,
and feed me a lifetime of meals in one sitting.

Forgivable mother,
this is a friend request
from a stranger,

this is a friend request
from your daughter.

nostalgia.

"zvegsdute
as nore namo"
she taught me...

our backs resting against weary rucksacks
somewhere in the middle of
poland's nowheres
of mafija crawling train stations
stars to guide us home
i was the size of a speck of light
our desires the size of galaxies
(ive always had this thing about
space
in all forms)

we slept
heads buried in our arms
so as not to be spotted by
invisible kidnappers
on the other side of that fence
my toque full of the stench of
"stinky cheese"
chanting
"ah zvegsdute...
as nore
namo"

so many years have passed
since that night

so many mornings have passed
since that sun
when laughing school children
appeared from beyond a fence
laughing
signaling
how close to home we were

so much of life in those days spent
catching one train to the next
empty
crowded
platforms...
steel girders...
i have clickity clacked across the world and back
outflown birds
and outdrunk the most seemingly decrepit

everything back then
was steamed
by desire
everything right now
is guided by
the taming of
once raging inner waters

when i think back to the spring
and the late winter just before
the heartache
that was like a violent jolt of
tectonic earth plate shiftings
and the smell of late blossoming lilacs
i think now
how
"that was then"
and
yes,
"now is
now"

and i am all the better for
all the lives ive lived in such a short span of
time

i still look to the skies
solitary murmuring
"ah zvegsdute
as nore namo"

i am still the young
20 something
looking down the tracks
head out the window
of the carriage
laughing into the wind
that swallows up my exhales
giving me my
ins...

i am still that
london twilight
somewhere off of brick lane
wandering
too broke to buy even a full pint

all of those things from then
are still with me

but i am not those things anymore
and yet
and yet
i am

every place of searching
is inked
every place of longing
is easily recalled

i have whispered to the skies
since before the desolation of
polish mafija train stations
and they
- the skies
- the oceans travailed
have answered
to my
longings of
"zvegsdute
as nore namo"

little star
i want to go home.

today,
i kiss
the sky
my face
aflame
with the holiness
of
now.


kim thompson. 13.21 seoul. s. korea. tuesday. 6 sept. '11

want in particle form

*inspired by imagery etc from "nostalgia for the light."

i want to
gather my bones from this
eastern desert
fragments of stars
strewn in
black tarred pavement

i want to
"bring my sons from afar"
my collective self
dna
bones
marrow
flesh
hair
all of it
back to one place
- me.

i want to reclaim
the ocean floor
dig it up -- all cracked into
salt and broken clay
put it in my heart's pocket
sprinkle it with
tears
and the dust of my own
movement

i want to
call out to the bones
lying parched beneath the heat of time
and command them
to
"awaken"

i want the return to self
that one goes into the desert for
beneath some sky
of which i am born
to be fed by ravens
and brought back to health from
temptations

i want to write poems
from words that have been
collected from scattered sentences
strewn across this universe
i want to know this world
not from a book
but from my own
eyes
heart
flesh
being
bones
marrow
sinews
all of it
swallow it whole
until i am a canyon
of my own excavations

i want to unbury
the past that is strewn beneath my feet
in this galaxy of urban dust
i want to find the worlds
that sounds created
light years
before
all this.

i want
to want
what wanting wants

i want
to stare into space
and find the earth
my past
my ancestors
my star particled bones
put it all back together
and say
"yes, this
is why ive committed
to this
seeming desert
because only from here
can i see
the constellations
of the present just
seconds passed."

so today
like most
i take my words
carefully from my paint tattered pockets
and fling them sky high
like oracles
seeing where on heaven's abyss
and earth's unknowns
they land
forming
constellation maps
leading me
back

home.


kim thompson. friday 2 sept. seoul. s. korea in the morning and the afternoon

is.

you take your soju soaked heart
and tell me
weepingly
"SEE."

but ive got salt in my eyes
and so i only see mine

i have no
control
over songs written
or hours passed...
(god id give anything to go back
to something
that i never really could
stop)
(and if i could
would i have?
knowing all that i know now?)

(but YOU could have) (or maybe not)
(but...
YOU
really
could/should
have)

and maybe
its not that "maybe not"
that so maybe
makes all this
oh so very
maybe not
ok

...

but you
you just
you...
lay that heart of yours
right down on the grill
and i just stare at the ignite switch
(off)
or
(on)
i cant
decide.

you didnt rob me
of my life
i see that
tonight...

what you robbed me of
was

you.


kim thompson. seoul. s.korea written 1 or 2am sun. 28 aug 11.

retrospective

i stand
no...
sit
here
half submerged beneath the city streets
watching summer pass
watching the year flash by
like buses at the rotary
- writing drafts
not completed
but words down anyhow
wondering
what will be
but knowing just exactly
what is

and i think of leaves that have come and gone
like loves.
summers in the park
that i usually chose to ignore
due to heat
scowling at the algae filled lake
retreating to my artificial but
cooled
air
and wooden floors.
(ah how i miss
those wooden floors)

i rise from beneath these streets
to amble down the way
to purchase coffee
to smoke a cigarette
to buy juice
to go out and grill some fatted calf
(there was no father waiting with outstretched arms
so i cook my own beef
and cheers myself
for coming back to here)

summer
spring
last year's winter
soon to be autumn
soon to be winter
soon to be
another year

almost 8 months of a practice
and how things have slid into
new
grooves
(still i seek a teacher)
youd never think it
guess it
from how i carry on when in public
but there are things i practice
that are keeping me sane
this could all be much worse
if not for
breathing.

it is not
that i do not want
or
need you
it is that
i cannot see you
but you are not
out of (my) mind
i just see no need to want
what is not in front of me
and yet so badly do i want my life
that is not fully realized...
one day
one day
one day
yes
to all of this

so much happens in a year
so much happens in a day
even when not looking

dying is the struggle to stay above the surface
im resting at the bottom of the pool
watching the sun above the waters
watching the world from beneath the streets

and one day soon
with words anew
i shall fly above these streets
and part the waves
with one word

but for now
here below
is exactly where
i am.
the struggles been drowned out
and lungs are
free
to
carry on.


kim thompson seoul s.korea thursday 11 aug 11 @ 13.27

korea summer shorts

I. 3-4 months

june was spent
repeating
"lets take advantage of tonight
before monsoons
and
august humid heat
hit."

july is spent
repeating
"i am sitting here
listening to
the
rain
fall down"

august will be spent
repeating
"i fuckin' hate this humidity
will it EVER
end?
where did winter go?"

september and how its spent
is anybody's guess.


II. on writing

this week
the sentences translated
trickle in
at leaky faucet pace
leaving me the time
to do my real
work


III. this morning

awaking to evidence of
lines criss-crossed
(perhaps tis my own fault
for allowing them to be so open
blurred)
but
we each have our own pen
with which to draw.
i ink mine in words


IV. the past

out of a need
not birthed
but resulted from
birthing --
of cords cut
(literal
and
real)
any line thrown
i have
bound to my
indent
grasping for
a knot
to remain
tied.
resulting in
damaged
webs
of spider's
silk.

-- and like a bug
i would get so
stuck. --

V. today

through the wires
that run overhead
satellite connected
we speak
in a technology
i thought for my
children's
children
never in (my)
lifetime.

it is the invisible which
connects us
the flutterings of
interwebs.

VI. friends

i am suspicious
of any --
no matter how good --
who do not surround
their lives
with
ones who
live
accountable
and whole
hearted
admitting
self insecurities
and
changing.
who know the value of
a
step
and the need for
love
lines.


VII. 일곱

as a child
i learned these numbers
at summer camp
and
tae kwon do
yelling each one out
happy to be 9
and looking forward to the age of
10
punching our fists straight out into the air
i broke a board with one
yalp
i cried like rain
when i failed in front of
family.
and in counting
found no
consolation.

VIII. nostalgia

20s waking in the alps
always brought me
back to earth
no matter where my lines
would spin
i long for odysseys like
that again
days gone past
what now to do with this
golden
fleece?

IX. present

like glasses that keep needing
to be topped off
i sense the shot
turned pint
turned
pitcher
turned
keg
i keep
refilling

one day i'll be a tanker

X. no longer

how i once did
i can no longer
do
punish you
for not being
what you could
never be
punish me
for not being
what i should not
never
be.

i cannot
go back
to past.
(nostalgic though i am)

i pull out my pen
in the repeating phrase
of july
draw my lines
upon this fleece thats golden
yell out sino count
while ink bleeds humid

and laugh with friends
whilst they down
martinis
and i smoke
cigarettes

all connected by the
spider's
interwebs
in which im no longer

stuck.


kim thompson seoul. s. korea thurs. afternoon. 7 july '11

push-n-pull

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

july's sky
and streets
weep out
my soul

all the lives i could have been
all the pavement i have lost
all the language stripped

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

is it crying up
or is it sobbing down?
how then is it
my eyes remain so
dry?

how then is it
that i then still find small delight(s)?

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

the childhood i will never have
the family i will never know

if i date you
if i sleep with you
if our bodies become so enjoined with fluids
will i then be
returned to
this place
as yours?

or is this
just
one big
final
farewell
fuck
to the life
that
i cannot put back together?
for the life that
fell from the wall
and
that the king's horses
and king's men
have long gone away from?

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

words please wait
words please stay
until i make it to my home
until i finish walking up and down these streets
words rush in backwards
from all sides

this school boy that i could have been
this beautiful woman confident in heels that i might have been
this married ahjuma with children
this child tugging on its umma's hand

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

the rain hits
humid
doors are sliding
the river han
keeps calling
conjoined with
the mighty
mississippi
stream

i am water bound.
i am pulled
and
pushed
by your silence
by your stares
by your speech that runs garbled in my brain

i am yi sang's wild hair
i am some other poet's dream
i am my own dna
come back to haunt me
in my dreams
of bicycle aeroplanes
and a father that i cannot
scream at
for his
leaving

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

the closer i come to
some enlightened form
the greater i feel this
bursting from within
of pulling pushing
anger
of pushing pulling
seethe
of pulled pushed
fists that i never raise
to the sky that falls down
through my
9 dollar umbrella
of pushed pulled
strings and strands of filamental
loss

push-n-pull
push-n-pull
and then theres all the tugging

am i just making peace
with a thing that will never
can never
be?
i speak (of) the practice of forgiveness...
but for her
i have so little
and yet for her i am
without a limit

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

is this really going to make me
better off?
is this really going to be the road to
my own inner paradise?

if i capture as many
in my cage like heart
will i become by capturing
the thing that i can never
go back to
being?

if i master poetry in my mother's tongue
as im mastering in my other mother's tongue
will i finally have all the words i lack
for the immensity of this
push
pull repetitive
stress injury
heartline
fracture
that i dont know how to mend?

if i lean in far enough
will i walk on water
part the seas
or drown in heavy monsoon droughts of dry?

if i return to my ancestors' practices
will i ever look jaw dropping in a hanbok?
will i ever know how to tie that tie
and walk with such utter grace
in place of daily
swagger?

can the hanguk hetae
the horangi
this tiger shaped peninsula
ever give birth to any kind of
strawberries?
will the magpie return the song
that ive forgotten
but hear playing out
each day
in the push-n-pull of
city melodies
of my people
my
people
MY people
chattering in cafes
oblivious to
the 200,000 sent away?

she does not want to see me
she does not want to lose me
thunder rumbles loudly as i write these lines
and yet she does not speak

i am lost with and without
i am found without and with

i am the only one who looks as her
and yet for her i am the one most
foreign
my birthright traded
for a pot of western stew
my place as eldest
sold
for
for
for...

for what?

sold so that i could grow up the youngest?
sold so that this land of magpies and the hetae
could turn blind eye to how "oori"/"we" is only lived out
in grammar
sold so that i could be more exotic than my tattered self is truly?
(i am not good
i just contain)
(i am not bad
i just explain)
i am not pushed
i am just pulled
i am not pulled
i am just
pushed

i have taken beautiful and made her ugly
i have taken ugly and made her female deity
i have squandered and well spent my youth
i am paying off my sins of negligence for others
i am reveling in the reward for my love for others
i am still this kind of player whose benched myself from playing
i am still this johnny and june carter cash lifelong love analogizer...
i will make you the most beloved
i will make you the most despised
i am evil good
i am good evil
i am wild raging thats been calmed by time...
i stopped punching my knuckles through glass and walls
years ago
but i still carry all that raging molten lava
cooled by inner springs...
it bubbles to the surface when i let loose my
fettered feathers.

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

with here there is no peace
with here there is some land of morning calm
my own name speaks of this
my own names
are more than one
and when she calls me by my truest first
my heart returns to birth

with here there is no perfect resolution
with here there is only the unearthing
of a past that cannot be found
only tasted in the food
only recalled in all the most minute of moments
that my body knows but my mind cannot name.

the longer i am here
the more deeply i feel into knowing
the life it is i lost...
- the child (that) i never got to be
- the awkward adolescent (that) i never was
- the art student the kiosk worker the lady on the street
- the mother
- the lover
that was set to full erase
the day she sent my heart away from hers

there is no happy ending to this story
there can only ever be the middle

its all just
push-n-pull
pull-n-push

there are no words
for pain like this
pain that leaves me scrambling for words
and breath
and somehow still sensing life more lovely
but somewhere now
in all this sense of push-n-pull
i finally can untighten...
shower you
with my sponge squeezed self
with what this
summer storm torrential pour
is like.

push-n-pull
push-n-pull.

there is a certain sound in between the time
the water falls from sky to earth.
i am suspended somewhere in that
middle
of the push
and
pull
of
my mothers'
tears.



-- k. thompson. 15.35 seoul. s. korea. sunday. 3 july.

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