You could have reached here Wednesday by last choice
Perhaps your mood shifted. All the calm nights
you had now lay awake. You explore the city
built by the perfect people, white cathedral
stands upright on a slant, a compass buried in plain sight,
the gibberish of art students from painting lullabies as sirens.
Only children are asleep. The university
grows younger each year. The best teacher
is always late, not realizing her impact.

The person I’m most comfortable with
stays in bed. Security found indoors
the couch allures, security in the capsule,
The deafening whispers, the genuine friends
who live nearby and can’t talk straight. The blessed temple
building worshiped by advertising majors.

The lucid potential, morning sprints round the track,
a library sustained by crushed Adderall —
glowering orbs rotating back counter clockwise,
out of chimneys the black spirits climb,
detectives bicycling, the honor students rummaging
for class notes in the deep end of the dumpster.

So this is college? That frontier plateauing
before you can dive off a cloud? So this utopia
was a dollhouse, the daily on the doormat
camps in the hallway: waits while the child watches
a sit-com?
Don’t apartments stand still? Are abstract paintings
and basketball supposed to nurture a city,
not only Richmond, but also other lonely cities
of misunderstood brunettes, dank **** and dubstep
the weekend will seldom put out
until the city you moved to shuts its eye?

Just tell yourself, “live.” The best teacher, eighteen
when she moved to the university, still grins
even as she coughs out fiberglass. Any day now,
she sings, I’ll take a drive and leave this place.
I pull her close and say. You haven’t slept in your own bed.
The boy who you’ve always loved still thinks about you.
The books you read before breakfast,
whoever the author may be, inspires
and your least favorite student who raises her hand
is judged but her posture never falters.

A man sees a child in an old photo album of his…

He finally did it
He achieved success.
He tasted greatness
Tastes like
Cool watermelon on a warm day

Innocence
Captured in the boys’ shortness in stature
Charisma
Can’t be contained in a camera’s lens

Royal Blue Clothing
Doesn’t convey his feelings genuinely
Crimson red would suit his mood authentically
Wishes the dress shirt would fit his enthusiasm

Mentally exhausted from the ceremony
Young underachiever is so eager for leisure
Smile is wide and great, baby teeth are revealed
Moment is so surreal. Happiness is all he feels
There is zeal and anticipation for the future

Hair is brushed to the side like his critics in class
His parents hope this adorable image will last
Like there marriage of twenty years and then some
Oh what a time it was, to hope and dream
Of what it would be like to be a teen

A man looks at the picture in his hand
He shakes his had in disgust, he’s pensive
Wonders how is passion was replaced with apathy
How his life turned into a catastrophe

The moment in the picture
Was perfect
Like the frame that concealed it

A girl with flowing, brown locks
opens the novella of her world to you,
as you both lay on her bed, facing each other,
her elbows and your elbows touching,
her hands tucked beneath her cheek,
your hands tucked beneath your cheek,
as though she and you are about to
lick each other’s souls,
nibble each other’s hearts,
and fornicate each other’s minds.
Your eyes are targets.
Her eyes are targets.
This is the South and you both open carry.
She inserts the mag. You insert the mag.
She ***** the piece. You **** the piece.
She aims. You aim.
You look at her targets
You then see her face.
Green-eyed Hepburn
You close your eyes.
She’s your confidante,
your neighbor, your best friend.
You open your eyes.
Your hand shakes, your fingers sweat.
She itches the trigger.
You put the gun down.

I met this girl at the bus top across from ironhouse condiminums on west broadstreet, and we started talking and I took the wrong bus just to talk to her. I didn’t even have the right amount of change to give to the bus driver. I needed $1.50 and I was thirty-five cents short. So I walked up the asile and asked the cute girl with raybands and lavish brunette hair if she had some change. She smiled and gave me a quarter and a dime. Excellent, I’m in. After I gave the bus driver the bus fair, I leaned back in a chair and I talked to her about literature, writing, reading, poetry. Her name was Anna and her favorite book happened to be “Catcher and The Rye,” she had stacks of notebooks from grade school until now, and she journaled each day in the morning.

We stopped at Willow Lawn and I said: bye. I recommended to her some novels and I wrote down my email on a ripped out pocket book journal page. I passsed it to her, saw her hand close over the note. And then, as I got off the bus, noticed she crumpled up the note.

Later on, I came across a free sandwich, some bowls, a coors light, and a deep tissue massage (my friend is a massage therapist in training; half black; half white; #winning). So imagine being twisted and getting a deep tissue massage with creamy oil lotion. She had this cushioney tan bed to lay down on and relax.

The two girls Rachel and Rachael sang with perfect pitches these great lyrics. We smoked sticky icky *** from a bowl and a plastic orange ****. I pulled up on the carbueretor and vacummed the mushroom cloud of smoke into my lungs, sending radioactive pleasure into my body. A bowl and stem apparatus. Mouth piece. A water pipe or a **** was smokey jazz brass saxophone. The black gas washed by murky water and condensed icecubes sent me spiraling down.

So, I ended up riding on the GRTC bus, smacked sauce, and I wrote all these great ideas, and weird *** descriptions of the bus interior. Went home, changed clothes, swag black VCU shades with neon yellow sides, and a fresh Kanye West Bear shirt with Japanese eyes and shutter sunglasses. I walked down Shafer street and came up to the compass and Hibbs hall. Outside there was a crowd of people freestyle battling, and I enterered the contest. I became a compeitior and I was the challenger, there was no champion yet. I won one round, lost a round, and then went O.T. sudden death overtime. The whole time I was still high, I was carrying around a VCU Cary Street Gym aluminum water bottle with a black insulated sleeve. So I ended up losing, my friend tapped my shoulder and I said whatup and we walked to subway, and I got a foot long Buffalo Chicken sandwich.

We went to his friend’s townhouse on Main and North Harrison Street. I drank a cup of Pineapple and Rasberry Burnetts *****. We went down Cary street, and took a right on Pine Street and then we went to this Delta Chi Fraternity House. There was a kalidescope discoball with rainbow lights. A bar serving jungle juice from an orange gatorade water cooler. I silded my way into the dance floor and turned around and say this girl who I knew. She was someone I taught tennis to when I was an instructor in high school. Needless to say she got extremely attractive. So I was dumbstruck and trying to process all this **** in my mind, and I told her straight up, “Aiight we’re dancing.” And wow. I taught her to stroke the ball well from the tennis lessons. She wore these pink ******* bunny ears and a white dove cardigan and a black halter top, with a dark mini skirt.

Every morning I went
to the coffee shop across the street
from my house,
because I didn’t work.

For every resume I typed out,
I wrote a poem,
in order to keep me from
sending you a text marked with a white flag.

A skull was concealed in the flag,
as a watermark. The sun made
love to a cluster of clouds,
while I rolled a cigarette using strands of your brown hair.

I opened my wallet
and took out a photograph
of me and you from the booth
that one night when you made a fire out of caskets.

Your face had been glowing with warmth,
as if you had drained all the light out of the sun,
and had taken a shower in its yellow glow.
Your eyes were bright with a hopeful future.

Then you grew your hair longer,
and pulled it over your eyes,
like twin pirate eye-patches.
But you’d said you weren’t blind, just indifferent.

Today I wrote another poem on a countertop,
in the coffee shop,
and bandaged the wounds you gave me
when you told me you never cared about me.

One of the baristas wearing a brown apron
and a blue baseball cap, gave me poems
from James Tate. And as I read
“The Lost Pilot” it started to drizzle from the ceiling.

I wasn’t sure if it was rain pouring on my head,
and on my poems, or if it were melted ice-cream,
rich and thick in its texture,
Our first date we stole vanilla ice-cream from a Giant.

You stuffed it in your golden purse,
and ran through the doors, as a fat security guard
chased after you. Then, you hopped
into my blue Volkswagen and we sped off.

I was perfectly fine with being the getaway driver,
you dipped a bent spoon
into the plastic container and scooped out
the ice-cream. You ate it hungrily.

And after I took a bite,
we went to the park and swung on the swings,
coasting up and down in the air,
vanilla stained on the front of our black shirts.

Back at the coffee shop, I played the keyboard
in the bathroom because I was shy,
shy of you finding out,
because you love piano melodies.

And I guessed I wanted to play
for myself for a change. I played
“My Cherri Amour,” and drank gin
from a flask, until every key looked like a playing card.

After I played the song,
I left the coffee shop
,went home, and painted our last conversation,
using words from a newspaper.

“It’s over.”
“You were never right for me.”
“You’re not mature enough for a relationship.”
“I never want to see your face at Peets.”

Peets was the coffee shop we would always go to,
every morning, rain or shine,
rested or exhausted, and
I remember you would read my poems.

You read my poems as if they were
Daphne Loves Derby song-lyrics. Last night
you texted me that my poems
sounded like rushed and convoluted emails.

After that I blocked you on everything,
from social media to your number.
I hoped we would grow weak with joy,
and grey with age.

Words, whether from your lips,
or a text shattered the trust
I gave you, as if it were
my social security code.

In front of the bathroom mirror,
I took a pink eraser and rubbed it
against my foreheard,
to remove the wrinkles.

Each wrinkle represented a time
when you had failed me, or
when I had failed you. Our failures
were weights that I had balanced in my memory.

Kaufman would be pleased
of my progress. I wrote a sculpture
with glass and tears
at my desk, alone in my clean, well-lighted room.  

And then I took the sculpture,
and buried it
in my backyard, right next to the grave
of my old and weak self.

I smoked a cigarette using
sad memories as rolling papers.
As the paper burned slowly, I
let the smoke fill my heart.

Because my lungs were tired,
tired from breathing, tired from
living for you. Because you
are not the only thing that matters anymore.

You Facebook messaged me today.
**** it’s been a month or two!
I remember at Velvet I tried
to be like Lennon to your friend Roxy!
“dance?” I said, raising my arms; eye contact; smile.
She smiled and said, “Oh no that’s ok…”
“Ok, I’m not John Lennon haha…”
Twenty mins go by. I lit a jack.
You and I geeked about Murakami.
I was three Natty bo’s deep. I glanced up; rain fell
Your friend Sara pushed up her huge [ellipses] umbrella.
You mentioned your boyfriend is a Deejay at Flash.
You Facebook messaged me today.

You painted your eyelids with green velvet and ruby red. The fractured mirror kept your insecurity at bay, as sparkle blue glitter poured all over your head from a little tin can.

We drove across the bridge, and through Shocko bottom, stopping at a nearly deserted parking lot sanctioned by an honor code. We double parked behind an Acura sedan, and waited as you snorted half a gram of Molly off your manicured fingernail into each
nostril.

You took in a deep breath, smoked a Parliament, and blew smoke out the
window. After ten minutes we shambled out of the car with our purses tucked under our armpits, and red fire dying in our eyes. When we reached the Hat Factory venue, the line disappeared from our view and we walked to the entrance where two bouncers were posted up. The tall giants marked our hands with black sharpie ink, drawing a large, bold “X” on each one.

Once inside the spacious warehouse, we ascended a white marble staircase and paid a ten dollar entry fee. Another doorman took out his marker and drew a red line, crossing through the dark black “X” that was drying on our hands. You broke off and away, going
straight to the bar. The bartender asked what you wanted to drink, and you requested water. She smiled and gave you a red solo cup filed with tap water and ice-cubes. After you thanked her, she handed you a bright pink glow stick that you wrapped around your forearm, fitting a figure 8 around your skin like a cloth sleeve.

On the stage was a young man dressed in neon colored plaid and skinny jeans. He climbed up a tall stepladder and jumped from the top, belly flopping on a beautiful African Queen bodacious gluteus Maximus, daggering deep into her soaking black spandex, the decadent bodies swimming on top of each other, stroking and staining the pink gymnastic mat with hot sweat and salt. A huge beach ball colored with red, white,
yellow, and blue pinwheel stripes sailed through the air over the balcony, smacking into a deathly thin model who was smoldering her Parliament cigarette into a clear glass
ashtray.

Mollywopped undergraduates gathered around circles where reggae artists harpooned inflatable black and white killer whales with thrift store bought switchblades.

Laying flat on his stomach was an Asian photographer snapping away with his Nikon digital SLR camera, pale hipsters in ***** black blazers and black fedoras hurling red and purple plastic assault rifles into the intense mass of worry-stricken college students carefree for the moment, gyrating and grinding to the womp-womp bass booming from rectangular speakers that squished in a disc jockey and his hardwood stand with his mixer and two turn tables. He scratched the needle along the worn edge of a battle-scarred vinyl record. His fingers zigzagged the sliders, pressed down on buttons, turned up the volume knobs.

Some hyper-maniac golden child bounced around the dance floor, sneaking up behind university sophomores mesmerized by the makeshift floodlights in the rafters blinking on and off. Conversations were made in the head, but never opened up when the girl approached. Stuck up super senior girls with heavy black mascara and matted eyelashes raised their eyebrows and swatted away ***** flies with a wave of their lotioned hand.

***** girls dress in high heels and septum piercing, their ear cartilage stabbed through by unclean metal. A rude person bumps into the Hyper-maniac golden child, causing the golden child to shove squarely into the rude person’s back. Name-calling ensues, threats fired and received, looks exchanged and bitterness rose over any other tension in the fuming room.

In the far right corner were a couple of kids making out; they’d just met.

Walking away from the fight, sidling between sweaty ugly people, the golden child swayed upstairs to the second floor, passed another bar and balcony tables, chairs, and dance platforms.
He went through a swinging door and joined a conversation between
a bunch of strangers. Wary around the golden boy, he starts practicing his standup Comedy routine, almost bombing on the first joke. Cheap jacks burned bright orange after a blue flame ignited the tapered paper end. Arms snared around the golden child’s body. Oh how nice! It was his friend from Modern Grammar class, he used to sit next to
her in the second row and copied homework answers from the blackboard with her.
She was happy.
And he was happy.

We first met at Arlington Drafthouse on a Saturday night. You were dressed in clothes white as snow. After the open mic we shared a kiss and spent the whole night and the next morning together. I remember when you told me you loved me for the first time and I finally felt safe and wanted for a long time. Over the course of almost two years, we've traveled around Washington DC, took a spontaneous trip to richmond, and saw numerous movies from Elysium to The Imitation Game. When I was selling cars, we ate sushi twice a week; when I worked as a canvasser we shared pizza on your bedroom eating off of paper plates. I've made you feel irritated, loved, appreciated, mad, and happy. You've introduced me to countless friends and I've introduced you to my world of poetry and storytelling. I enjoy blowing your belly button and hearing you say, "eek." My family opened their arms to you and your family has cooked me dinner and given me gifts. Loyalty is the first word that comes to mind when I think of your pretty face. You're older and wiser than me and I'm goofier and clumsier than you. We've broken up in the sunshine and reconnected back in a thunderstorm. So I pray for the raindrops to come crashing down when you're hurt, so that I can dry the tears off of your eyes. Drinks upon drinks; beer, liquor, and shots we've shared with friends of all ages and nationalities and sexes to celebrate life and its beauty. I've broken promises and you've broken my heart before. But with each break we've come together even stronger in our bond and I thank my mother for teaching me to fight for what I desire. Remember going to see John Mayer at Jiffy **** and drinking bud light margaritas? Or playing tennis in the spring afternoon when no one was on the courts and being happy and sad on the weekends when tragedy hit on the the news broadcasts? How about me cooking you spaghetti because that's the only dish I know how to make. We've created a life together through memories and dreams and months of stories. You hate it when I snore at night and I hate it when you stare intently into your phone. Your heart is bigger than my ego and my drive is bigger than your fears. The time we've shared together is important and indispensable. I hope I'm a kind and generous person and above all a good boyfriend. It takes a lot to build a relationship and so little to break another persons trust. What I'm trying to say is I love you very much. And from the bottom of my heart grow better and more valuable as wine grows with age so do you.

INT. WILL'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Andrew walked inside of his best friend Will's house, carrying a six pack of Stella, and moved to the beer-pong table, where Lauren and Erica were playing with Daniel and Marcus. The girls turned to face Andrew and Erica mumbled something to Lauren. Lauren laughed and nodded. Andrew hoped she wasn't laughing at him, but when he saw her smiling at him, that was when he knew he would end up falling in love with her. Well maybe not in love with her, but he hoped he would at least get to know her. He took off his jacket and set it aside on the couch next to Will and Carrie. Will looked slimmer than usual, his arms skinny, and his clothes baggy on him. He didn't like seeing his friend look like a stick-figure, but he didn't really know how to approach the subject. Instead, he hugged him and felt Will's skin and bones, wondering how long could his friend go on like this.

ANDREW
Will, wanna get next game?

Will considered it for a moment and shook his head.

WILL
I would man, but I'm feeling pretty tired. Going to take a dab in a minute, you want one?

ANDREW
Ha, not tonight man, I got to drive back home after this.

Andrew turned around and caught Lauren staring at him. She looked away and shot the ping-pong ball into one of the red solo cups. All Andrew knew about Lauren was that she moved here from Florida. She was here for the summer, perhaps longer. She was good friends with Will's girlfriend Carrie, but Carrie had told him the other day over Facebook chat, that Lauren was talking to some guy named Peter back in Florida. Good for me, he thought. He wanted to be single for a while, but there was something uncanny about Lauren that drew him in closer to the pong table. She was wearing a black cardigan and a white blouse underneath with jean shorts and flats--typical NOVA ****, but he sensed she was deeper than her appearance. She had blue eyes, blue as the sky in the current summer month of July.

ANDREW
Hey do you guys mind if I get next game?

Erica looked at Lauren. And she looked back at Erica and shrugged.

LAUREN
Are you good?

ANDREW
I can be.

Lauren considered him for a moment.

LAUREN
Great to hear. You and Erica are going to go against me and Daniel. Cool?

ANDREW
Yeah that's cool.

Andrew found a spot next to Erica and stood beside her, high-fiving her.

ERICA
Don't worry about Lauren, she's just super competitive.

ANDREW
Let's show them some competition then.

You’re eyes are black and white
They make me think you have an old soul
They remind me of classic films,
Of the dusty keys on our piano
Different races but no winner from competition.
I wonder
What these sunglasses will do for you

Drink the first beer after you wake up. The door to her bedroom is closed, so don't play the acoustic guitar, loudly, if at all. A dog is laying on the lumpy couch. Try your best not to disturb the dog who’s name is Pasco. You hear her talking upstairs, but you don’t go say, hi. Put on your coat, grab your smokes from your pocket, go outside to the porch and light up. No one is outside. It’s dark and the birds are chirping, and she hates when they do that. Do you best not to drink too fast, as you down the second beer. Try not to think about how she accepts you, or rejects you. Think about Virginia. Think about Chicago. Think about LA. Then breathe in deep. Don’t pass out, as you drink the third and fourth beer, one after the other. Throw the keys into your laptop bag, so you don’t try to reach in there and grab them. Sit down on the stoop. Pick up your cig from the ashtray, light it again, and smoke it. She doesn’t care as much and you’re going to have to be okay with this fact of life.

Don’t sleep on the couch tonight.

(Verse 1)
You're upsetting me on this balcony,
as our friends smoke my **** and drink my beer.
Drove my Honda to see you in Albany.
Giving you the time you need, then you run dear.
Chasing my roommate around the living room
,with your pants around your waist, you're wasted.
Tasting the dude's face, you're in a giving mood
;Want to dance? You asked in haste, getting naked.

(Chorus)
Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

(Verse 2)
Is this what you want; a relationship that's open?
Talk to me. Listen. No, look at my face.
Guess I wanted your heart, cuz my heart was broken.
And beyond repair. But you don't care.
I walk away from the crowd and onto balcony.
Wonder if I should have stuck to learning alchemy.
Because magic is easier than assessing intentions
Of a man who can't understand his own to mention.

(Chorus)

Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult *****, because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-*****

Kanye West made me think polos were cool. I thought playing rap music while wearing polos would make me into a rapper. And then I turned into a tennis player. Tennis got me out of the hood. Let it be known. I could have went to court, and instead I chose the Tennis Court.

Tennis is fun. Before it was ratchet. Now it is tennis racket. Rapping was fun. Bernie Sanders liked rap. He liked Killer Mike, and he was a phenomenal rapper. Hilary listened to me. So I don’t know what that means. I should have been a rapper, but when I saw a videotape of Arthur Ashe playing tennis for Wimbledon, I felt a yearning grow inside of my gut, and it grew until I raised my hand to my mouth to smother the scream of nostalgia that I was feeling.

I wanted people to like me so I started rapping at cafeterias and bleacher stands. People drank cola and munched on popcorn as I talked about growing up in the hood of Burke. Real **** went down in the Burke. Like **** you wouldn’t believe. And that’s real.

I hung out on a rooftop overlooking the city drowned in sunshine that was sad as the girl who left me. Kanye West saved me from becoming a *******. And even if he’s an ******* now, everyone knows he was the greatest with 808’s and Heartbreak. Robocop used to play from the car speakers, as we rolled spliffs in the front seat, the wind pouring into the windows.

Certain people see things
differently.
Now why do we do that?
Is it a lack of closeness?
Maybe communication?

I have questions
for the pastor/Pete Campbell clone
at Immanuel Bible Church.
Like,
why does your sermon feel derivative?

How often are songs played in-between the sermons?
Are these songs a necessary transition?
A slideshow?
A distraction?
I still don’t know how to sing,

or keep tempo with claps.
Pavlov’s dog is hated,
by you.
Do you hate the dog?
Or do you hate the results of the experiment?

Is science,
a deceitful ex-girlfriend to you?
Someone you don’t trust?
If so I can understand you.
But I don’t understand you.

Because you have your truth.
And I have my truth.
Peter said to me truth is an abstraction.
I’m telling you your truth is yours.
But,
cup your hand and press it against the wall of my truth,
listen and you will hear a man and a man talking to each other.

Their naked bodies are sealed by an anchor that you have never seen.
The first man leans forward
and
kisses the second man on the nape of his neck.
Then, the second man kisses the first man on the left part of his chest.

Should I stop?
Am I scaring you?
Do you want to watch a blonde girl stick her tongue down another blonde girl’s throat,
Until her breath cannot escape and float and trail off her lips.
Like the dove white spaceships that launch into the expanding horizon of darkness.

Am I making sense?
I want you to follow my words.
I want you to respect me.
The first man is talking. The second man has his arms folded behind his back like a
Korean man, and he’s looking out the window, gazing at the dove white spaceship
Propelling into the incredible shadow, the one that is swallowing up everything we love.

Pete Campbell is the shadow.
Do you care about POV?
Are you bothered when another person is talking about a person in the third person?
I consider your opinion,

Even when you don’t consider mine.
Does that make me weak?
“Television turn off the mind,”
that is a quote that shot out of your mouth,
like an arrow from the Green Arrow dressed in Cupid’s apparel.

Or is that the flesh?
Carnal.
I digress.
Tangents happen.
I was rude. I am sorry,

And I know sorry is a word,
And you do not value words.
But I am a poet.
Words are my salmon and red wine
Rewind the cassette.

Thank you. For everything.

Cecilia touched the red splotch on my polo shirt, removed it with her finger, and wriggled her nose, as the overhead light brightened with a hazy blue. She licked her finger. I was just glad when she pulled out a chair, sat down, moved closer to me, as I poured myself a ***** cran. Cecilia clapped her hands once, and then clapped them again, as the ceiling slowly morphed into a blanket of green smoke. I guess it looked more like the planet, as the smoke turned into small pockets of water blue.

She closed her fingers over my wrist and choose to look at the floor. "What happened to the carpet?" Cecilia asked, her eyes raising. "What do you mean?" I asked, looking down at my feet that were drenched in honey and chocolate. The TV crackled to life and a picture of Joey Biden appeared and he was writing in a diary. He wore a tennis hoodie, sweatpants, and Birkenstocks.

“What do you think he’s writing?” Cecilia asked, as she munched on a pineapple.

Joey put his pencil down on the desk, then walked over to the window on the right-hand side, opened it, and took a green **** sitting on his nightstand, ripped it, letting out a plume of smoke.

I shrugged and took a large bite out of of the pineapple.

“Something funny? Something serious?” Cecilia asked again, not seeming to notice the green smoke filling up the living room.

“You want my honest opinion?” I asked. The walls trembled from the hammers beating against them. A baby grand piano was being played somewhere upstairs. Outside, stray dogs were barking up a rainstorm. I tossed the pineapple over my shoulder and pulled a candy bar sticking out of the couch cushions. I felt the years of decay and melted caramel apple coating my palm, as I hunched forward, and tossed the candy bar out the windows. The dogs howled gratefully and crooned an old jazz bebop tune.

Cecilia laughed, clicking her heels together. “No, lie to me like you do when I ask you, ‘does this dress make me look fat,” she said, as Joey reached up to his bookcase and inserted his diary in between a history text book and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. He sighed, closed his eyes, and began to talk in Portuguese.

“He’s writing something about ****. Probably because he just got high,” I said, as I put my hand over my mouth and yawned.

Joey stopped talking in Portuguese and then he got up, walked over the TV screen, touched a button. The screen went black.

Cecilia’s face was shrouded in green smoke, green as crinkled dollar bills. “Do you want to go to sleep?” she asked, stepping over the passed-out brown bear laying in a puddle of honey and chocolate.

“It’s our anniversary,” I said, moving my finger gently over a plush red box. I turned and looked at Cecilia who was grabbing my face and kissing it. The box fell into the honey and chocolate, sticking to the floor.

I bent down, picked up the box, and opened it. A paper airplane floated out and unfolded itself, landing neatly in Cecilia’s hands. She began to read it, “Dear President Obama. Thank you. For everything…”

I closed my eyes and listened to an old Louie Armstrong record playing on a turntable a foot away in the kitchen. The needle scratched. Then, the volume lowered down.

The curtains closed.

And the TV buzzed as the dogs burned each house in the neighborhood.

I watched you soar off a balcony,
Only to land on a giant net stitched
From your goals and dreams.
You traded your soul for an extra moment with the silhouette of her shadow.
Bury me in her old cardigan and
Her parking tickets. Take me back
To a time when these feelings
Didn't shatter my good sense.
I traced the outline of our brownstone
On your inner thigh.
You woke up to the bed covered
In roses and firewood.
The getaway car trembled as
You stepped inside, dragging
A red wagon weighed down by your discarded dreams.
Before I could pass out on the futon,
You asked me, do you love me?
As you drank from the merlot bottle.
I wanted to nod my head instead of
Shake it. But hey that's what the
Rewind button is for.
So the parachute refused to open,
And I died that night too with you.

You measure time by smoking cigarettes,
out on balcony where sunlight strokes
the wooden panels soaked from the rain
cast down from skies that are shades of blue
too beautiful to paint on a borrowed canvas,
once belonging to your mother
who brought it over while on a voyage
through endless waters, cumbersome,
an eternity to get through.
You are in Cartagena. And he is in Virginia.
You and him face-time, looking into screens,
to see if you’ve both aged, to see why
you both no longer smile at sarcasm and punchlines.
You look for jobs on your laptop,
while piano melodies flutter in the background,
nothing coming up in your search,
worth wasting time for. You read books
by Viet Thanh Ngyuen, talk to strangers in bars,
and sleep in until noon in a plush bed built
from hands you’ve never touched.
The clock, ticking on the wall,
a heart still beating under a cage of ribs,
and you don’t want to step foot
on a cold floor where dust refuses to collect,
a path laid out to the balcony
where you stand over the railing,
a dream in your muddied mind, a hangover
perhaps, a change in mood,
a wrist being bent, in an angle
that is in the direction of a journey
you will never take without a hand,
a guide, a push to get you going.
You take a photograph with your phone
of the place where Gabo used to sit and eat,
and drink and write. And you tell yourself,
“What a pretty desk, look how it stands upright.”

My friend Greg is musically talented, a singer-like R-Kelly, and because of that he acts like a dog, around women. Who stand by fire hydrants. He plays with his instrument in front of people on the street. And sometimes, the piano too. When Greg plays, he always wears huge sunglasses. That’s because he wants to impersonate Ray Charles. Plus, it’s cheaper than doing ******. Although, he does make a lot of money and he wants to start a band. Band-Aid company. But on a serious note, Greg teaches lessons to his students. They have tiny fingers, so it’s hard for them to reach the keys. But that’s okay because they’re in his pockets. As a musician, he dresses in black clothing. Excuse me, he dresses in African-American clothing. Before shows at open mics, in front of the audience, Greg sometimes throws up. Gang signs. In all honesty, Greg gives a great performance on stage. He just pretends the audience is naked. And then he gives them five and half minutes. As his friend, before he stepped onto the stage, I told him, “break a leg.” He tells me, thank you for pushing me so hard. As he hops around on crutches. Greg’s really good playing the piano, but the audience always gives him a slow clap. But that’s what happens when you play for retards. He considers himself a feminist womanizer. He sleeps with a lot of women. But don’t worry, he always asks for consent, before he roofies your drink. I know this from experience. He’s a good friend though. Once, I was dancing with a girl and I slipped and fell to the floor. Greg rushed over to me and stuck out his hand And I was so grateful for his friendship, until he grabbed the girl’s ***. But you can’t blame him, it was really dark in there, how was he supposed to know that was his sister. Greg loves Shanghai Noon. He’s a huge fan of Owen Wilson. And me. Greg thinks all Asian people look the same. When he saw the Walking Dead Season premiere, he sent a flower-basket to my parents. Greg is so charming. Like the toilet paper. His favorite sport’s team is the Chicago Cubs, his favorite women are the Chicago Cougars.

We’re both relaxed
We’re on fifth street
In New York city
The wrinkles on your forehead remind me
Of our struggles
You’re reading the New Yorker and I’m
Reading The Road
Then your phone starts to sing and “yesterday” starts to play
Sprawling over to the other side of the bench
You pick up your phone quickly
Your lip starts to curl
And a frown appears on your face
Your eyes swell up
As you tell me
“My brother Jon is going to Iraq”

Late in the evening, the child takes off her reading glasses
And lays on the glass floor with blurry sight and an open reality.
While her textbooks blaze their myths
in the hearthside under the black coals,
By the window is a telescope
with a scratched up mirror, the knobs can’t be adjusted.

On the table are her laminated note cards
with trivial knowledge written
in fancy cursive.

The cards slip from the countertop and drift unto dust clouds.

That is suspended in a broken imagination.
Her handwriting sits on top of weightless ambitions
and sinks through the melting mesh net.

Cough syrup puddles pollute the kitchen sink,
purple pools of empty dreams.

Undercooked food for her thought
is smoking in the oven,
but she knows the smoke will clear soon;
all that is needed is time, time and space.

Everything that matters gets clogged
up in the sink’s drain, her thoughts,
and her sanity.

She once believed she had a connection with God,
but that illusion
Left her with a soggy tissue box
just like her high-school sweetheart.
Nicholas Sparks’s novels are the bottomless hole,
which she jumps into
each night, not even pretending to trip over the ledge.

The grandfather clock laughs with her
and doesn’t act his age,
Right below him sitting on a plush pedestal
is Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
The novel not the movie.
It sits upright with its legs crossed just as a lady would,

Black sunglasses to correct her eyesight
when everything collapses in a man’s world.

The stardust on the windowsill eats
through her emotional doll house, she
Yearns for a thrill like getting hit
by a chloroform dart in her breast. She desperately

wants an intoxicating heart sickness.
Wine glasses stand in line patiently
Waiting for her to fill them up
and then swallow their anxiousness away.

She thinks of her bubbly mother
who smiles while her Dad beats her.
But every evening, she ties an apron around her waist,
turns the chicken broth stew into escape from perfection.
She uses a wooden ladle,
but longed for a silver spoon

When all she had were Vogue magazines and the black and white pictures.

The girl get up from the carpet floor,
and leans over her half-opened window.
Outside the fireflies battle the moths
for the attention of a dying lamppost.
As the flame is cremated, a street-smart ***
rolls down the street in his shopping cart,

Steering the cart with the negative weight of newspapers.
The girl lies back down

And her lighter flickers
under a torn page of a child’s diary, she twirls around
Her spectacles searching for a woman in the reflection.
But she can’t see anything

human, just an animal
who lusts for a world that exists only in Tinsel Town.

Thoughts of waiting tables in the evening
and casting calls in the morning.
Another girl who wants to be a golden star
that never shines underneath a concrete sidewalk

In Northern Virginia, for the ladies of wealth, Sunday mornings begin with a hangover, a Virginia Slim, and a Xanax. The day transitions to brunch at Liberty Tavern: one mimosa and one ****** Mary; an omelet with green and red peppers; and another round of mimosas and another ****** Mary, because: why in the world not?

For Thu—a Vietnamese American—Sunday mornings always begin with a different routine.  

She comes downstairs to the dining room, steps around the bundle of adult diapers, and pulls back the curtain that leads to her parents.

There, on the far right corner, her Dad lays on an electric bed, his eyes sleepy as if he had drunk too much whiskey from the night before. His mouth agape, he has a face of a man who has lived for many years. In fact he has, 80 something years in fact. His arm hangs over the railing, blue veins protruding from the skin.

Thu pulls the blinds and light comes seeping through the window.

Her Dad smiles as the sunlight warms up his face.

Thu lifts him out of bed and into his wheelchair and travels with him, looping around the house in a circle: starting with the dining room, then the foyer, through the hallway, out the kitchen, and then back to the dining room. She tries to make him walk at least three rounds. Sometimes he makes it, sometimes he doesn’t.

He grunts and curses in Vietnamese, his walker scraping against the marble and hardwood floors. He moves the walker, using the little strength he has in his biceps and the muscles in his right leg.

Two years ago, her Dad had a stroke, leaving the right side of his body impaired and aching. Ever since then, he’s been trying to recover. He spends his time watching soccer and UFC on a television with a line running across the screen. He has caretakers who assist him with going to the bathroom and showering.

His wife is the only thing that keeps him going. She has Alzheimer’s and at random times in the night she’ll open up the refrigerator and search for food, because during the day she hardly eats a bite. She walks around in a cardigan and cotton pants, a toothpick jutting out from her mouth. She enjoys lying on the sofa and making phone-calls to her friends.

But she often misdials the numbers, startled when she hears a voice of a stranger on the other end of the line. She tells the stranger she doesn’t know English, shutting her eyes before trying to dial another number.

Thu has lived in Northern VA for many years, 18 years to be exact. She’s a Hokie. She’s an avid watcher of Criminal Minds. And she enjoys apple cider with a side of kettle-corn. Despite having to cook and look after her parents, she never complains. Never gets upset. Never says that life is unfair.

Later on in the day, she’s wearing a blouse dotted with blue flowers, a pair of gray sweatpants, and open-toed sandals.

When her daughter Vicki walks into the kitchen, she makes a remark about her posture. Vicki scoffs, no longer trying to seek her approval, but when Thu’s back’s turned, she straightens out her posture. Thu never makes a comment about her boyfriend. That’s a lost cause in her eyes. Once Thu doesn’t approve on a relationship that’s the end of it. She wants the best for her daughter, pushes her to be the best at what she does.

Thu used to live in Saigon. When the war ended, she had fallen in love with a boy who lived next door to her. He was her first love. He would write love poems to her. Sometimes they would hold hands. Once they had shared a kiss.

They were young and deeply in love. But as the war finished up, they moved on from each other. The boy went to live with his family in Australia, while she moved to America. After they broke up, Thu would still think about him. He was the one who dumped her.

The breakup crushed her heart. But she didn’t let it mar her dignity. Time passed by, Thu moved to Virginia and she went to high school in Fairfax County. The letters started pouring in from the boy. But she had too much pride and she didn’t respond until one day.

That was the day that John Lennon was murdered in cold blood.

She was heartbroken like every other person in the world. Yet, she also thought of the boy and how much he loved John Lennon.

Thu remembers reading the newspaper, seeing John Lennon’s face on the front page of the paper. She took a pair of scissors and cut a square around John’s face. Then she wrote a letter to the boy. And then she sealed the newspaper clipping and the letter in an envelope and begged her mom over the phone to send the letter to the boy. Her mom was still in Saigon and somehow she made contact with the boy and gave the letter to him.

A month later, she opened the mail and there was a letter from the boy.

She read the letter, stifled a cry, and then proceeded to write. The next day she sent the letter. Thu was happy to read his words. It was as though she could hear his voice through his sentences. Like he was there next to her, looking at her, speaking to her spirit.

Days passed. Weeks passed. And then after a month she realized he wasn’t going to respond back to her letter. She couldn’t believe that he didn’t give her a response.

“And that’s the end of the story,” Thu said to her son.

“What do you mean that’s the end of the story? That can’t be the end!”

“Well you’re the writer, right? Think of an ending.”

Okay. So here it goes.

Thu smiles, her eyes grow sleepy, and her head slumps over. She starts to snore, very loudly in fact. But it’s cute and you’re hoping that she’s dreaming, dreaming about something relentlessly lovely.

You made me wait for 45 minutes at a Banh Mi shop as the afternoon sun
morphed into a ceiling of darkness. I read a story on Buzzfeed
about break ups and relationship rocky as the road my car sat on.
The gas station was lit up like a theme park, but no one arrived,
and soon I believed you'd been taken, or you'd forgotten about me.
The cicadas started chirping and the humidity in the air cooled down,
and when I was about to turn over the engine, your black Honda scuttled into the parking space covered in puddles. As though, you knew
you could survive on any terrain, whether rough, or wet, smooth, or dry.
We talked briefly, small chit-chat, nothing worth mentioning.
I had already devoured a double-cheese burger and some fries,
but I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to ruin your appetite.
You touched my bicep, told me to flex. I did as I was told, like an old dog, wanting to please its master. My muscle hurt after your fingers drew away, as though my skin showed a wound, something ugly and worn.
I tried to smile, but inside I was drowning in false ****** expressions, and shortcut body language. We went inside, shuffling to the L-shape line, you picking up Mochi Ice-cream from the freezer, and me just happy to be in your presence. You said, you missed me and I knew you mean it too.
I said, you don't know how good it is to see you. You nodded and put your head on the nape of my shoulder. Closing your eyes momentarily, I touched your hip and held on for dear life. Because all around us, war battered young and old in countries stricken by fear and poverty. Gifs and Memes provided us with distractions, as you showed me the trailer to a new rom-com. They're just like us, you said.
You're right, I said. I gave you back the phone, before the trailer ended.

True Reflection
I saw him walking down the uneven concrete
He had a beat to his step, every move on count
Avoided slanted ladders and black cats on corners
Steel noose hung from his neck that resembled a cross
It dangled like an unsteady decoration
He had a long stride and I was on par with pace
Walked close but there was a wide gap in our bridge
Chicago wind pushed through us with cold shoulders  
It carried harsh fumes of a forest cremation  
Evergreen trees torched, leaves fall to the ground mourning
He enjoyed the smoke’s company, didn’t wave her off  
But she left as he heard chords of American horns
He bobbed his head to the sermons preached by beggars
Ran from synchronized fireworks between gangs
Glared at visual art of red and blue strobe lights
Treaded his fingers on chipped pale skin of town houses
And tasted the sweet sourness of a girl’s rain-check
His expression was content like the heart of a book
His smile fell in sequenced with the collapse of eyelids
I became aware that something was weighing his walk
Opaque bottles barely stood straight in his coat pockets
Staggered after each other like rows of dominos
Bottles fractured causing the cement to catch ripples
He couldn’t brake over broken glass he drove into me
Nose to Nose we touched as we were about to crash
I carved into the core of his eye and saw myself
Lying on the pavement with a blanket of fragments
And I realized I couldn’t remove the stained glass
Because what was there belonged from the beginning

Poets pray at the altar of their bed
for a chance to have one of their verses go viral.
If I snore during my prayers,
I've been spending my free time
trying to write you a letter.
You may read it like a voicemail,
and that's fine because I'm still a millennial.

For ex: I bought you this carton of Parliaments,
with the money I earned from changing diapers
at a daycare. We don't have to talk about the future,
because all that does is make me beg for a beer.

I caught feelings for you and you knew that.
because this rain pours from clouds high
in a white sky. It looks like a half-cut marble.
Jay told me to listen to his audio cassette tape,
and now I'm going to wait for you on this balcony.
Don't worry it's a story-high,
and I'm scared of blood.
Worse, I fear being mortal
in a world without you.

Jesus wore sandals, you wear sandals.
The heat from the flames seared from out the window of the black Buick.
Emails from job recruiters are trying to make you work for them. Work for the man. Don’t use your brain. Be my slave. You do not exist. You exist for me.
Washington D.C. has a neighborhood; and walking deeper and deeper into its trap will lead to the retelling of the Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
My GPS is my angel, pointing me in the right direction. A cliché, yes, but how very true.
The Washington Post stand is blocking the entrance to the corner store like a trusted guide.
There’s a lock on the box that holds the newspapers. I’m a Vietnamese American man.
Man,
Whites, black, Hispanics, Asians; they, all give me weird looks.
Emotions course through the stem.
Sleep awaits, but NaS said, “sleep is the cousin of death.”
There is this beauty-skin book sitting on the balustrade of light green row-house, propped against a neat, white fence that holds in the pink magnolias. Rain drops on the book.
Pattering along the cover, the raindrops, slipping, now running down the cracked brick, seeping into a cigarette ****. This is the neighborhood. The book is hope.
Allah, God, Buddha
The can from the soda company is in the grass in the D.C. Neighborhood. Who put it there? It is raining, cleaning my body.
The rain is pouring and I feel like I’ve found my calling.
It is to form the language.
And as that epiphany smacks me in the face, my left side of my brain starts hurting.
What does this mean?
Am I truly waking up from the dream?
I understand. You’re listening to me.
The raindrops fell on my glasses and I felt my vision was changing. The cloudiness disappeared from the lenses. Cay’s pain-stricken face turned into a smile, full of happiness, full of friendship. He’s a good friend. I’m the bad one.
I want to be good.
I want to be good.
It’s change.
For the better, for real.
When it was raining,
The lightbulb popped up outside.
And I finally had the lightbulb speak to me for the first time.
I knew I was a bad person and now I needed to change into a good person.
The car stops moving forward,
I turn the engine off,
And go back to the beginning.

friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.  
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
—*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***.
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.

Vicky opened the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, and got out a box of vanilla ice cream. She looked down at the ceramic bowl and scooped a piece of vanilla ice cream with a spoon. She ate it and it tasted creamy and cold.

            Glenn forced a smile, as if he were trying to placate her, and knew he had no chance in hell of accomplishing that feat. He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it.

            “You’re really going today?” Vicky asked.

            “Yeah, I really am. Hey, don’t do that. Can't you be strong for us?” Glenn asked.

            Vicky nodded and watched Glenn take in a deep breath and look down at his scuffed tennis shoes. They went out of the house and walked to the veranda. The sunlight was bright and hot and the ice cubes in the lemonade melted from the heat that blazed and scorched when Vicky pulled from her vape.  

             Glenn pushed his chair back and sat down, the veranda was filled with shade, and he dribbled his fingers on the table in a steady rhythm. She tried not to look at him, tried not to think about him leaving for the war, but all she could think about was him flying a fighter jet and seeing it fly into a golden mountain range, smashing into a thousand pieces of aluminum and scrap metal.

            “I don’t understand why you have to go back to the Middle East…you were so against the fighting in the beginning when the war started. And now you’re changing your mind. I mean, what are you trying to prove?” Vicky asked, taking a sip from her lemonade.

            Glenn folded his hands on the table and said in a quiet voice, “I’m not trying to prove anything. But I got to go over there. So many of my friends have died in Afghanistan and Iraq. Now people are dying in Syria. All of those refugees are getting murdered. Not killed. Murdered. They don’t have anyone helping them. I just want to make a small contribution and **** these terrorists up.”

            “What about me Glenn? Who’s going to be there for me? Who’s going to take care of me?” Vicky said, feeling her tears brim her eyes.

            “Look Vicky. I have to do this and I don’t expect you to understand what I’m doing, but I need your support. All these people are dying. You can see it all over the news, the net, social media. The terrorists don’t discriminate in their slaughter. Women, men, boys, girls, young and old. Every person is getting hurt out there. I can’t sit back and do nothing. I won’t be gone for long. I’ll be back before you know it. Promise, I’ll come back,” Glenn said, rubbing her Vicky’s hand. He touched the skin right above her wrist and offered her a smile.

            Vicky withdrew her hand immediately, got up from her seat, and went inside to the family room. He was drinking his lemonade when he set the glass down on the countertop and walked into the kitchen. Vicky slammed the freezer door so hard that some of the alphabet magnets fell off. Glenn flinched and cleared his throat as he washed his glass in the sink. The water dripped down his hands and washed his wrists.  

              She set the ice cream down on the countertop and looked directly into Glenn’s eyes. They were droopy and red with his pupils fixated on the large flat screen mounted on the wall in front of him. A computer keyboard sat on the couch cushion and a mouse-pad sat on the couch-arm. The TV screen showed a picture of men and women cramped in black inflatable boats coasting up and down waves that undulated in murky waters. A commercial break popped up: Anderson Cooper doing the news from Turkey.

               Glenn rubbed his chin and his new buzz cut, a huge difference from his old stoner’s shaggy hair. His face was narrow, but he had a broad chin with dimples in his cheeks. He was clean shaven, so much, that it looked like the razor had cut off the frightened expression from his face that had appeared when he found out he was going to be training to be a pilot. Glenn had a huge fear when it came to heights, and had never even been on a plane, let alone flying into an unknown territory like Syria. The military operated with drones at this point in the war, something Glenn hoped he could use instead of actually flying. He tucked in his raggedy camo green tee with the sleeves cut off. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his tan khakis, folded the ends up like edges on a cocktail napkin. Glenn looked comfortable in his old attire, but seemed unsettled, as if unsure about going back into the military.

              Vicky stared across the room at the decaying bonsai trees on the cracked windowsill. She had bought the trees for Glenn and now the leaves were browning and turning dead. Outside, it thundered with lightning. She said softly, “You remember Maggie Drayner, right? Well, her husband died over there. I can’t imagine what she must go through every day. I think she’s gone insane. Just absolutely insane. She cremated him and put some of the ashes in a mason jar, and stashed that in her purse. But she always looks so happy, she tells me: he’s always with her now. I worry about her.”

              Glenn wiped his hands on a bath towel. “So, they’re like us now? Is that what you’re saying? Why are you telling me this?” he asked, turning around to face her.

              Vicky put her hands on her hip and sighed. “If you go over there, they’re going to hurt you,” she said, pulling on her vape. A plume of smoke rose and fell.

               Focused on the screen now, Glenn watched as three American soldiers were standing in front of an American flag. “That’s nice of you to say. Do you understand my perspective though? I really got to help out these guys right now Vicky, I’d feel like I’m letting them down if I don’t go over there. They need me. Maybe you don’t see this, but I’m making a difference.”

              “Life isn’t some stupid game. You don’t get a restart, lives, or a respawn. Why can’t you stay home, stay with me?” she asked. Vicky frowned and pointed at the TV screen. “Do you think that’s smart? Killing people?”

              Glenn reached over to hug Vicky and she moved right out of his grasp. He looked up at her and sighed and said, “It’s a one-way street and both sides are crashing into each other, without any regard for any soul. Baby, baby look at me. Do you think I enjoy doing this to you? That this is a vacation for me? Trust me. I’d rather be doing spending time with you than fighting the enemy. But that’s not how life turned out.”

               Vicky bit her lip. “So this is how life turned out? You’re going to war, and I’m stuck here at home, we’re both going to die aren’t we Glenn?” she said. Her mouth felt sore and parched and her face burned with irritation. She knew she couldn’t stop him from going, not even if she poured quicksand over the front entrance.

                 Glenn ran his fingers through his black hair and rested his chin on his palm. “You know that’s not what I meant, don’t twist my words. You think it’s easy for me to go?”

            She turned away from him and rapped her nails against the TV screen. “What do you see that I don’t? It’s a stupid war. Everyone dies over there. Glenn, you don’t have to save the world. You have me,” she said, feeling some tension in her stomach rise up.

              Glenn picked up the remote control and turned off the TV. The picture went fuzzy and then went black. He said, “Vicky, I’m going to say this once and then I don’t want to have to repeat myself, so please be calm down, and listen to me. Please.”

                 Vicky curled her bottom lip, but didn’t say anything.

                “Do you even know why I’m doing a second tour again? A bomb hit my best friend Theo’s squad on the way to a mission. The car flipped and rolled twice. Theo was the driver and he had severe head trauma. Now, he can’t even remember his first name. He almost lost and arm and a leg due to the explosion. I think his mind is deteriorating. I don’t know how he survived, why some higher power let him breathe another breath. I haven’t been to church in months. But that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is Vicky—the reason why I’m going back into this war, is because, I want to save guys like Theo. I could have protected him. I could have saved him. He’s family to me. We’re brothers. And in my home, I can pretend to fight and protect my family and my country. But it’s not the same. It’s just not. And honestly, I don’t care if this is pathetic to you or if you’re embarrassed of me. You’re going to have to accept that I’m leaving, but that I’m doing it for the right reasons.” Glenn said.

                  Vicky frowned. She went back to the kitchen and opened her ice cream. But she hesitated before scooping any ice cream out. She was looking for substance and instead she was left with melted vanilla cream and vapors.

give me a chance
to take you out
for one last night
in the city,

as the angels sleep on the sidewalks,
and the reptiles snore in the white house.

I'm crying alone
while your friends check their phones,
smoke their vapes,
and Brady the dog nudges my leg
with his snout,
soft as a napkin
wiping breadcrumbs off a table.

Chipotle before we write diary entries
for our children who look like your
ex-boyfriend. Tell them stories
past their curfew,
as their heads cloud with dreams,
where nothing but beauty blooms,
and sadness goes to pasture,
to be cooked on a rotisserie,
and spit out into bits.

like your flesh when it's been burnt by a lighter.
so listen up,
finish your game of FIFA,
then make me laugh,
so that I could forget about yesterday's fight.

Hire me before I go off the deep-end
of this swimming pool at a rec-center,

bury me in designer clothes, packets
of sugar, make me something pretty.

I am tired. Debt has me shivering,
the heating bill needs to be paid,

I need to **** this coffee grinder,
in order to produce warmth.

Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.

The neighborhood was surrounded
by looming trees and basketball hoops,
shrouded in a blanket of blinding sunshine
that burned the petals
off of the white magnolias
and the pink petunias
that all stood crooked in the rigid garden,
the soil entrenched with dead caterpillars
and corpses of black birds.  
There were large holes
that were pocked in the slanted driveways.
Tarnished, ruby red sedans sat side by side,
their tires deflated and front fascias
caked with mud and grime.
Each house had a flat roof with peeling shingles,
and wide gutters that were strewn with brown leaves
which fluttered down to the front lawn
when the winds from the Northeast
pushed through to cover the neighborhood with
freezing air.
A little girl was chasing a little boy,
swinging at him with a whiffle ball bat,
hollering until her voice was hoarse,
the white sundress she was wearing, frayed
on the edges, her long hair bleached from the sun.
The boy had a deep shiner on his left eye
and snot flying out his nose while he giggled,
running around in circles and circles,
pulling up on his trousers which kept
slipping below his waist, the buttons
on his dress shirt dangling against the fabric.
A short woman with hunched shoulders
was leaning back in a rocking chair,
snapping open a cold beer,
tapping her blue slippers together,
gazing at the children, her chin in her hand,
wishing she could run freely without
the bones in her legs cracking and bending
from one end to the other.
The weather was muggy, slicking
the pools of water that had been collected
beneath the lonely streetlamp, its bulb opaque
on one side, and naked on the other.
I remember that we were sheltered in this environment,
imprisoned from the blaring sirens atop the police cruisers
and the nasty rodents, which crawled along
the winding streets looking for innocence in children.
And now we are living apart from our gated communities,
decaying away in our studio apartments and cozy bungalows,
watching Reality TV shows and college football games
on our 50 inch screens while we indulge in pistachio ice cream
and IPAs, thinking we are safe, thinking we
deserve our privilege, thinking that we need more.
More income, more flesh, more vehicles.
When all we need is a half-hour of conversation
with someone who cares about our disposition
dreams, and longings. And does not require
our status, our background, or our possessions.
We were sheltered from this world of hate and love,
and had to find ourselves through material objects,
and careless people.
But we can change and become better,
better than who we are now, beyond
what is said to be vibrant and beautiful.
Because we are human,
and are able to understand
what is right
and what is wrong.
Before we were sheltered
and now we are exposed
to the pain, to the suffering,
to the beauty, to the happiness.
The shelter has shattered
into many halves,
that do not have to be carried
on our backs
until we are old,
until we are gray,
until we collapse.

When we broke up with each other,
the light in your eyes vanished forever in that moment.
Traces of brightness flickered on the ground,
like pieces of ash.

I lifted up my foot and smothered the traces of light,
as you pulled open your voice from your mouth
and screamed for dear life.
You stabbed my chest with a sword made out of insults.

The blood spilling out of the wound,
stained my white polo shirt
that was supposed to be my bulletproof vest,
the blood piercing the fabric like hollow shells on fire.

I wanted to take every thought from your mind
and collect them in my hands,
crushing them into a pulp. I forgot about the good times,
as if they were our cars in a crowded parking lot.

You said you loved me, but I was born deaf,
so all I heard was you hate me. Layers of cobwebs
laid buried in my ears and your words
were ear-plugs.

After we broke up, I drowned myself
in a bathtub of regret and exhaustion.
I took a bottle of gin, poured it out,
and replaced it with dreams of a hopeful future, then had a sip.

She got my number from her sister Elizabeth.
She spoke in a voice, bearing resemblance to the silkworms the Europeans stole.
She used to date a guy from Hixson who drove a 1956 Chevy Bel Air.

I drove a Toyota.
I didn’t smoke cigarettes, or drink alcohol.
I went to NOVA, the community college.

She texted me: Good Morning; She texted me: I’m thinking about you.
She told me, over the phone, about her car accident, before her family.
She found a new boyfriend: Mark. A mellow skater.

I took my first creative writing class with a Professor as my poet.
I wrote poems about her, long ones, and short ones. Showed them all to her.

I spoke with her over the phone; told her I loved her.

When she didn’t respond.
I hung up.

My shiny car, I love that Japanese luxury
It was a hand-me-down from my mom
I love her for that
I named my car Avy short for Avalon
A good Asian car not like those American cars
Those American cars are big and strong
Asian Cars are easy-going and have nicer sound systems
But there’s something different about this car
Every year
The metal
Rusts away
And I’m scared that one day I’ll lose her

She plucks feathers from the tiny hole
in her comforter, handing them
to my trembling hands as if she were
giving me pockets of conversation.

I crumble the feathers with my fingers,
feeling the softness and the lightness.
She gets up and ambles on to
the bathroom, as I drop the feathers.

When she is blow-drying her gorgeous
black hair, I step outside the house
and onto the patio to smoke
a cigarette, knowing she will not approve.

I sip on black coffee, hoping my breath
will reek a little less. After I finish
I come back inside and she walks
into the room, telling me she smells the smoke.

I feel embarrassed. I look down
at the carpet counting all the black
and brown spots, then I come across
the feathers, so white and immaculate.

I move closer to her and run my fingers
through her hair, feeling the knots and
the curls, leaning forward to kiss her lips,
thinking that it will rectify the situation.

She pushes me away and asks "Are you
trying to get cancer?" She crosses her arms
and huffs, narrowing her brown eyes
at me as if I were a suspect in a crime.

I put my hands on top of my head
and try my best not to shrug, but I
cannot help feeling indifferent. And
that feeling makes me think that I'm careless.

She shakes her head and taking a step,
she scoops the feathers from the carpet
and shoves them back into the comforter.
Glancing back at me she asks, "Why do you hurt yourself?"

And I do not have an answer for her.

Losing you was like shedding the extra fat off my belly;
I loved it, maybe, too much.

Now I stand tall, thin and gaunt.
Push me over and I may fall over.

Share with me, your story,
Allegories of time times you spent

alone and vulnerable in a single moment,
small as a raisin, large as a glacier.

Forget about me, as you live out your journey
through song and Calligraphy.

You belch and I wipe off the *****
from your chin. Silly me, you say.

Take this blade, cut away the fragile hairs
from my forearm. Let me go,

like a mother unwrapping her fingers
around her baby boy's shoulders

so that he can ride his blue bicycle
and pedal off into the distant sunset.

The light is growing,
and we are smiling.

She is the last cigarette in a crumpled pack
that you have lost,
and now you have found.
I pull out my lighter
and put the cigarette to my lips.
My hand trembles, the lighter slipping through my grasp.
There’s smoke spreading across the fresh air,
billowing from another smoker’s cigarette.
I smell it.
The smoke engulfs my lungs.
I refuse to cough and I breathe in deep.
My knees begin to bend and I sit down,
on the curb.
But,
I lose my balance,
stumbling,
as though I had the laces on my tennis shoes
tangled,
warped,
an imperfect figure eight,
a dog flap for a rabbit’s ear.

You sit down at a desk, coffee in hand, and you try writing a joke for a humor magazine.

“Yesterday, my roommate Angie suggested that I should try being a male role model. And I totally would, but that would conflict with my dream of being a male fashion model. I have all the qualifications of being a model: I’m pretty tall, about 6 foot 3, I enjoy walking around with a constipated expression on my face, and since I’m Asian, I’ll look twenty-two years old for years to come. So ***** a 401 k and medical insurance, when my genetics will give me reliable job security.”

The sunlight hurts your eyes, the pencil point has dulled, and in the next room it reeks of boiled eggs and spoiled cream cheese. You won’t eat brunch for a month.

Angie watches TV on the couch in the living room, pours ***** into her glass of orange juice, spills a little bit of it on her jeans. Her sunglasses are black and make her look like John Lennon. Of course, she’s wearing a stone’s Tee, so you don’t bother to tell her what you think. Telecommuting has been her life for the past six months. She works as a consultant for Accenture and has traveled to Austin, San Diego, Brooklyn, even Miami. You’ve never been outside of Virginia.

Upstairs in your bedroom, you dress in a button-up: pretend you’re a 20’s something professional, instead of a 25-year-old going through a pseudo-quarter life crisis. Getting fired from the dealership wasn’t as big of a deal as losing out on seeing your coworker’s smile when you give them a donut from Krispy Kreme. When you’re in the bathroom, taking a number two, sometimes, you catch a glimpse of your old manager’s enthusiastic smile, and you feel like you’ve let him down.

Go out to the coffee shop on Main Street, sit by the window, scribble hearts on the margins of your notebook. Try writing another joke.

“Honestly any job is fine with me, but I'm a little afraid of going back into the workforce. The last couple of jobs I worked, happened to be with co-workers who ended up becoming my sister's boyfriends. My sister is in a pretty serious relationship now with a guy I used to work with at a tennis camp. So if I get hired and start working again, there's a very good chance that my sister could end up dating a guy who walks around in his underwear for a living,”

Google: starving artist. Consider the picture for the starving artist: straight, white, male. Ask yourself: why are the envelopes in the mail box, also always: straight, white mail. Golf-clap for the correlation created by your inner poet. Contemplate drinking wine during the day; red. Look for jobs on Indeed.com to pass the time.

“And if modeling doesn't work out and he ends up in a deep and dark depression. No worries, just make sure he eats excessively, and he'll be ready new career path as a sumo wrestler.”

Ask for a job application from the barista with the puppy-dog eyes. When you finish the app, intentionally smudge your handwriting to prevent employers from seeing your professional references. Your last six jobs ended in you getting kicked out; a world class record right? No one inside gives the impression that they want to talk to you. Crack your knuckles. Crack your back. As you casually take a drag from your cigarette next to the “NO-SMOKING” sign, wonder if it life would be different if you were Korean; Japanese; Chinese. Puppy-dog eyed barista bangs on the storefront window, mouths: put the cig out dude. Follow the instruction and feel guilt momentarily.

While you wait for the Wi-Fi homepage to load up, resist the urge to text Angie: how’s your day? Or: “Wanna read a joke I wrote?” Cold beads of water drip down the contour of your thumb; incidentally, nobody gives a **** about mundane detail like the one you just mentioned.

Ask the blue-scarf wearing girl if you can keep an eye out on your computer. She asks: sure, how long will you be gone? Don’t tell her you’re going to the bathroom to throw up last night’s combination of supreme pizza and several shots of Johnny Walker. Tell her: I need to wash my face. She nods and noticeably grins, as though she’s caught you doing something incredibly embarrassing.

Once in the bathroom, look into the mirror. Breathe: once, twice. Your hand starts shaking like saltshakers in a Ying-Yang twin’s music video. Stand over the toilet. Close your eyes before you dip your finger into your mouth. Refrain from thinking about her.

“The worst thing about driving in DC is having people call you out on slow driving. And then they see my face and they're like it’s an Asian thing. And I'm like no it's a speed camera thing. I tell my friends I don't think I'm a bad driver. And they tell me Mario kart doesn't count. I tell them I've never gotten a speeding ticket. And they say but you've been in four accidents. I say yeah but I'm golden in Mario Kart.”

You park your car in the driveway. Angie is sitting on a rocking chair and smoking a cigar. Radiohead plays from laptop speakers. Her eyes are puffy red and you wonder how long has she been sobbing for. Would laughter dry up her tears better than a box of Kleenex?  The grass sways. Cars pass by. And Angie pulls up a chair for you. Sit, ask her what’s wrong, and listen to her story. Wait for her to explain the situation, detail by detail, then tell her your best joke, and watch her face break out into a smile, as the smoke from her cigar vanishes into the air, a space opening up now between you and her.

As the beat breaks,
the floor trembles,
the records spin, and we
all dance
on the hardwood floor
covered in spilt beer
cocktail napkins,
at a house show in DC,
where I'll always remember
rushing on the stage
and waving my cellphone,
as though I brightened
the light in a beacon
tucked away in a lighthouse
on a grotesque rock formation,
in the corner of the James River.
I studied her movements:
tiny and minute,
enough to bring exposure
to the deejay scratching records
on a set of turntables,
cut from a maple tree.
The lights cut off,
like a road raged driver
who maneuvers frantically
around my vehicle,
this vessel containing my space,
personal and untouched,
a lonely cabin in a dense forest.
Now I'm considering whether
I should break the beer bottle over
the bar booth, or send her an emoji, a meme, or a gif,
to let her know my heart
possesses multitudes,
beyond the scope of your timeline. Found life in
the bottom of a Murakami Well
deeper and larger than the cavern
behind the hidden waterfall,
in a tourist attraction in Chattanooga.
This is for when I'm sorry; make me
forget
about drawings you’ve sketched
on the back of your pair of converses.
So do me a solid,
give me the first home video
of your newborn crawling around
the carpet, or the dance floor.
And then tell me why can't I be great too.