I weigh 1/4 of a blue whales heart
I am as tall as Napolean Bonaparte
I am as old as Oprah's Book Club
When I do not like myself
I think of these things
And suddenly, I look very different.

"Stress is caused by being ‘here’ but wanting to be ‘there’"
that's how a German author defines stress.

I read this quote
and write it down
in that tab I open
secretly at work
to avoid being
seen by my boss.

That tab,
that lives like a refugee,
like everything I like.

Buddha whispers to my ear,
-Attachment is the root of suffering-
with his funny accent
-The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.-

I call into question
my arms race
against myself.
That cold war that started years ago
and never ended.

Yahve sets a
bush on fire
on the park
and talks to me.
He talks about
the promised land.
The same land he once promised
to Abraham,
to Isaac,
to Jacob,
to Moises,
to my grandparent,
to my parents.

And I then remember,
I am also a part of this exodus.

-the end justifies the means-
I repeat this to myself,
like a mantra,
trying to convince myself
as I see the parts of me
being left in the path.
The goal blends
into the horizon
like a mirage.

I see how other boys
come closer.
They are younger,
and run faster,
and better.

And I once was
one of those boys,
ready to run for days.
Privileged.
My parents ensure
my path has less rocks
and that my wall
(that wall people who run long distances know)
was lower and softer.

I see the corpses in the path
of the persons who weren't even able to see
the end.

My life is a constant wanting
to reach those lands
while I hate the desert
under my feet.

When Napoleon walks into my house, he doesn’t shake my hand
Instead he nods, clears his throat, and says my other name, “Thien.”

“Chu,” I say. He sniffs the air like a K-9 from Denmark,
presses his lips into a line, like one found on a blank page,

like one found on a mirror, and like one found in McDonalds.
He smells the smoke from the Marlboro lights on my black-Tee shirt.

I reach into the pocket of my trousers, searching for cologne:
Tommy; ocean; breeze. It’s lost. I mutter, “son-of-a-bi—”

Chu stares, tries to punish me. I want to laugh, want to shrug.
“Anh-Thien,” says a young voice. I close my eyes. And see my cousin.