My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child

that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks

My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.

after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,

writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes

light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once

Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees

It’s morning

The light hurts your eyes:

Yesterday is hurting you: You were moving in.

This is how they welcome you to the neighborhood,

The toothpaste is making everything bitter—

he’s dreaming of rivers

you’re awake staring at the ceiling

at clumps of runaway white paint—

on a pillow that smells like your sister

At the beach

The sand is bleeding—

the water rinses away the stains,

You’re making circles out of sugar

She’s laying on her stomach—

The sun pouring maraschino cherries on back

That exact moment, right before it
You can hear cereal being eaten slowly
And the bones of thin skinned people
Rubbing against each other squeaking
You hear keys crunching into a new house
And you’ll realize the secret happiness of
The other side of the pillow
The secret happiness of kissing in movie theaters
Or the secret sadness of crying when no one’s around
That exact moment, right before it.
Before you throw the ashes into the river
Stuttering like the words before the last words
Trying to make sense the gibberish before the first words
The caterpillars before the love

I was sitting outside on the curb in front the venue
With Spaghetti string lights that curved into shape
Spelling out Baby’s Alright
Spilling out green and blue, green and blue all over the pavement
And thought if Care-Bears could ***** it would be like this
The band was finished and they were packing up slowly
Reluctant to leave
Maybe because they had a four hour drive ahead of them to Philly
I was smoking like I do after big crowds
The sun was setting here and rising at another place
And I was thinking about what to do for the rest of the night
Because I didn’t want to be alone but I didn’t want to be in a crowd
Everyone was talking about drinking and if not drinking, smoking
And if smoking then eating and all roads leads to Rome
So if they wanted to **** they might as well have just said it—
But I guess they wanted to be nice first
It was cool outside and the wind was kind to let me smoke in peace
I kept staring at the schizophrenic buildings changing voices one after another
Which is to say I just eavesdropping on the windows again
And I always have this strange habit of thinking that the people in those buildings are free
Or willing to spend sometime with me and talk about whatever
Like they had sometime to waste and I would have taken it

Maybe because you look cute in
A purple bra
Maybe because it’s just the image of you
In a bra
Maybe because you have *****
And I can’t distinguish Love from ***
Tonight
But tomorrow I’ll hate you
I might hate your hair changing so much or I might hate
What you text late at night or I might hate how often
You talk about yourself
Which are terrible things to hate but I just might because
It’s you.
The truth is it’s late, all the windows
Are closed, I ran out of ideas, 2 hours from now everyone
Will wake up and
I want to call you

I’ve been squeezing moose all over my body in an attempt
To give it more volume
Which is to say I was trying to give my life more depth

When you’re finished reading astronomy you’ll end up
Throwing oranges at pedestrians because **** it, Earth is
Meaningless and everyone needs to cheer up

**** it because being content is the hardest
Thing you can possibly do
Which is to say throwing oranges at people is the hardest
Thing to do without getting your *** kicked

**** it because when an orange concentrates hard enough it becomes juice
And if I concentrate hard enough I **** myself
Which is to say I need to have a seat and calm down—
Enjoy this cigarette while it lasts

I am no longer able to print Handle-With-Care labeling
And tape it to my body like someone who actually believes that works
While the sun laughs and harasses me with oranges all day
**** it, there’s too much moose and I’m wearing a white shirt.

I found myself peeling the skin off post it notes
I was lost
You okay they said, like a statement than a question
People get annoyed like I’m adding oil into their drink water
When I sprout about my sadness
Relax, I’m not asking you to hold an anchor
I’m asking you to listen
Happiness is a bridge on fire with no one on it
Sadness is a metal detector through the streets
Depression is when the roof tops, knifes, and middles of bridges
Start being friendly

I’m stealing thumbtacks off walls
And putting the in people’s
Pizzas to teach them
How to swallow sadness

The problem is I like to pretend,
Which is to say I like to fall in love
We would date for a while
And then I would realize
I’m only in love with the story we made and the ***
Which is to say I was looking for poetic material

Like, Teenage poetry is awkward
And Young poetry is selfish
Middle-age poetry is about my ex-wife
Old poetry is boring
Dead or Near-Dead poetry is what we remember
And all poetry is filled with cigarettes stains and mistakes

Life is short. He says
I hand him a cheese grader
And said back
“Make like a slice of parmesan
and go **** yourself”

Life is long for the people who wait

I was on the bridge with the sun high above
Taunting me and pinching the back of my neck
Do It, You *****!
Around me were families
So I decide not to,
And never again;