Waterfalls

Waterfalls,
I want to ride a reverse waterfall
and be shot into the sky, into space,
full of skies and waterfalls and real, bona fide
promise,
I want to write my life
like I write a screenplay,
no planning with continuous editing
until it gets perfect.
I wonder what the tl;dr message at the end
of my life will be, maybe something
like this:
Women are like water,
they're so hot that they're cold,
it's so cold in here, I've turned on the heat
I've put on a sweatshirt, I grabbed a blanket,
a hat, a jacket,
I even wrote a poem,
but it's still so cold, it burns.

Duluth

I don't how many poems I've written
about Duluth, probably only a couple in name,
but many by nature, "Untitled"
as the city itself, located
on the outskirts of nowhereland,
just North of the not-so-great plains,
inaccessible by freeway,
and just plain inaccessible.
Duluth, my home,
where the sun doesn't because it doesn't know how,
where all my friends
aren't, they've left—
they've left this state, they've left this world,
they've left Duluth.

Chinese Dragon

Bathroom needs to be cleaned,
wallpaper's falling off the wall,
a Chinese restaurant without any Chinese, just
little old ageless
you,
and your mother,
and that man you're talking with
in the back, and the one you mention—
something about Harvard and Yale—
it makes me nervous.
I like you, but I don't live
here anymore,
how can I get back
and see you and your droopy eyes again?

Julianne

Julianne,
I've never thought much of you
as an actress, really,
I've never thought much of you at all;
once, maybe twice a year,
holidays, weddings, and funerals,
or whenever someone mentions
Einstein, FDR, or Poe.
Julianne, I know
I'm not much to think about, and that
you're no actress, but you can
count me hooked, albeit sporadically,
whether once a year or,
once upon a lifetime.

(Untitled)

Morning snow, shut-in,
a brighter world,
so warm you can feel the cold
outside.
The only thing that's missing is
me, me missing you,
the color of your skin
like the reflection
of daylight

Big Lake

Up wake, up river,
wake up, down river,
use a pontoon for a canoe,
use a canoe for a bed,
and use a bed what it's for.
Use me for whatever you want, and I'll
use this as an excuse
to write about Big Lake.

Stars

We're already living in space,
stars apart, the black, breathless big one,
planet-hopping here and there, temporary layovers
in Star Wars cantinas and
ecumenopolises.
Run-ins on the run, but on the run
from what?
Life is an airport, give the nod, and nod off,
dreams and nightmares while you wait
for them
to fall
from the sky...

Somewhere Over Rainbow Foods

I saw a young, short-haired Japanese girl
in Rainbow Foods—
a splitting image of Jun Togawa,
leather jacket, a somewhat masculine figure,
I would've married her right
then and there.
The BBW staff were haranguing around
a cart, speaking
Japanese as far as I was not concerned.
Everyone kept looking at me and my damned red hat
"It's not effeminate, it's from New Zealand!" I said in protest.
The BBWs took no notice,
"Why don't you get out and occupy Minneapolis? Oh, wait,
you already are." Jun then caught my eyes
with her own—those mystic, paroxysmal 8-balls
for merely a second,
straight down the aisle perpendicular to the bench from where
I sat.
I stood up, the soft-pop-rock dulling
my nonentity, non-senses,
"Nonsense," I mumbled, or something like it,
words transfixed, translated into pure emotion,
transliterated into memory.

Writing Poetry

When you write, you're right,
and you're right!
What point does it make at this difference?
There's a stain on the fortune
and the cookie doesn't taste right.
Write!?
What a wonderful night to go bleeding, my dear,
throw me in head first, I came out
that way, anyway. The leaves are getting
in my mouth and I'm getting left
behind, written inside
a vacuum, life sucks, baby,
it sucks!

Jealousy Jones

I'm jealous that you can write poetry,
I'm jealous of your potato-sack girlfriend,
and of your dimwit wife, and your two garages,
and of your supportive family, and of
your older female acquaintance.
I'm jealous that you're in Japan, and that you
are too.
I'm jealous, because I like the word,
it looks like a pretty name on paper,
I can relate, you know?

为什么我写诗

你说"也可以、 都可以"等等的时候,
很可爱, 让我微笑.
你碰到一张桌子, 说"对不起!" 的时候,
非常可爱, 让我笑.
你微笑、笑的时候,
可爱不得了, 让我写诗.

I put the "over" in style over substance

Friday night,
wearing my L.A. Rams windbreaker and slippers,
eating chips and cheese, listening to Grace Chang,
is this what it's come to?
I had a poem, 或者一个主意的一首,
Where did it go?
Did it come, or did it go?
How did it go again?
I'm like a tube of old toothpaste.
You won't even me use me, and spit me out,
you just throw me away.

Rise and fall

A light rain waters the Earth
and the leaves slip off their
sunburned, windburned branches
and the water cools them off, causing a
startling chill...
Fall's coming.
I've always felt that fall is the real spring,
all things begin and end in the fall.
Maybe it's because school starts
or that I was born then.
People die, I live,
a chance for rebirth
before the long, cold, hard
hibernation.

Airhead

Part 1:

Changing planes from dreams to daydreams,
no layover, only you.
Awake, asleep, conscious,
unconscious, reality
is just another room
in this morphin' mansion, this shapeshifting estate.
I wake up
from a nap and see your face,
you, you're it,
you and your fantastic face will be my tour guide
through all of this.
How long have we been dreaming?
How long I have been dreaming.

Part 2:

Changing planes from dreams to daydreams,
no layover, only you.
This airport is so nice, it's like Denver,
"The doors are closing."
I could stay here forever,
running my hand through your hair and
watching the puffs of clouds
slide right on out.
Just how long have we been dreaming?
Just how long I have been dreaming.

Worth the While

I tried copy-and-pasting you into my life,
not so easy, not so fast,
here come the clouds—
people are already parking their cars
on their lawns,
can I get some wipers installed on my life, while
we're at it?
It's like a fumble—a mad dash
to recover what you lost
so shortly ago...

Rush hour on memory lane,
wait for me, and I'll make it worth your while,
when bygones have gone by
and I've learned how to really appreciate
all that you are.

Spirit Human

Your world is a green one,
everyday life sprinkled in the wind.
I wonder where you've gusted off to now,
I wonder what people
have had the pleasure
of feeling that verdant rush.
You're life between the books,
these books of poems
I've thrown your way;
a time for reflection and relaxation,
a time for growth, and
spirit.

(Untitled)

I can't go to bed without
thinking something profound,
and I can't wake up without
having a nightmare.
There's nothing scary about my profundity
and nothing profound about my nightmares.
They just co-exist, kinda
like we do.
I'll be profound, you'll be a nightmare,
I don't even know who you is
I'm just looking to wake up.

Christian Slater is not dead

And I'm having bad dreams about friends
again.
If I had a dime for every time I had one of these
and made a movie out of each of them
then I'd have a lot of dimes.
It's just a Cantopop weekend
but just because 梅艷芳 is dead
doesn't mean she really is.
She's alive to me.
In fact, she's every bit as alive as Christian,
it's me who's dead,
dead in a dream with the
written word lying
by my side

好久不見

冯百岁
that's my Chinese name,
can I give you
an English name, if you don't mind?
I'll call you "12:30 at night"
'cause that's when I most often think of you,
you'll call me 冯百岁,
because that's how long I'll be waiting
to hear your name
again

From Formosa to the Beautiful Country

Scared to write poems
for you
in English, I frantically switch to Chinese:
我喜歡你
你叫什麼名字
你是漂亮
I know you know
what I'm saying, but I don't
know if you understand.
And I know you can't hear me,
but I do know you're listening, somewhere,
listening in Chinese
to me thinking in English
of what to say
in Chinese.
Nothing's lost, but found—
discovered,
I'm going to buy another car,
so I can drive to you across the ocean.

Where Have All the Supermen Gone?

Operator, I need an
operation, I was going
to write a poem, but now
I'm just writing you, whoever
"you" may be.
I want to be able to look people
up in the phone book again,
or at least the dictionary:
what does he mean? What does she mean?
What do you mean
when you say we won't be seeing each other again, I mean,
really, what about the other senses? Will we
hear, smell, touch, taste
each other again?
And if not again, then maybe once
all over
again?
I want to able to look people
in the eye again, not just
this ;), or that ;(,
or other demonstrative determiners and pronouns.
I want people to have a name, and I want to call them
by that name over the telephone, I guess I'll
have to take a number.
But what happened to all the phone booths?
Where will Clark Kent become Superman?
Will he become becoming, will he
become anything, ever
again?
When you dial zero, I suppose
the answer's always the same...

Operator, I need an
operation, I was going
to write a poem, but now
I'm just writing you, whoever
"you"
may be.

GCP

We've reached an age where
pop culture evolves faster than
the generations,
take my mom, for example,
going to see The Hangover Part II with my sister
and her friend. When I heard
about this, I just couldn't imagine my mom
reacting to that kind of material, this
gross domestic product (GCP)... but is there anything even remotely
"cultural"
about that junk? I guess
I wouldn't know, as I've been
elsewhere—stuck in a pan-Asian dimension—
Chinese, Japanese, and Korean movies
all day err day.
Sometimes, I just need to take a step back, look deep
into my Netflix queue, and find
a movie with white people in it.
or at least minority-Americans acting
like white people, something.
I'd never seen Marathon Man, so I watched it
earlier tonight. I didn't like it, but I did like that I could relate
to the
over-written, over-plotted, American-propagandist
William Goldman bullshit...
When you come from a country with a
gross cultural product,
the smell of shit ain't shit
at all.
In other news, I've noticed
people have started refering to other people
with an @ in front of their names...
Why can't @Rick just be Rick? How
can one be at him, or he be at himself?
(these are good questions, but without
good answers)
I'm listening
to the Wiseguys' "Start the Commotion," the remix version.
It makes me remember
those early 2000s Mitsubishi commercials—
the last gasp of the '90s, really—when
cars were not just about good gas mileage
and saving the environment, but rather
looking cool, feeling great,
and driving fast.

Bookstore

"Are you gonna be here next year?"
I ask, to myself,
looking your way.
"I hope so," I answer, both
for you and me, but lets's
be honest. How often can I come here—to the bookstore,
maybe I should check the event schedule,
maybe Tawada Yoko will be coming.
Maybe there'll be something going on outside
and I can come in
from the summer heat
and get a cold
drink...but bookstore's don't usually serve drinks,
do they? And I wouldn't expect you
to get me one
anyway.
Maybe I can buy pointless supplies
like pencils
and leave them in a drawer for years.
At least they'll be a memo to you,
post-its and notecards
filled with poems,
but devoid of meaning...

Or maybe I can return the Chinese books I bought today,
and then buy them back again.
Return, and purchase, return
and purchase, return and
purchase
until the state recognizes mutual ownership.
What will we do then?
Stick around for awhile?
That's what I thought.

Dreamy jazz

It's been WBGO 24/7, dreamy jazz
and New Yorkers demanding more money.
They always make me laugh...
I wish I could be so brash.
I've been
dreaming of making friends, talking about movies while watching movies
with those friends,
and meeting their significant others
only to become a significant another
and appropriate that significance.
Done it before, and I'll
do it again.
It's like working out: once you've been in shape, surely
you can get there again, especially
if that shape is the shape of a
cuckold.
Wait, that's not right, but
such is life, no—
such is dreams.
I closed my eyes, opened a fortune cookie
and imagined what it read:
"Believe in your dreams,
you'll feel a lot better in the morning."

Nightmarriage

I'm having nightmares again.
I woke up, reached for the remote and
watched the tail end of CBS Sunday Morning,
pretty moose in ponds and swamps.
Maybe I should play video games again,
turn off the open sign on my brain,
"Be back in five, really,"
or maybe I should never do anything "again"
ever.
I suppose every poem I write should be
about you, it'll help
me cope, it'll help me organize things,
maybe, one of these times
I'll come across your name
in a thesaurus.
What's a synonym for your name, anyway?
Lovely,
natural,
compelling,
I'm not going to use hackneyed words like "wondrous"
anymore because I'm sick of it.
Wait, was that a synonym for your name,
or am I just scared again?

Notebook

I need a notebook, to send these notes to
nameless you,
taking note of when you cross my mind,
or take the scenic route.
I'm having dreams again,
wading around fantasies,
looking for a faraway reality.
I have to stop writing on the computer,
and I need to start again.
I looked on Antipodes... the opposite side of the world is in the Indian Ocean,
close enough?
What is water but the milk of the Earth,
nuturing and comforting us into
thinking we're home, and
not thinking at all

Vivacity, Vibrancy, Vitality

Fly me to Taiwan, fly me
to the moon.
If the Earth is a sandwich, then I am its
dressing, its mayonnaise.
The giant jumbo jets flying over a world of green,
let me land with you in its leafy foilage,
caught between the heat of the heart
of the Earth
and my own.

Poetry Lost

So much poetry lost
to the netherrealm,
how can we damn the levee, "Curses!"
I say,
"there is nothing that can be done except that
can't."
"Why are you so pessimistic?" you ask,
"Because we're not on the ListServ
of dreams and nightmares! We need an in!"
I go to netherrealm.com/careers, looking for an
in, but I'm unqualified,
just like the last time.
"What are you so afraid of?" I demand,
"Afraid I can't answer that question!"

Memorizing

The memories that make me...
Make more, make
more of me.
More of me to remember, more of me
to disremember,
consigned to the present,
holding and held dear,
more of me to be surprised by,
and more of me,
unsurprisingly

Audrey Hull

Don't underestimate, don't second guess
people for a second.
They're your flesh and blood, we're all
flesh and blood
and that's all we are.
And once that blood is gone, it's gone, and you'll be a goner...
So get up, and get out,
turn off your computer or TV
and get off your goddamn cellphone.
Even put down your book.
There's people out there,
there's a whole world, out there
full of flesh and blood and feelings
and fun...
Don't let it get away,
before there's no more seconds to spare.

Question Marks

Did I have some plan?
I don't think so,
your names all look alike, just like you all look
alike, innocuous or ignorant, does it matter?
Fate, or failure? Destiny or disappointing?
Does it matter? Is it matter?
Is there matter in antimatter? Is there stuff
in all this,
stuff?
I don't know.
But what is it I see in you, what is it I read
in you,
where, when did I learn to read
people, like books,
I wish I read, a little more often.
Do people have pages?
What if I want this book to go on forever?
I'm getting sick
of all these
question marks.
What's a question mark in Chinese, anyway?
Mandarin, Cantonese, whatever.
I don't even know if you're Chinese.
I'd like to think so, apparently,
but I'd also like to think that you could understand
every single word of this,
every gist, every supposedly-poetic notion
that I'm so reflexively throwing at you.
Catch?
Did I miss the mark?
Or was it just another question?

The dark jungle

"The dark jungle," Cusick exclaims,
finishing his thought.
No one replies
and I throw a book across the patio,
and Charging Hawk chases after it like a bone.
"Insufferable, ungodly," I murmur,
shielding my eyes as
he devours the pages,
"repulsive."
I turn to Cusick,
"What was it you were saying, Cusick?"
"Oh, I was simply commenting on how
Preiner has disappeared."
"Ah."
"It appears he was last seen, uh, shirtless and by all accounts,
feral, with blood
spread—smeared, across his chest."
"And Potvien?"
He sighs,
"Something about the bottom of a cross being sharpened, I'm not entirely
sure."
"Good God."
Cusick shrugs his eyebrows
and I look through the screen,
reminiscing,
"Hurley, Ettestad, they're all gone."
"Gonzo."
Charging Hawk looks up at me in a random, primal gesture,
"Are you the Antichrist? Are you!?"
He turns back to his book.
"Well, I suppose we should go looking for them."
"More cannibals?"
Cusick smirks, and glances towards Charging Hawk;
the pages ripping from the binding one by one.
"Intellectual," he adds,
and we guffaw into the afternoon.

L.A. '92

KWANTIM FIZIX IS FILISOFIKAL

ANARCHILLES, MOLOCH, CINDERELLA, SHIVA!

GUD, GUD IS CUMING DOWN TO UNDU THE LOCKS
PULLING FLAMING SWORDS OUT OF CHILDREN'S SKULLS

GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD

*Guest poem writen by Thomas Charging Hawk of Poetrash.

Inspired by Sopyonje

Home, father, mother, son, daughter,
brother, sister,
words that we hold so dear,
put a "no" in front of them
and they become all the more significant...

Wandering the world, we search
for the home we once left, for the father, the mother,
which left us, the brothers and sisters
we've drifted from,
and the sons and daughters we've lost.
Love lost; life is spent in the lost and found,
reaffirming that we still have a place here.

Discourse

On a slow diarrhea to China,
I offer you some womb-sauce, you decline.
"But it's straight from the Unorthodoctor," I attest,
you take a rain check
from under your umbrella, and sign it
with your umbilical cord.
I say,
"You know, I've been thinking about history
lately...about, socio-political Geo Metros and
having a bagel in my
Toyota Supradialectical."
You say nothing, smiling from under your umbrella,
I hmpf, and we look into the rain.

Repossessions

A dressy shoe,
conjuring--
a black dress, a night on the town,
a look, faintly imprinted--
the surplus inertia of our existence tingling
with the prospect of memory.
Somewhere, sometime,
I feel like I've met you before.
Pieces of possessions put together,
but only a fool gets killed for a
shoe.