In the Woods

She took the streetcar and desired to land on a new life

No more fear and regret from the lost past

The old should be buried in a deep end of dark forest

Ahead was hopeful sunshine carpeting across the field

Clear and Free

A boy made a pact with his old and tormented soul

led to believe the beauty was treasured in deep end of a dark forest

He stepped in, palpitated with some newfound truth

Dug in further, tangling roots started to wrap all over

Trapped, he was stuck with the darkest thought—

He deserved the suffers

Once a butterfly she wriggled out of his weaved cocoon of closeted nature

Danced through a world of colorful motions he dreamt and desired—

Beautiful patterns eventually faded. A diva painfully aged

haunted with hallucination

waiting for a net to fall upon

Ahead was a psychedelic path covered with flowers of forest

substance nurtured

Gave away to faceless strangers was an escape to both of them

But emotionless body heat felt lukewarm

like a tapered fire could only spark yet illuminate

Self hatred acted as fungi living off collapsed trunks

Oh how they just couldn’t understand those mad men!

Hitting bottom he decided to venture out to a new land

Determined, even if it took a naked self and infinite wounds

Not giving a damn about covers and consciousness, he wanted OUT

of circling vines of self pities and indulgences

He’d be the butterfly riding wind high and light

away from those misters Kowalski and Mitchell

She just rolled back to that muddy path within the woods

drunk as always; no more clean clothes

She was played out (but he didn’t)

Refusal could be the best source of strength

to discover that ultimate pasture

but she begged him to stay, always whispering eternal resentment at

the deep end of a dark forest

Years later when he took a streetcar from an open field

He spotted her wandering on the street

drunk as always

mind in the woods

A gossamer ghost en blanc with no history

but could always use some kindness from a stranger

He was not the one

He decided to put them all behind

The streetcar slowly yet gently cradled him to

the next destination

Clear and Free

(Conceptual) Relationship

Finally

Winter pass

Mood rise

All feel brighter

Actions move faster

I step up to clean out the messy life

You emerge from the cold thick white

And we finally

say hi

Court

Wait by the phone for that call

back and forth, tug and pull

A mind game worth playing

If it takes two to tango

I wonder who takes the lead

Stand face to face

Hands reach out, fingertips touch

Sparks brighten their faces as if lit by

candles on a dinner table, silver screen in a theater,

full moon in the sky

Smiles

Gazes

Whispers

Kisses

Promises

Until a commitment is

proposed

Love Letter—An Exercise for Romance

Right—

“To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished”

says Roland Barthes

As I try to articulate, daydream, plan—

The greatest love story of our own time

Would you like to co-write it?

The wedding party will be held at the Riverside Café

The song for the first dance will be the Beatles’ I will

The flowers will be cherry blossoms, irises, lilies, lilacs, lotuses

The Champagne will be Moet Chandon

The ring will be Tiffany’s & Co.

We will stand in front of the glass windows radiating Manhattan skyline

We will adjust each other’s collars from guests’ inadvertent bumping

We will kiss our back palms and exchange “Let’s get outta here” glances

“We two, how long we were fool’d, now transmuted,

We swiftly escape as Nature escapes,” says Walt Whitman

Speech will still be delivered and oohs and ahs will still rise

One day

The words will be heard, but—

“The perfect will be the enemy of the good”

says the anonymous

For now, it is an exercise for romance

And I hope it will be a romance from exercise

XX, Yours

Girlfriend, Defined

She lit a cigarette, serene as white smoke

The relationship was defined as Affair—at this point

No sunglasses; nor trench coat

Her face carried no lines of discomfort or guilt—the fittest composure for a gambler

No make-up either; her skin absorbed every particle of sooty loot without rash outbreak

The only recognition given away on this affair was her hair

Blossoming, Cascading, Erupting, Radiating—the hair’s in love definitely

“He was a boor,” she said

The shameless tyrant approached, demanded, invaded, declared victory

She succumbed as his colony, a door away from his motherland

shared with his wife whose sovereignty stopped outside her front door

“It’s all physical,” she explained

with no qualms, clichés of feeling connected through body heat

Promise minimally kept/Schedule randomly selected/Code delicately planned/Hint deliberately dropped

Emotions were not defined—at this point

Secrecy should dress both of them somewhat decently,

with certain definition

Rough Love

Doors opened

Steps crafted

Under the veil she wanted everything in control

Father witnessed

Vows exchanged

She committed with a band of inscription—

Forever, from March 1999

Later she reminisced

how the petals twirled along red carpet aisle

the light danced under arch of epoch

broken glass twinkled as from edges of a diamond

hymns of gaiety flew

in ecstasy

Years went by

Sweet dreams subsided

Ordinary chores wore off the uniqueness of

staying together

Perpetual familiarity toughened the core of

accepting each other

until it cracked

Later she remembered

How the dainty porcelains thrown smashed windows

let go ferocious flood of light drowning the 10 feet high loft ceiling

with the unbearable confession cut deep scabs bleeding

An end treaty signed

in numb

How come—

the ceremony of moment could be this holy

the dissolution of later this ugly

A Visit

Eighteen years ago I visited Manhattan for the first time with a group of exchange students from my native country Taiwan. I was 15 then. I didn’t understand homosexuality. But I was a natural flame. I kissed a boy who was my roommate. He was surprised. He didn’t say no.

In a balmy Wednesday afternoon we made a trip to the forever jammed Metropolitan Museum. The regal institution—those dramatic vaults and majestic Grecian columns and niftily crafted indoor landscape—intensified my never well-hidden femininity. I wandered and meandered through different halls of history, feeling like May Welland from The Age of Innocence: coyly curious and perhaps demurely coquettish.

The cascading brightness from ceilings felt so effortlessly natural. I glanced the passing images of myself from the reflection of different paintings’ glass surfaces. I couldn’t tell who I really was. I only felt light. I was too young to know any dark reality lurking around.

I didn’t care much to learn anything from our overly zealous geek guide. I was too happy enjoying my inner femaleness from the book characters by either Edith Wharton or Henry James. I was unconsciously swaying my hands to dust off those invisible frills from my non-existent trailing skirt gently caressing hard wood floors.

At some point I lost my fellow tour mates when spending too much time appreciating some exquisitely ornate antiques and jewelries. I was alone and daydreaming. A guy stood across the other side of glass display box. I sensed his ogle without too much hesitation.

He had salt and pepper hair and scruffy chins. A handsome daddy type. He dressed like a photographer with casual easiness. He slightly leaned against the box and his face was lit assortedly from the box’s inside lighting fixture. I could see those gentle lines carved softly around his cheeks. I couldn’t see how intense his desire was from those dark eye sockets.

I stepped back a bit, unsure of this atmospheric transformation from polished delicacy to somewhat raw hunt. I decided to lift my imaginary hoop skirt and strutted away. He followed; inadverdently orbited around every artwork I stopped by.

I wasn’t afraid. Stalking was something I never experienced before. I felt a little reckless in thought but couldn’t stop getting excited at such hide and seek, catch and release. No longer a restrained lady corseted in the19^th century, I morphed into a freewheeling young boy who first visited a gay venue (the Metropolitan Museum!). Skittish, awkward, I was one man’s center of attention and that felt peculiarly satisfied.

His burning gazes set fire every nook, scorched every ground beneath me in the Metropolitan’s universe. Hall after hall, exhibition after exhibition, civilization collapsed, arts and intelligence were destroyed, and we the only two creatures led and followed on that barren earth composed of fumingly burnt mass of visitors. Though my penis was solid as a totemic rock pointing at the perpetual direction of East, my face could only sprinkle few drops of rain smiles. Flirtation and frivolity grew nothing. He didn’t dare to approach me. I was Tadzio to his Gustav; Dorian to Lord Henry; Lolita to Humbert.

Then he disappeared, in the grand hall featuring a gigantic gate with iron bars. He was gone like a poignant line of ghost, left me standing in a human sea of flesh ebbs. Suddenly I felt a strong sting of loneliness. My excitement lapsed. My physical erection withered. Although I didn’t develop a feeling for this guy but I knew something changed forever. My desire for same sex started to come into some shape.

From that moment on I had to wait another 10 years (after I moved to New York for good, after another salt and pepper guy with whom I met at another gay venue, after he gave me physical and emotional fulfillment) to understand a bit better about myself as a homosexual. Those years spent on visits and discoveries weren’t effortlessly natural.

Let There Be Light

I. 

The morning when he walked out of the room, all he could think of was to put an end to some ghostly images which disturbed him for a very long time; those flimsy images were formed into the egregious and frightening human monsters and they always showed up in front of him everywhere; for example, he would shower and see an emerging Capricorn from the drain pipe whose head was distastefully replaced with the girl who always felt like a springtime water lily in the pond at the high school where he was used to being bullied and no one would look at him except that breezy girl who would give him an sympathetic yet futile grimace after she glanced the bruises on his forehead and passed by without saying a word, which was all sympathetic yet futile, which stung but was all he needed, especially back at the moment when he left the room, strutted pompously on the sidewalk, targeted the first building, walked into the lobby, pulled out the .45, and started to shoot the fleeing, screeching, anonymous human monsters, and the acoustics felt just right, like the thematic melody of the video game, called “Let There Be Light”, in which he played a handsome raider and he could use an enhanced shotgun to terminate all those terrorist aliens, who were ethereal but bright. 


II. 

I am a Chinese guy with an effeminate face 
I work as a data entry clerk
I have no spare income to save the world
I jerk off at web porns before sleep

Why can’t you be like Nick Wong and get a job at the Goldman Sachs?
My parents sighed during the ritual Sunday dinner. 
Why can’t you marry me to let me get the green card?
My Vietnamese ex-girlfriend made a fuss at the TGI Friday’s. 
Why don’t you suck my cock? You faggot?
My neighbor onetime cornered me in the staircase. 

Interminable hardworking and meticulous calculations are basic recipes for the Land of Plenty. 
In China, they don’t play by the same rules but I will not start talking about Back When…...

Nowadays bathed in blood can be so easy and accessible
The memory is not even long lasting and nothing is legendary
Still many questions leave unanswered and unsatisfied. 

An afternoon I sat in the living room. 
Thought about the future and unknown
From the TV delivered some bullets
Tear dropped and heart stopped

Let there be light
Let there be light
Let there be light

The promise is so ethereal but bright.

Paris is Burning I--Overture

Dressed to the nine for the ball on 145^th Street

Runway down without turning back

Gold trophies glistened at the end of tunnel

Comments and catcalls fiercely mixed and maxed

Honey, time to strike a pose 

When you bent over, hard to tell if you were a pimp or whore

mother or son/executive or secretary/president or soldier

REALNESS—Blending in with your straight counterparts, you erased all the flaws, mistakes, giveaways to make your illusion perfect. 

In those overextending and overbearing hours of vogue

You created a Legendary, a status in the ball, a household name for yourself

Ruffled feathers and flowing chiffons could only reveal—

The queen of the night had her grace on the house

O-P-U-L-E-N-C-E

You own everything

Everything is yours.

Paris is Burning II--Main Act

What did we see in the ball?

Chin up, lips pout, you proudly announced your name:

House of Xtravaganza, Overness, Pendavis, Saint Laurent, Dupree, Adonis, LaMay

Mother of the House made her name by opening wide her white mink coat to shelter clueless, listless, homeless waifs

let them find some warmth under her coat’s silver lining

Liz Taylor was famous, so was Mother Pepper LaBeija

What did we tell in the ball?  Butch queen in drag first time at the ball?

Reading came first: flirt with passive aggressiveness, simmer a pot of anger

Shade later arrived to knock frienemies out, get’em anyway, hit’em below the belt—

“I don’t have to tell you’re ugly, but I don’t have to tell you because you know you’re ugly. [1] 

But never punch a girl on her nose

Nor drag a bitch’s hair to mop the floor

Houses were street gangs

Competitions morphed into war

We popped, spinned, dipped, and vogued.

High. Physical High. Seductive High. Addictive High

Good Vibe

Dance moves crafted honorable and stylish battles

Two hands squaring cheekbones marked an eternal close-up—we were always ready

 

Who did we want to be in the ball?

Judges might pull their 10s to work ego boost for us

Outside the auditorium, we knew we could never vogue like Naomi or Paulina

Fabulous extravaganza and movable feast ninja

were mirages everyone stared at, attracted to, hardly lived on

 

REALNESS—Life on the piers in West Chelsea was to live and learn

Clients satisfied with our petit bones, licked our silky skin

Wined and dinned for us acting demure

But be careful—

Never let those dirty fingernails move down and dig; they always freaked out afterwards; beat us up

And we had to jump off to fire escapes. Forgot the 40 bucks left behind.

 

Nobody was really protected

Mother could only put on her mascara and hoped for the best

 

Only in the ball could we laugh our vaginas off

With push-up bras, bruise proof purple eye shadows, and right-sided buttons---

We were at wonderland, nurtured and worshipped like nobody’s business

The ballroom told us we were somebody

Until nasty bastards strangled us to death and hid our body under the mattress in some dingy hotel at West Chelsea—

for FOUR days

---

[1] From the movie

Paris is Burning III--Epilogue: A Manifesto

This is White America

And living is burning

Queen of the Night eventually pales

A title like this can’t really do shit except continues to ferment our defunct yet endless self-indulgence.

The ballroom told us we were somebody

And burning is dreaming:

 “I want to be fragilely beautiful like those Vogue models arching their twig backs and waited to be plucked by some trust fund suave boys”.

“I want to be wholeheartedly excited at my future like every 20-year-old white client I serve, to expect an upward ladder venture in any career, with only frat recklessness to worry about”.

“I want Louis Vuitton quality environment with no one cursing me freak or monster, forcing me to suck their dicks without pay, nor beating me with their bats, knives, and guns in the name of god’s will”.

“I want perfect cut diamond solid relationship with a man who loves me no matter what stage my operation is : he can put his fingers between my legs , feels that little remnant, and still wants to come at me”.

“I want a world of luxury where countless designer clothes, handbags, cosmetics, jewelries, travel trips…… cascade and flood to purge my memory …… everything, to my complete oblivion “.

“I want to have it ALL for myself; feel natural and naturally happy”.

And dreaming was promising—

I want to be

I want to have

I want so much more

This is what I want 

“When it comes to minority, We as people, for the past 400 years, is the greatest example of behavior modification in the history of civilization, We have had everything taken away from us, and yet we have all learned how to survive. That’s why in the ballroom circuit, it is so obvious that if you have captured the great white way of living or looking or dressing or speaking, YOU IS A MARVAL”. [1]

This is White America.

 

 

 

 

---

[1] Direct quote from the movie