You confuse karate with love.
You punch, kick, and block.
You master the form,
Practice and practice.
You remember the creed.
Karate is not love.
You don’t kickstart the heart,
You can’t block love out,
Or punch it into submission.

I confuse love with poetry.
I read, write, and dream.
I master the edict of the pen,
Recite and recite.
I remember the sonnets.
Poetry is not love.
You don’t stanza the heart,
You can’t make a metaphor out of love,
Or personify it into breathing.

When will we learn?
When will you stop kicking Cupid?
When will I stop serenading him?
When will we stop this silly interpretation of love?

I don’t know,
But I’ll stop if you stop too.

formalities were always a must,
you'd have to be crazy to forget your manners.
Shoes off, Gi on, Belt ready;
forget that and the push ups would **** you.
As soon as anyone crossed that threshold,
their mind, body, and spirit tuned into an ancient frequency.
We were raw potential energy encased in flesh,
the trespasses we'd endured throughout the week
our sole source of fuel.

Sifu would shout, We would listen.
Our partners would punch us
And we'd block; no thought required.
With every belt, we moved up in the art;
Educated furthermore in climbing ladders.
That was the first time I had ever been disciplined
And not solely abused,
My first real encounter with tough love.

After those classes, I guess I felt safer around my parents,
But that didn't make them good people.
I almost had to fight them once,
Yet I couldn't bring myself to defend the dignity
Already taken from me.

Maybe I should have let my instincts and not my sense
Guide my hand that night,
Maybe then I'd be a hero to myself as well as everyone's villain.

~for Wendy ~

with my almost two years old poetry advisor,
who loves her Sunday rituals, an extra sabbath,
of waffles and Shrek, kid’s gym and artistic endeavors,
cozying up with Nana and siblings in a big old bed,
snacking and chewing on the good silk sheets

as always, she and and I go off to have an intellectual conversation,
letting the older ones to do kid stuff, while we converse and debate
topics of nature vs. nurture, the weather vs. climate change,
and the future of everything, unbeknownst to everyone else

which is greater, love or honor, she inquires,
sensing my thoughts are preoccupied with matters of honor...
as she strokes my itchy, scratchy day old face,
insuring her having my full attention, while
taking advantage of my loving weakness

grandpa:
honor over everything my opening gambit,
while she coyly harrumphs in response,
one can love without reason for such are
our natural souls programmed,
but honor needs concentration and contemplation,
and if done right,
then love will surely follow!

She-Woman:
ah ha! once again you sidle up to nurture,
cause love is too inexplicable,
old man, old man, did I not love you before
any season of reason crossed my brow,
and my vocabulary consisted of just
more, no, toy and hungry

what did I know of Aristotle, logic, codes of conduct,
the definition of honor yet abstract,
while love is nature’s illogical construct,
coming first without restrictions,
while honor is malleable and
property of the eye of the beholder

grandpa:
wise beyond your tears, you are, and unquestionably correct,
but while coming first, love cannot last,
until cover-coated with honor,
for honor gives us the because, and locks down the why,
honor gives the insight, the rationale, the rules of how to say
yes and no, when love is tendered and an R.S.V.P. is requested

She-Woman:
absent experience, for now will concede,
but be warned this is not over,
fo you have not brought me a definition of what truly honor be

grandpa:
honor is the housing of love, and though you granted me your favor,
comes the day that you will demand proofs that
what was unearthed & unearned
is now earned, a course in credit, a baccalaureate in life’s lanes,
when to heed them, when to crossover, when to say I do, I do,
no to someone else alone, and yes to your honorable self

She-Woman:
adult double speak, I suspect, and you will rue the day
when forced to concede, with a wrenched
‘child, I do not know,’
meanwhile change my diaper
after I karate chop your knee

Grandpa:
yes child, but know,  two of your requests/notifications are
honorable acts and/know real love can be ONLY be exchanged
tween honorable humans

In the alley
Behind a night club
We make out
Kissing until our mouths hurt
You whisper some sweet
Then you tell me that
You told your yakuza family
About the marriage.
You take me to a
Low rent, dark and ***** dive
Where no ones goes to
We make love there
Passionately
Yet playfully
I just go to freshen up
That’s when I heard the popping sound.
When I return
The bartender called the police
And you are laying there
We had a last chance to kiss
Then you died peacefully in my arms
I take off you fine chain
Something to remember you by
And left.
I couldn’t bare to see anymore
And I leave you behind
Although you’re my beloved
I ran.

After we made love
We kissed
I lay on your tattooed chest
And I drew circles
Loving around your ******
With my finger
You say that
You wanted
Me to be your wife
How can I say no
So I kiss you
As away of saying “i do”

As the lights are
Dimmed in your appointment
You come in
I lay in your bed
With a samurai sword
I won’t bite
I just know that they held
By me
Would fuel your inassiable hunger
For me
As you climb in you take the sword
And you kiss me deeply
As if we have been
In a while
You stroke me gently
As flirt with you
I was aching for you
When you
With skilled timing
Enters me
I bite my lip
With pleasure.

My darling Yuan
I didn’t want to leave
For I enjoyed and loved you
I felt safe.
I ask if we can be
Together once more
As we have our ways with
Eachother
Erotically and playfully
We whispered steamy
Sweat nothings.

When I come into
Your appartment
To be with you
Yuan Matsumoto
I was surprised
At the look of you
The evil yakuza
Version of the Dalai Lama.
I find you to be handsome
As we playfully
And passionately make love
I felt pleasured
And loved
My my Karate instructor
Turned lover.