The Son

(For the Night of November 4, 2008)

The late economist's son made it.

A historic return in the worst marketplace

Under millions of stars and flashlights,

the sweat on his face sparked

as if the light of knowledge

finally came out from a crystal ball

He asked himself, "Did my father cry?"

It was not long ago when his skin color,

or his father's, or his people's

would define what they could be

From early on he sensed the chosen,

seized the opportunities

and worked hard for it

His old school charm smile and

immaculate teeth defied prejudice

Fended off ghetto karma

When he posed at the podium

He didn't lose his mind

Nor rally frenzied supporters

The speech was calm and somber

The gratitude was mellifluous

Like spring rain soaked in to nourish

this dry and decaying land

Trust would be repaired, he was convinced

Like flowers would blossom, as if

With all the success, he still secretly hoped

his father would shed tears of joy

for him.

 

Ho

Some people call her Ms. Ho. Some just skip the first part.

Her last name, in Chinese, shares the same pronunciation as river. But in writing, it’s composed of two words: Man and Can. She knows. Man can have her. Man can treasure her. Man can judge her. Man can ditch her.

Man can, and she doesn’t really care.

She likes to see herself as a river. Flowing water naturally generates unpredictability and organically creates freedom.

Growing up in a first generation Chinese immigrant family, she learns a great deal about boundary, diligence, discipline, principle. Her simple and hardworking parents make sure she realizes a woman can only have something faster and more efficiently if she marries well. Her most important tactics in life, in their view, are to earn a good reputation for a man who can give her everything.

That’s not the plan she has for herself.

She has gone down on men many times. She can. She knows.

And she also needs to leave her family and Portland behind, move on and not look back—like Williamette River, joining Columbia, running all the way to the Pacific Ocean. 

Her Asian look, petite figure, and olive smooth skin earn her frats one after another.  Boys like to put their arms around her as if she were the baby white mouse strangled and ready to be eaten by voracious pythons.  They also like to ride her from behind. Her tight gate requires their fully erect ground meat penises to squeeze a bit, but the friction and pressure feel just right. The excitement always arrives as if they try on some brand new sneakers for a virgin run.  And she moans like a seventh grade who finds her unnamed orgasm, ecstatically, smoothly, confidentially. 

She’d call out “push harder!” And those equestrians with high adrenaline and insurmountable testosterone will then lift her pelvis and arch their backs to increase speed, and add strength to the palpitation. The drumming between her butt muscle and their lap thighs also reflect in the equal vibrancy of her bobbing and bumping tits. They love to finger her teeny brown nipples to harden them into raisins, and incur specks of goosebumps like pebbles scattering around the soft swamps of areolas.

They come, mostly inside of her, collapse, shrivel and pant: “You are the sweetest piece of ass I’ve ever had”,

She comes, only when she is thinking “I am in New York right now”.

Everyone gives her some money, nominally for lunch, gas, grocery, drinks, lingerie, contraceptives. She saves most of it in a special account opened without telling her parents.  She knows when the number hits 5 digits it’ll be the time she just walks out of everything and everyone.

For now, at the side corner from the club Styx she just needs to kneel down and lick hard that turtle head popping up from this boy’s underpants for her future travel expenses. 

London/New Year/2007

Suddenly

the center of an eye radiated burning flame

Pungent smoke blurred motion of the fire-wheel

Glamorous mess accentuated depth of the dark

Meaning regressed, left

only with billows of enthusiasm and flooded adrenaline

Right now who could mourn

for the plummeting value of human connections, or of—

Love?

 

A vagabond swayed and wandered, humming a hymn of Apocalypse

But Piccadilly Circus was not set up for gunfights or landmines

Instead drunk bums were herded and jammed into paddy wagons

Predators grunted triumphantly/ preys growled and wrangled futilely /fugitives (like myself) sighed, sneered,

sought shelter in overpowering shadow of anonymous bumping and grinding

The countdown arrived when chaos blossomed

Right now who would be ecstatic

for the coming of a new beginning, or of—

mass destruction?

 

Seeing each other in the eyes, we knew

Parted minds tasted sorrowful penitence

Disconnected souls licked bittersweet regret 

But this was not the right time

We needed to feel happy and grateful; toast to health, togetherness, and valour

Right now who should make judgment of

anyone’s simple, direct, yet shallow reaction?

 

Lines climbed up my face, lurked under the cheekbones

in the brightness of fireworks

Suddenly

it dawned on me—

When my heart burned with the city,

You knew how our affairs would end

 

 

Moment of Now (Self Help IV)

Drinking too much lately

In my drunkard’s maze, the world seems colorful, and

I can feel excitement bubbling up from inside, so organic

 

Get high with music beat, at times I forget

how cacophonous life can be

If lucky, I can dance with it

 

Why do broken hearts bring out clarity and masterpiece?

When flooded in happiness, poetry doesn’t rhyme

Is being self-destructive equal to creative?

 

Answer me, Baldwin, Hemingway, Plath, Simone and Winehouse

 Will soulfulness be distilled from soulless misery?

The sonnet of the past don’t always contribute to wisdom of the future

 

If I have a smoke, that just makes me dizzy and sleepy

But it rescues me from insomnia

I am here in my mold. I can’t change, eh no  

Let me close my eyes

Just for now

 

 

Stop Whining! (Self Help III)

1.

War is ongoing

People are dying

I am SO unhappy

 

2.

Politicians are still compromising in chambers

Celebrities are still wasting at nightclubs

I am still exhausting from work

 

3.

I am tired of seeing public figures’ wives stand by their men who are Client 1 through 10

I am sick of being insulted by moral figures’ condemning homosexuals while they are harassing altar boys

I am disgusted with authority figures’ ordering massacre disguised in the name of freedom

 

Even if living everyday is a bittersweet symphony

                        Having off-key PMS will not be the solution

 

 

Emotional Diet (Self Help II)

I am overweight with sentimentality

Anxiety, depression, frustration, melancholia stuff me fully. And loneliness—

that’s some extra packed in

In faded lights, a go-go boy sweats and earns

nobody recognizes anybody, all faces are vaguely figured

I am a regular, experienced and all too familiar

with rules of the game.

Jesus and Confucius offer different options, but I know I am different--

I want an alternative.

                   Outside of the box solution. 

                                                       To burn the fat of morbidity and

                                                       gain strength of merry-go-lucky.

The go-go boy asks me to draw something on his body

I outline a star on his right nipple, the crooked little shape around that dim pink Vesuvius

It’s my love for you, Stranger

Even though you know I’ve cheated myself, you know I would

I can sweat and earn—to love and be loved

 

No.1 Single (Self-Help I )

I I make efforts not to allow

drama disturb or damage my singlehood

Yes. No one. 

Villa 32, Home(town)coming

A seventeen hour trip to hometown was a metamorphosis

I wriggled out to flutter my years of colorful yet deceitful internationality

 

No need for verification. Folks were proud of me coz vanity mattered

We all knew we wanted fantasies, fairy tales, to salivate over and dream upon.

Pampered with indulgent demands

Spoiled with unconditional support

I gradually regressed to a toddler with biological Sugar Mommy and Daddy

They dressed me with that ruffled black gown and ornate choker

 

Stayed at the eleventh floor residence overlooking the extending and entangled urban wilderness

I first sighed and self pitied, feeling like Rapunzel

But I had no voice to attract the Prince nor golden stairs to escape

Where could I go in this city?

 

Even thousand miles away from home New York, confusion and depression still followed and haunted; the past and present intertwined physically but disconnected spiritually

I never realized how unhappy I had always been

 

Wandered around in a different concrete jungle I was possessed with disjointedness

 

A visit to the resort, Villa 32, surprisingly and finally exorcised that loosely figured demon

Soaking in their highly acid spring, named Jade, exfoliated my skin, 

purged my mind

Started to live and breathe the past and present; those things stopped to collide

Under the willow tree by the spring pond a rosy vision emerged from the underneath accompanied by my callus covered toes--

I smiled. 原來我並非不快樂

 

The indiscernible means red transformed into the pasture for peace and creativity

I felt like writing again

 

Hometown could be a getaway, a made shelter

During the metamorphosis return flight, it dawned on me--

我終於可以暢遊異國，放心吃喝

Villa 32 is my Tiffany 

Pink Notebook

In the frames we spoke Mandarin

But someone ourside made English comments

on our every move, things we saw, places we visited

the way we were

 

In a hot summer day we traveled to a tourist spot

You were cranky. I was worried

 

about your motif to dig out my secrets.

I kept all of them in my pink notebook.

 

I tightly held it to my chest while we wandered

to some observatory by cliff; the ocean was below, the mountain light rail nearby

 

Our conversation was mostly trivial, always—

we never really wanted to understand each other

 

No matter how loose our communications could be, you still pried

and at times tried to steal my notebook

 

I was frustrated and angry. I fought back your bullying

But I also wondered why my life still mattered to you

 

The train came and I rushed to it.

I clung at the last car with a leg out dangling

 

You started to chased after the train, cursed me to the hell, but I didn’t give a damn

I was elated

 

Suddenly the pink notebook slipped through my arms

It felt on the rail, rolled to the side, jumped from the cliff, dived in the ocean

 

I panicked. I felt being ripped open

My intestines gyrated in the air

 

I bobbed out of the train, climbed down the cliff, tried to rescue my pink notebook.

Bystanders and passengers were dumbstruck by my action; they gossiped, criticized, and preyed for my ruthless decision

 

I finally crawled to the rocks and I spotted my buoying notebook

It was serenely ensconced in the fluid rocking chair

 

I was happy knowing the book was within the reach

I jumped in and swam toward it

 

The water felt cold yet refreshing

The sun was bright. The air was crisp

 

Yet my pink notebook was gone

 

New Year Resolution

Under the quilt cover
I breathe and ponder--
Plan A/Plan B/Plan C/Plan D/Plan E/Plan F/Plan A/Plan C/Plan X/Plan A…………
Mind races/Panic attacks/Sleep fades

The past is an old dish
I chewed on it, sometimes, if necessary
I know I can spit it out if I want

The future speeds as a rush
I am addicted to such excitement, longing for uncertainty and planning
Whatever is about to happen always tastes better

I know, I am always
insatiable