I felt blessed riding the 6:05 train from Chuncheon to Sareung.
Maybe it was the ample, honest glow of the sun
still stretching behind the mossy mountains,
limbering up for the dawn's day ahead.

Maybe it's because I could hear-
sure as the train's faithful stop at each and every station-
God breathing celestial calm down into the valley,
stirring the leaves, but letting the people sleep.

Maybe it's because there sat leaning against me
a beautiful native friend, using me as a pillow-
one surely not as soft as the fluffy duvet
of fog which tenderly kept the river banks tucked-in.

Or maybe because each of her gentle stirs
reminded me of my place on earth right there, right then,
and kept me from being overwhlemed by it all,
kept me in my seat,
kept me from suddenly getting off at one of the vacant sacred stops
and attempting to be at one with the majestic.

Ring the Bell for Old DePauw, Ha!
Here's to Cold DePauw
Here's to passing cars.
Here's to winter, Here's to bars.
Here's to frozen Noses, rigid Fingers
Sore Livers, rough Throats.
Here's to Shivers.
Remember the beginning
Remember waking up
Remember lost keys.
Remember yesterday,
A year ago?
Remember that longboard we found
Amongst the art.
Remember that sculpture,
And the moving stone.
Remember Heathrow.
Here's to dreaming.
Let there be Lighters!
And ashtrays!
Let there be fireworks
Keep the air and the friends in
Keep the door closed.
Keep it locked,
But let the noise out.
Keep the fan on.
Give me shelter
give me recollection,
give me choice
give me space.
We need more love
more canceled flights,
need more VHS,
more wine
more cheese,
we need more heartbreak,
more sweet dreams.
Let us keep pictures
Let us keep letters
Let us keep papers
Let us keep sweaters
And glitter,
Keep it all.
Let us keep it alive.

escorting you through the back alleys of Asia,
well it's kinda like
strutting into an interview drunk.
It's kinda like walking through airport security
with a baggie full of illicits in pocket 4
or is it pocket 5?

Hearing you speak Korean
with a shaking head
and a firm hand on my inner thigh,
well it's kinda like
asking a stranger to pay for my drinks.

Treating you to dinner and pitchers
when your heart's fighting your brain,
well it's kinda like
reassuring a child on his birthday
that he's getting presents later in the week.

And so receiving your words in the morning,
well it's kinda like
getting a kiss on a swollen cheek
right beneath a fresh black eye.

It's all kinda like it's dangerous
but I think I'm doin' an OK job
at acting like I know what I'm doin'.

A single scrap of paper

and the child within me springs to life-

the child with bed head and a LEGO fascination-

leads me up and down stairs on all fours;

lights my face, shines my smile

soaks my senses- oversensitive;

takes a horizon, gives me an infinite shadow box;

takes a coincidence, gives me providence;

reminds me that some trees are ladders,

the others are giants, like buildings but wiser;

makes me giggle, as the circles untangle;

makes me ask myself,

Are they following us?

Who made this video game?  What's a boat made of waffles?

makes me too excited to eat; gives me dessert first;

lets me eat infinite Twizzlers;

lets me laugh at all of the sleepy adults,

and stay up late talking about collective consciousness;

lets me decide, "next time I'm going to the nature park",

as long as I can talk to all of the statues and sculptures on the way;

lets me write till there's no more room.

There's a time...and a place,
So do me a solid, and please-
please peel that smirk from your face.

There's a demon there
                     trick'lin down,
                                 trippin' me
                                         and grippin' down.


Think he's under the stairs, now
                             hidin' down there,
                                               spitin' me,
                                                    and bitin' down, there.


So I just sit up top,
        tearin' my hair out,
                 he's scarin' me down there,
                      I can feel him starin' me down.


Bet he won't just up and go away,
                            guess I've plumb forgot how to pray,
                                              plus we far from heaven here,
                                                                         So...
                                                             ...I bet he stay.

Easy green tables
filled with clammy empty bottles-
This ain't the witching hour,
but strokes away from church bells.
Somewhwere between darts
and eternal lines for level velvet
I thought I heard a phone ringing
but I know it's just Pink Floyd
telling me the time.

It's September: evening
and Bukowski stares at me,
******.
My phone rings
"Mhmm, ok, thank you."
wrong number and wrong language.

Pretty sure somebody was just stabbed outside
or got violently ill eating garbage.
I walk down there to have a cigarette
and avoid the stale smell
of the pizza box falling asleep on my bed.

After counting the number of cats I see-
stray as Satan's own- I head back inside
I glance at the bills in my mail jail
at the foot of these foreign stairs
(the building is Chinese, the city is Korean).

A hissing air brake laughs at my back
and the bus' transmission joins in- or farts-

by the time I get back up to the fourth floor
I want music, something that will help the
incense chase away mosquitoes.

And as I'm thinking of what to play
I glance at my bike, blankly,
and I'm reminded of how the rear
tire is ****** and how mean that hill was
and how road bikes belong on the road
not the sidewalk and I can't remember
when I last wore a helmet, so I try.

Half an hour later I finally get some
Stan Getz through my speakers
and don't mind that he invites
Joao Gilberto over.

I push my guitar and used clothes
out of my way so I can
sit on my bed with my
wonderfully cheap pizza box
desk, and my fancy leather pen
and just then she texts me.

Can I please just write?

Still, I can't help but smile
because I really just hope she dreams sweetly.

It can’t be TOO hard- being a duck that is.
My stomach growled watching a tot feeding a duck in the castle garden,
then my famished gears started turning.
Right.  That’d be nice- I could go for some bread and a swim.
Ducks don’t even have to work for food- not these ducks
-they get fed.
I have to shop for bread,
and that’s not the half of it.
First I have to get to the bread,
which means risking it in my tired van
or sitting on a bus with a perfect smelly stranger
or pushing my luck crossing a bustling street.
And then, if I’m not way-laid…BREAD!
But I can’t just stuff it down my gullet,
and sure as day nobody’s gonna feed it to me.
The worst that can happen to a duck
eating bread
is getting its head wet…or choking on fruitcake.
Just when I was feeling particularly underprivileged
on the food chain,
I thought of my great grandfather
and his wooden decoy duck bobs
still sitting on my hearth back in Indiana,
and I thought of the dogs he used to chase the felled birds
and I thought of the bullets and the sharp October air, and the teeth,
and I felt silly.

Consider the coffee cup in the bitter early morning
clutched by the weary, in the hands of the sleepwalker.
A Styrofoam chimney that warms bodies to the bones.
Like a silo of potential energy that awakens and inspires.

A companion of the cigarette soft pack, as long as both are full
When empty, a ruffian of a house abandoned
or a vacant playground, a soul void of vivacity.

Sleepy fingers trace the serpentine trail of steam
escaping via vent  in the lid; gateway to wakefulness
Perched in a nest of hands guarding the sanctuary for the alert
This storehouse of caffeine must be rationed.

It’s contents dark, rich, bold, spilling
scolding and fierce and alive.
Consider the coffee cup a comrade, a loyalist
Companion of the diligent, the learning, the weary.

There's a bruised cloud sitting above me.

aren't its glowing edges lovely?

Even though the sun smiles,

no raindrops for miles,

This cloud's staring, not blinking, not budging.



But I'm not lost, I'm not even alone

standing outside- in the cold- of my home

where not a soul stirs

save my echoing words,

'kept company by the sound of tires on the road.



See, I wanted the world to stop moving

till it parked, dropped me off in a state of not doing.

Coming home's gotten hard,

I've outgrown this backyard,

So my feet weep and itch to keep cruising.

I want to speak with the director of my dreams,
ask him 'bout the plot twists
the cast, deleted scenes-
ask him why he shot it backwards
on a paper trampoline.
Then I'd ask him why I had no lines
and where the crew had been,
why the props were real,
how he made it it feel
so **** convincing.
Then I'd ask when next he thinks
he'll need me on the screen.

It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.

And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***,
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.

it's taking a breather
from fat wallets, damp denim,
and children's ***** feet.

I often wake up shivering
under the thin excuse
of a tapestry
I use as a bed sheet.
My naked body curls
its bones in a weak
attempt to make heat
for itself
by itself.
As my sleepy brains
struggle to freeze the week,
to make the morning gape.
Eventually I lift myself
and stumble over to the
roaring ac unit
and turn its knobs
At ease!
only to wake up within the hour
smothered in my own sweat,
my feeble solitary sheet
now a cheese cloth
and once again I stumble
over to the *******
and turn its knobs over again.
I play this game often
here in my simple apartment
in the midst of monsoons
and torrential brain storms.
To keep score would drive
me mad- make a poor sport
out of me.
Nobody ever wins anyways.
it's worse when I am in my bed
and not alone,
but so is another game
I find myself playing.
Too often I play a game
I like to call  "just one more cigarette"
-this game has a definite loser
and it's always definitely me.
This game keeps score without me:
the first one to 20 loses.

The closest thing
to forcing creativity
is stumbling into a bar solo
and looking for a brawl-
it's never a good idea.
Instead you should play it safe
and just go to bed-
let it brew-
before you do something stupid,
before you get in over your head,
bark up the wrong tree.
Trust me,
you only feel unstoppable,
and a hot numb fist is no good
at a gun fight.
So forget it,
turn around- call it a night.
Otherwise you could lose
some precious blood,
your shoes,
or worse
your mind.

Big gulp of porridge
Just for designated jammies
just before the bus stops,
just as long as there's no homework.

Long shot across town
Just 'cause cops are special,
just when the wife was yappin'
just one too many drinks again.

Deep breath underwater
just to wake up a bit,
just to celebrate the submarine,
just as the room runs out of air.

GUNS
Tanning
Karate*
Outrunning storms on 40
Outlasting my compatriots full of toxins
Yawning after afternoon
Delight and coffees.

I'm going to miss her like hell
When I expatriate,
Her and these simple road signs.

Guri Tower is that really you?
You're standing straighter, shoulders squared
with a new, flashy suit.
Let me wipe my eyes and take another peep,
readjust my trusty big browns,
and try to cut through this rainy blanket one more time.
It can't be.  You look more like a billboard than a precipice-
but I can't deny your stature.
Surely you haven't moved without telling me.
I'll be ******, Guri Tower...
My, how you've modernized-
enough to make me clutch my mug of wine and whistle.

he didn't wear any shoes
'got no place with a roof to spend the night
he could but he never had to

never owned a guitar but he played mean blues
claimed the powders and herbs helped dim the light
he didn't wear any shoes

quick as a whip but slow to argue
drank like a sailor but the last to fight
he could but he never had to

poorest man I ever knew
a wealth of wisdom, no room for things trite
he didn't wear any shoes

his stories wilder than he, so they had to be true
the whole bar agreed he should write
he could but he never had to

he downed a tall whiskey then slouched in his stool
it took us some time to realize he'd died.
he didn't wear any shoes,
he could but he never had to

Nobody's homebody, he melts on the road
like a Popsicle dropped
sick with sores in his throat.


Finds some lost leather proverbs
asleep in the mud
where my empty head had left 'em
'couple pulses short of blood,
nearly choked on the truth
with wooden ears and swollen tongue.


Not a pinch of relief
for dusty rubber teeth;
make a mind hate it's grainy brain
half-baked with sleep,
while the other half lay caked with wasted belief.

I'm shakin' hands with the trees,
High-fiving their leaves,
leaving both of us silly and genuinely pleased.
and by 'both' I mean ten.
We were wrestling zen-
Buddha pinned, nearly sinned
till he slacked, touched my back, bought a drink for my friend-
I'm remembering now what I couldn't then.

In times when the heart is lodged
somewhere between the brain and the throat
I try to force it back
down to its chambers, before I choke,
or before it strangles my head's precious, antagonized gland.

There's only one way to avoid
certain tragedy, and that's to look, feel, taste.
It's either make mental tracks-
run and jump- or drown.

It's at these moments when I start
playing tricks on my mind.
Doing this is easier than you may think.
Just stop all thought,
for the mind's constant churning
chafes the heart.

Now, allow your hungry eyes to sidle
to and fro- let them wander-
dare to wonder about what hasn't,
but don't idle even for a minute
on what has, or what couldn't.

As long as you can avoid relapse,
you might even venture into what could,
as long as it's new and fresh.
As long as it isn't some woeful inquiry
growing stale since last night.

Then once you find yourself daydreaming,
or better yet, DOING,
you are halfway there.
You've made it uphill
and only need to coast down-
down the lovely unkempt *****
of impulse without crashing.

Do something new,
preferrably silly- stay
away from dangerous-
go somewhere new,
talk to a stranger,
eat something expensive,
drink a little, burp loudly.

Go wild, steer away from crazy,
but cruise through hilarity.
Bombard yourself with creative juices,
**** your phone,
bury your watch,
put on your shoes and let yourself laugh.

Once you've had some laughs,
cue up some Planet Earth
-Kung Fu's good too-
roll a joint.
Smoke it.
Grab a pizza,
fall asleep with the television on
then wake up with a smile on your face.
Trust me, it won't come off in the shower,
and trust me your heart's ok.
You're gonna be just fine.

If this field is the earth's teal scalp,
then it's itchy, taught, and dry
lacking volume, moisture, shine
and in some spots split wide-open.

Or could this be one of Nature's plain reasons
To shut down for a nap through cold seasons.
Telling us to go home with our parts and our combs
but we're welcome to stay if we're broken.

I know I was sleeping, still as can be
but was there a nightmare?
My eyes rolled back, sunk down, dug deep, and I floated
up, up, past the clouds, up towards transcendence.
I found myself in the company of the Big Man's Symphony,
a multitude of beautiful shining faces, gorgeous imaginative instruments
nothing earthly about them.
And the music- oh the music.
I don't want to call it sound, cause that's too ugly,
that doesn't describe what was surrounding us.
It was perfection.  It was awe. I was nervous.
For as all played and buzzed and hummed and awed,
I did not.  I couldn't.  My instrument was different.
Mine was odd, mine didn't fit
It looked hand-made, it smelled like dirt
and whenever I wished to join in on the beauty,
my instrument coughed, and cracked.
The strings disappeared and the holes filled up.
What happened next bothers me most:
I fell.  down. I fell far.
Far from beauty and majesty,
far from transcendence,
I fell to the ground.  I bit dust.  I drew blood.
and my instrument melted under my tears
like mud.

I drowned it all tonight
in a tub of foolish advances
too hasty for rationale's sake-
washed her mouth out with soapy regret.

If she tells me she's dry
and that the taste was nothing,
I think I'll just wrinkle further.

'Cause the drain is choking
and the water's gone cold
and I'm left naked, shivering.

I'm sitting here trying
to perfect a tint.
Gotta find a shade that
blocks the harsh gazes,
keeps me cool
and matches my tired wheels,
but not too dark-
I'm not trying to to hide
and I want her to see me-
need her to feel comfortable
climbing aboard,
feel welcome
shotgun
Guess I really don't want
just anybody
peeking in to see
exactly what I'm wearing
on the inside.
In the end it's up to them though-
all they gotta do
is pull the handle-
because anyone that knows me
knows I keep my doors
unlocked.

I need a savior,
a real savior,
one- who when I need saving-
won't lazily toss me
a lifesaver made of razors
and call that **** a favor.

I squeeze the juice from my favorite words
and store it inside a decorative vial.
The contents are potent and long since stirred.

The mixture's turned foul with stench and curds,
with shame it's developed a semblance of bile,
'Cause I've squeezed the juice from my favorite words.

In the days when epiphanies simply occurred-
the privalege of picking choice cuts from the pile-
the contents were potent and hadn't been stirred.

Now I'm frozen, unable to harvest when spurred.
There's a dangerous feeling I'm losing my style-
I squeeze more juice from my favorite words.

Enough lamentation; I'll focus on her-
she's my passion, my engine, my nature, my Nile-
her contents are potent and need not be stirred.

Alas! I'm inspired, unflagging, assured.
The momentum she gives lasts me infinite miles.
I squeeze the juice from her powerful words-
the contents are potent and need not be stirred.

after Gwendolyn Brooks*

Last night we got fried
While you stayed inside.
Can’t say we tried.
What’s your excuse?


Tonight we drive cars
Drunk to bars.
You’re stuck in the tars
Of that **** Spanish.

We’re good to go
You repeat “No.”
What a great show
bare-breasted ENCORE!

Have fun retiring
We’ll be expiring
Our children perspiring
At the thought of us leaving them nothing.

Here I am again
wading through straw hats and jazz-
hailing the bartender,
spilling.
I’ve got last call to catch.
That firecracker with geraniums in her hair
is thirsty and wearing symptoms
of dance fever.
I’m doing a dance of my own,
holding my watery scotch over my head,
dodging sweaty shoulders.
I’ve almost made it back to Flower Girl
when I see a sight
that nearly jars the J&B; from my hand-
I see you.
You’re waiting by the jukebox
for Baseball Coach to retrieve
dos tequilas
and you’re happy.

Had to hang up the lead foot
for a while, hopefully for good,
after a near crash the other week.
I was pushin the red line
vision smeared, thumbs angry,
voice sharp- wild like prairie wind.
So tonight it's just beer,
nothing that can cause combustion,
I've retired the horn,
and traded my brights
for a moon roof,
cause with her I like cruising-
and all I want is to enjoy the breeze,
drop her off safely, and remember
where I parked the beater.

When Light spreads her fingers
Darkness dares not linger,
there's treason within their collision.
Ink black can't mold bread
while the sun bares her head,
but both cloud each others vision.
So neither can figure
what causes the trigger,
there's little room left for precision.
They both wait and pray
that the other's delayed
'cause neither can make a decision.

Just a cigarette's walk from a waking day,
when rain stings the long strides of my plight
And the shadows burn with strange orange rays
At least we still have light.

When my head's turned around but my feet know the way
And my pants hang loose but my wallet's tight;
Dying to eat but too dead to pay
At least I still have the light.