These                                                                       (this) are

                                              (is)

(:a poem;
                                    For yOu.)

                                                                                      (Whom i hAvE)

                                 (been nursing)
                                          
                        ( B             h                  e
                              u          c            r
in                                     a     T                                            My
                                  T    m
                             f        o          l
                       i               t                e
                                         s)


butterflies—they glow
              For you,                                     {they've spared me some cold,

chilly

nights}

              <goodby>                they're yours now.

                                                                                                              
                                                                                                            <goodby>

Still,
I rise.

By the power of God,
I sheath
The knife
That was once pressed
To my neck.

That falls to the floor
With a resounding
click.

Rusting. Tetanus shots. God.

Somehow I saw
Jesus' face in the blade's
Own,
Ruddy red hair and
Scraggly beard.

And.

Voice cleaving through
The darkness—
a whisper.

For the first time in
A while,

He spoke to me.
Still,

I rise.

Porous asphalt,
And bandaged, quilt
Homes puncture the
Neighborhood,
Which reads like a tattered
American flag; all
Coke Ads and weight loss
Billboards,

Half-burnt houses slant,
Like the hills of San Francisco—
Our own makeshift cable
Carts, limping up
And down the inclines.

We are slowly being burned
By our once golden sun—
Having been taught to
Bleach ourselves
Pale, tucked shamefully
In the shade.

Makeshift shanty towns
Which smell of mildew
And processed laundry soap,
Flimsy tin roofs
Tied with Kleenex and
Pizza Hut tarpaulins.

The fact that this neighborhood
Was christened "Freedom"
Strikes an empty pang.

I.
Rivulets of rainwater dance
                                          On edge,
Cracked road painted with
Burnt rubber and chipped yellow lines,
Bits of metal bar and
Burning wood
                     -skidding-
Off
       the road

II.
It's 6:00 pm here beneath
The Jones Bridge;

The smell of oil and
Murky sewage water laps at
         My ankles as
My toes meet
               Yours:

Burnt matches stewing
In the palm of your hand, damp
Brown eyes

          —gawking—

At my patsy appearance.

III.
Floating
                    the surface
            on                            
                                          of
Our shallow river is                     A yellowing letter.

We, undaunted,
Swiftly grab at it with our slim
Fingers. For a moment,

We recognize each other.

I dream of golden nooses
And oak, glided chairs,
And a sick man shriveled up and
Wasted away shivering on top
Of a rain-soaked rooftop
With rosary in his hands
Squeezing one last prayer out
Of his blueish lips
Before heading back down
Into his bedroom.

Chinese characters tattooed
Sloppily on the
Stark white cement walls,
Words for death and dying men,
And mercy and God,
Paintbrush dipped in bright red—
Red is the Chinese color of prosperity.
Gilded gold and cedar the American one.

In frustration at the hollowness
Of his Midas touch,
At the way his hands grasp the
Cross of Jesus only for it
To turn gold in scorn,
He screams.

In anger seizes the
Rosary around his wrists
And snaps it on

His neck.

The good Lord
Provides a roof
Over my head,
And embraces me.

I close my eyes
And dream his
Wonderful dreams.

Ears still open to
The world's hurt—
Still listening.

Hearing the scores
Of angels, crying:
"Hallelujah, hallelujah!

There is refuge for the lost,
The blind will see again,
So get up and walk,
Get up and walk."

A young Japanese boy
No older than 4
Fell behind his father,
Stumbling over the escalator leading
To our train.

First kid in a long time
To return my glance
With a wide-eyed grin.

He even stopped for a while,

Much unlike the ****** trains.

I'm not sure how this works
Out, you and me,
All twiddling thumbs and
Awkward hair twirls unsure
How to properly
Spit
Out a greeting,

"Oh hello."

And what comes after,
And what should come after.

We try our best to
Veer away from each other,
Afraid that the other would
Smell the
Rancid blue cheeses on
Our tongue,

Or the cliches displayed for all to see,
Like spinach in our teeth.

So we nod.

Slowly.

Abruptly.

With chin up and hair
Tangled somewhere behind
Our ears,
Hopefully.

And ice breakers stale
In the backs
Of our jeans pockets.

Noses crinkling in
Silent prayer as to
Never have to ask the person

"Sooo, how's the weather" or

"Sooo, how much does a polar bear weigh?"

(Enough to break the ice, by the way.)

I'm sorry, first of all, because
I couldn't save you.
How all I could do was
Stand there,
Listlessly while
You clung to the hems of
My mother's skirt.

How your little sister
Stood between us,
Pretending if for awhile
To have a real home,

And I'm sorry that
All I could've given you
At the time was money
And that I didn't even
Do that because I
Was afraid of getting
***** looks from everyone around me.

So many unsaid things hanging
Between us like
A foul-mouthed cliche.

How in the midst of
All these bodies for sale
I would've paid for you.

How I would have paid
For your company how
I would tell you
How lively your eyes were.

How I would've made your little
Sister laugh and stare
And we'd make stupid faces
At each other all night.

How smooth
Your brown skin was how
Beneath you
Everyone else looked.

How if you had spoken,
God would have heard you.

You are His daughter
Not theirs.
You are His child
Not theirs.

You are His Pride and Joy and
He loves You.

In this loveless, lifeless world
He loves You.

Please believe that
He loves You.

Both of You.

All of us.

I can spend hours
Losing myself in this
Transcendent embrace—
Chest warm and welcoming,
Always understanding.

Father's advice not
In the things he says but
In the curves of His
Brow, contours
Of His smile—quiet,
Present.

The sanatorium stays.
For people like He—God—
Perhaps sent down
To be slapped in the face
(Morally, of course)
And beaten down.
Cata-
Tonic—Breath
Of fresh air
Sent to
Contort—Heal;

Disinfectant stinging wounds
We never knew were opened:

A canister of misplaced pride.

There was a time when I watched it happen.
Strangers pressed to other strangers
in one bed, clothes on, air humid
with the cloying scent of fruit juice
and *****; none of us
giving into another and yet unwilling to leave the scene
of that possibility,
pretending to sleep, actually sleeping.
Then waking again to slip a hand
over a shoulder, slide a finger
inside the waistband of a skirt; so young
(we are even now still
so young) in that hotel room
turning blue then lighter blue.
We wouldn’t have tried for more:
the kiss, the button; firm, white shape
of an image slipped wholly into the mind,
acted upon, dreamed upon,
filling the thin vessels of the lungs.

Earlier, a film, its forced sounds
of *******. The tension I felt winding
into the muscles of some of the others in the room.
I remember I left for awhile.
We all left for awhile;
even the music was frightening. How
to strip ourselves like that, point
at the places that were wanted, plucked
and peeled; speaking the words, hearing them form us,
the nature of what we were
and could do to each other?
The music, the rocking, the sobbing.
The man called the woman by parts of herself.
Some laughed at this. I remember
I must have been one of them.
In the morning, the hotel room was turning white.
After the long night, hands were slipping
and unslipping, moving over the flattened pillows
as if in hopes something small could still satisfy us.
Someone turned and looked at someone else;
we all heard it. Legs
shifted, sheets slid themselves down waists
or shoulders, tightened again at the necks
of those pretending to sleep as the unblinking sun
crawled in our window.
From another room, coughing,
We all heard it.
Someone looked at someone else.
The room turned white. The air began clearing.

The book folds to reveal
The real world,
Beneath my crouched knees

Untied sneakers sprawled
All over the floor, muddy.

There is a silent joy in
Watching others consume
Realities all too
Different,
And all too
Common to
Yours—"unreal,"
Ethereal.

Perhaps all too so.

For the past two days
I've caught the people
Crouching beside me
Sniffling.

I'd imagine the severance
Of man
From God as
The severance
Of day
From night—

Blissful half wrought in eternal
Darkness—heat—light
Led to believe that

Wholeness is but
The reduction of an appendage
As to allow
The imminent struggles of
Grip
To make you stronger

Somewhat more
Intense,
Insistent the feelings of
Despair and grief
And ultimately
Illusory

Joy.

In a cosmopolitan world where
Yeezy reigns supreme on our
Speakers, loathed for loving
Genius-acknowledging, we

Have set a standard of beauty
So surreptitious, soulless—
Unattainable in this number-
Crunching world so pre-

Occupied with symmetry and
Egotism—structure—black and
White dominated by rawness and
Robotics: steampunk screams echo-
Ing from the rooftops of skyscrapers

As lightning continues to strike the highest point.

Only when the rain is as
Sharp as a torrent of Central Park ice
(Y'know, where the ducks are!)
Would I blink,

Not willing for anything
In the world
To miss the joyous songs of a
Still sunny carousel—
Chorus of 10 year old laughter, falling

Much like light spring rains
(Though none befalls me here)
Trickling down my face

Like a second baptism.

"Peace"
is synonymous with
Beatles music and
an empty desk—
i stare longingly
for no reason
but
that of some
Artificial sentimentality;

Quiet purity.

To watch piano keys tune
Is like righting a broken bone:
Process somewhat crude
But still very much a need.

The maestro looms like a wolf,
Making every note weep
Though to the intensity he is aloof,
As if in a dream—

Or perhaps a nightmare;
He hears the shrieks and jumps,
Perhaps exaggerated by the glares
Of looming ghouls—necromancy.

The notes holding as if a pathos
Back to the world of the living.

I watched the Sphinx
Die quietly of thirst;

Front paws buckling,
Eyes bloodshot—

Her smile, once human
But a twisted grimace.

She shrieked, as her talons
Gouged out her heart; gasped:
"Child,

"My Wisdom is yours."

And she gave it to me
And it was mine to hold.

I still think
Heaven is a small
Town with bright
Blue eyes and the
Sound of a child's
Laugher—

That it unknots
The brows of even
The most weary of
Philosophers.

I still think
Heaven is a small
Garden encrusted with
White feathers and
The west-wound winds
Coming from the Atlantic.

An old harbor—Vladivostok—
Spelled perfectly,
Abandoned by
Knaves and all the carnage they left,
Or Ceasaria:

Dry bed of luminous ruins.

I imagine You beckoning us:
"Don't be afraid, come!"—
Revealing pockets of
Nature only you would have
The courage to call

Beautiful.

The morning
Rays filter in:

The hands of a broken
Clock,

Which is to say
My time was up
A long time ago;
Today's a new day.

Though I'm not quite there yet,

I know I'll get by.

At the end of the sidewalk
Is a ghoulish jig,
Unholy Ghost glaring at those
Who come—
Charlie Parker on the speakers.

He's clad in black with a scornful smile,
Eyes perpetually open
And searching for the youngest Child—
A giveaway:
The unchained dreamer.

Knee skidding the curb, a wince
And he pounces,
Long fingers sweeping
Her off her feet—
A farmer's daughter.

"Hush,"
Is all he says,
Pavement light.

"Hush,"
Is all He says,
Swathed in white.

There aren't enough of them to
Go around:
Windows bleak but truthful,

Showing the world
Outside:
Whether black or
Painted with flowers

And Knows
The difference.

Allows for prisoners to
Forget the bars
And the bars to forget the prisoners-

Especially the innocent ones:
Murderers for mercy
Toiling underneath the
Razor sharp edge
Of a microscopic knife
Cutting past the throat
Of innocuous farmers.

Wheat plains that stretch Golden,
Stretch for miles and miles
To a little place the other Kansans call
"Out there..."

Through His mercy we have survived.
Wrath sparing
Temple and parthenon,
Synagogue covered
In moss,
Castles ****** but unbowed
For us to
Remember.

Allowed us to keep
Corners of
Eden:

A bedroom wall slathered
In picture frames,
A front porch dusted with snow—

Fragments
We tore away with

Tears clouding our eyes.

Lord,

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can never control,
To accept the things that I can control.

To understand that we come together in fellowship-
And what a fellowship!

To not fear the game but respect it,
To not shoulder its burdens, but share it

To start every set with a prayer,
And honor each player

To be sporting and true-
Always giving the glory to You

Amen.

I.

My teachers tell me
(Cockeyed and smirking)
That my looks
Can be deceiving.

Bastos ka pala?

And they're not wrong.

Disrobe me, and
You will find

**** and ash
Running up my veins,

Unvirgin pupils
Lapping up
Every last drop
Of that
***** joke.

II.

Oh, how the rain falls!

Sometimes I wonder whether
The monsters underneath our beds
Have simply learned
To leave us alone

Fully knowing that the fear comes
Regardless.

Knowing that many times we scare
Ourselves into thinking
Once we dream
We will never wake.

That every night we hear
Sirens
And ambulances wailing-

Mistaking them for gunshot wounds
Buried deep within
Our chests waiting
To resurface.

And we dream of our stretchers.
Of if our arms
Will seamlessly tuck
Into
Our chests as we curl up
Beneath the smoke and
Rubble
Of to-
Morrow.

As if our sleep leaves open wounds
Left for them to
Sew.

They sing songs
Of desert gypsies
And chain smoking bulls,

Of mirages that kiss
Your throat
And linger quietly

Waiting,
While you quickly catch
Your crumpling breaths,

Drunken wisps
Of sandpaper snow
Flickering and coarse—

Palms warm to the touch.

The sutures of granite stone
Slip seamlessly and stand—

Ignorant of the storms that
Weather its skin—

Gold and diamond visage
Shivering—hollow—
Eyes refusing to glaze over—

Arms clasping the afflicted.

The deeper you stare into
The flotsam,
The clearer our origin stories
Become:

We are shipwrecks.

Islands
Bro-

ken Like bread and
Doused in
Salted wines.

We are cupbearers,

Slaves
With rusted chains
That dangle
Loosely
From our ankles,

Shrouding our skin from the harsh
Freedom

Sun offers.

The trot of kalesas,
Temple shack stores and
Hastily scrawled calligraphy—

Fruit cartons
And rice sacks
That litter
The clay streets
Itching to emerge from
Asphalt skin—

Browbeaten Angkongs shivering
In the December chill,
Decked in hawaiian shirts
And worn sandals—

Dirt-tinged air
Which goes down my throat
About as smooth as grandpa's beer—

Bitter but clean,
Swelling my chest with pride—

It tastes like home.

A world of desolation
And romancing sewers:

Rotting animal carcass
Asymmetrical,
Compacted in art
Galleries
And praised for its realism,

Curators drawn to its
Intricate textures and
Cobblestoned streets—

They sprawl,
Like a cannibal's playground.

Twisted-
A street map
Spilling over

Like their stomachs.

Grandfather's whistle
Blew down the chipped clock,
Face in shock, broken glass.

Glasses. He was blind to its sound,
Faintly tinged, his arm and red,
Cheeks sallow like a hound's.

He stood there frozen:
Shoulders taut and brazen
But eyelids twitching,

Fingers quivering
As he balled his hand into a fist.

Round and round the black tape went,
Swaths of it came, and left unbent,
Around my wrists, and around his mouth,
From back to front, from north to south...

Round and round the tape unfurled
Spinning and spitting, his lips- they curled!
Sneering and snickering, bitterly he yelled,
"What good is a God who's secrets don't tell?"

While mourning and weeping in this valley of tears,
His mighty hands shook with them ancient fears,
Tongue wet with wine, lips dry in stutter,
He buckled his knees with all faith he could muster...

While he, the mournful jeerer lost,
Quickly towards the garden rushed,
As darkness, nearer and nearer, hushed,
Left him to ponder its cost.