"chinatown" poems
Iron bench, open sore
dragon rock, three in score
flesh on body, tortured soul
arms high, in hell's hole
Corner bulb, neon light
drake hotel, second flight
jolly pop, rizla plus
open flame, behind the bus
Broken fixtures, tully hat
channel swimmer, at the bat
blind alley, words of cuss
dealer waving, in a fuss
Grim reaper, boys in blue
super bee, armored shrew
****** sips, swollen glands
potpourri, on demand
Black death, huddler's arch
beat the cold, and summer parch
toothless grin, ****** glare
obituary, to be shared
Dead of night, decontrol
cheeva tar, black coal
east central, chinatown
mr. freeze, is coming down
Foot soldier, skidder row
chicken feed, and white blow
silver spoon, casted hand
demons surface, on demand
Frantic sounds, below the glass
poison waiting, to be passed
crack pipes, over coat
bodies flat, begin to float
Gospel sounds, from union square
friends gather, deep in prayer
guardian angels, now deployed
thornton park, without a void
Covenant house, in holy charm
welcomes all, with open arms
salvation spreads, on chapel row
kindness that, cannot be sold
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
As I rushed home, I thought about
The last thing that I'd read
"Can we go out to fly my kite?
Before I go to bed."
A text was sent by my young son
To go and fly his kite
I texted back "no problem son,"
"We'll go do that tonight"
Once I got home, I went to change
And he changed his clothes too
The sun was still up shining
And the kite would help the view
The wind was blowing briskly
Just enough to fly it right
And if others were out flying too
It would really be a sight
I told my son, to dress up warm
For the wind did hold a chill
But, flying kites with my young boy
Well, it gave my heart a thrill
He gathered up his kite
And then he raced me to the door
I picked up my hat that had
Been knocked upon the floor
He raced me up the street as we
made our way out to the park
He wanted to be first
to get there before it did get dark
He held his kite so tightly,
I myself thought it would break
It was a black and golden box kite
With a tail just like a snake
We bought it up in Chinatown
At a little antique shop
When the wind hit it just perfect
It would just hover and then stop
Of all the kites he owned
This was his favorite one
I think it was his favorite
Because it danced beneath the sun.
We got there, I let out the string
And I got it in the air
And once it became airborne
I tied it to his chair
My son, can't hold the kite string
Can't control the way it flies
He's confined to his blue wheelchair
Until the day he dies
He controls it with his finger
Races all around the place
And when we get out flying kites
There's such a smile on his face
He backs it up, the kite responds
Flying high up in the sky
"i wish that I could be that free"
"I wish that I could fly"
"One day son, you will be free"
"You'll be as mobile as that kite
You'll be moving like you used to do
"On your feet, you'll be so light"
He was injured in an accident
But, that's not here nor there,
He was hit by a drunk driver
He was too **** drunk to care
But for now, my boy is smiling
We're out flying kites at night
And as long as we're toghether
Then our world is still all right.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
Along the sidewalks of Somerset Street
People pass upon purposeful feet
Rice and noodles up for all
We each hear the call
Come! There is much here to eat.
From the western end we embark
Just near where we usually park
On the street's sunny side
Past diverse shops we stride
Windows hung with ducks roasted dark.
To the place we were aiming to get
A table with chopsticks is set
There we eat such a meal
That it fills us with zeal
A lunch that we won't soon forget.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
There we were
In the midst of an oriental expose
More like a permanent museum display
The history of our foundation here in the West
Build on the backs of the yellow and black
Only I prefer to keep clear of the festering beast that is Oakland at high noon
No
This was someplace stranger
Chinatown, San Francisco
A soy canker in the greasy mouth of America
In some circles this was the closest thing to an escape
Or the closest thing to internment
It’s all about perception
A pompous soccer mom/beast attempting culture meanders through the local chaos
Green beans or shallots tonight?
A psychedelic mess with an unwarranted response
Could she handle the absurdity?
I care not, choose the latter sweetheart
“Shallots”
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
Busy streets of China town,
busy folks with their heads down
busy people blowing cigarette smoke.
We'll sneak past the man
and run as fast as we can
to hop on the train because we're broke.
You're sat next to a crazy
and though this Sunday should be lazy,
we've taken on another task.
You shelter me away from the homeless,
but we're too ignorant to notice
the irony as we drink from a flask.
Too young to not be reckless,
but too old to be this senseless
when it comes to ignoring the label
that illustrates blackened lungs and hearts
Still, we ask strangers for darts
to get the cheapest high available.
They say the human world is a mess,
but we'll accept nothing less
than all the adventure life has to share.
Obsessed with our youth,
unsure of the truth
but too madly in love to care.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
We watched the lightning making
paper lanterns of the clouds,
frail globes amidst the Indian peninsulas of the storm.
The thunder sounded a gong hung
amidst that veritably heavy anvil of heaven.
Now that's what I call heaven,
your heart beat-beating off tempo with mine
in the heart of prairie Chinatown.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
I don’t tell them I’m going to a protest,
as I know they will not say no, it really
is far safer.
The police have been pretty fair, only a couple
of bull **** arrests and cause white privilege
I probably won’t get arrested.
In a black and white democracy color is prohibited.
I never have been close in a protest yet, the police always tolerant
maybe the commissioner doesn’t ****
I don’t boast to them about starting a chapter in my
school.
I don’t them that the chapter I started with them was finished hundreds
of pages ago.
I don’t tell them I cut class to protest the B.S minimum wage
how I ****** the very thing I’m trying to start cause
I was in a pissy mood.
I don’t them about how my friend and I were okay
with paying a guy trying to sell us **** to buy
us alcohol, later losing 20$
and not okay with going into a tattoo shop for the same purpose.
I don’t tell them about wandering around Chinatown
feeling like we should be drunk.
About the girl who in eighth grade asked me to touch
her ***** and I don’t tell them how
two years later we start hanging out— over facebook.
She moved to London.
About how she will be in the city the day my family goes away,
about trading facebooks for fifteen minutes
and having weird *** crap on my Facebook
and talk of how Jesus is an improper child on hers.
Nor do I my parents about meeting up with a
girl who I meet a month ago at a pillow fight,
and how right they were when they said ******
tables manners will catch up to you,
about how leaving a protest cause "my parents
are ****** and later seeing those people at the burger place.
I tell my parents I’m chilling with my buddies.
I tell them that I got pizza instead of burgers.
Because friends are safer to parents than a nineteen year
old girl you met at a pillow fight and how the entire time you
could not tell if it was friends meeting up or
people who wanted more.
I don’t tell them the reason why I’m so ******* fragile
is that I can’t tell if I’m manipulating myself or being real,
or how I’m the only one who is hurting me,
for fear of saying what I just told you.
Now all of this ******* **** lives in me and I have
nobody to proofread this.
Lovely.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I.
Sunday mornings in Vancouver
even pigeons sleep in till 10 A.M.
Undaunted, I walk down Granville shortly before 8
seeking lox bagels with capers, red onions and cream cheese,
two breve lattes, and a newspaper. In truth,
panhandlers on the corner of Robson
have far greater chance of scoring.
An unexpectedly sunny February morn
suffices to spur me on. I am attuned to all vibration.
Breath of the awakening city
exhales manna upon the shop awnings.
Bagels rendered superfluous,
I scarf images instead ---
trolley buses, an umbrella shop, falafel stands ---
delicious Canadian visual cuisine.
II.
Vancouver is a nymph. Of that I'm sure.
I hear flirtatious giggles trill
from darkened alleys between hotels.
Spotted her once across the street on Dunsmuir,
seated on a walk bench reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Bus passed between us and she vanished.
Caught a later glimpse through the window
of a walk-up dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.
Flew the stairs, only to find an empty table and
discarded napkin smudged with candy pink lipstick.
She watches me.
III.
Turns out there are no Sunday morning papers in Vancouver,
but I locate the bagels and espresso backtracking on Helmcken.
The barista smiles as I approach, sets down her Atwood novel.
I leave a Toonie in gratuity.
B.C. wind pushes hard on my turned back,
as I rush our breakfast back to the Executive.
A nymph goes roller-blading by toward False Creek.
The Gastown Steam Clock whistles that it's 10 A.M.
A flock of pigeons lifts in flight.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
The front page news hit home!
Thirteen dead in a gambling pen...
A dead bell hounds those
rain soaked back streets
bullits smash soot blind windows
and the smell of blood makes you sick...
White light of the camera eye
spinning red globes
An attendant shacks his head"How do you rationalize this mess"
"Just bag up the rest"
A child whimpers.
"Hush, Little flower,
it is just death's long shadow
way down in Chinatown."
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 5:26 PM UTC
had some ****** up dream
some ratchet chick kept saying 'fuck me' etc
so i went to do it but where was her *****
it was like too blurred or something, was that my **** or...her's?
i went it to but...my *** ended up taking the ****
why are other's always present with these ****** dreams?
then later i think like, i'm on MD majorly
can barely sit down, my mums calling me, i can't speak!
i'm trembling! gotta wait for the come down
these images are made all the worse by the fact i'm at my grandad's house
some train **** we heading to northern chinatown
but it's all so confusing, do i jump on the tracks and wake up as i die?
or do i get on the wrong train, because like the platforms are so mixed up
platform 7 is yesterday's plat. 5
one thing i will say is there are no vondelspectors anywhere to be seen
i remember in part of the same saga (my dreams take me different places these days)
more fruity and exotic, but still a girl in a bikini
and still other observers, but as I'm in a dream i'm like, why not?
is this not the one place i'm allowed to **** *******
is that bad? or is it merely consensual?
she's twerking kinda, or i'm rubbing up against her
get an ******** but then, her dad notices
so i pull some crazy faces and wave the bulge in my pants for the world to see, and wake up
there was definitely a epic thrown in there
some strange motion in which i play the protagonist
or anti-hero, i can hardly tell because i keep waking up,
sleeping again to dream more, it's so addictive
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
6:45,
this sounds a bit Agatha Christie as if the 45 is out to get me and the 6 being an innocent bystander had a gander anyway.
Well whadaya know Cockney rhyming gets in on the show.
Goosey, Goosey
where's our Lucy did Desi get his bride?
Okey choke me Arbroath smokies,
I love a bit of fish
I wish
I wish
and then I pop
will wishing ever make me stop?
Going down to Chinatown
A west end luxury
Peeking at a Peking duck
Which will in turn, turn around to be
a chicken.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
I sat at the foot of his bed, and he stood beside me with his pants half down, the top of his belt hugging the base of his **** and a thick bed of ***** hair curling over his jeans. On the sides of his upper-thighs where they grabbed the hips, his skin was striped with razor lines.
“I cut myself here so no one can see.”
People never trust you with these sorts of things when you’re sober. Then they open up to you with such shocking honesty and determination to reach something human in someone else, secretly trying to identify something human in themselves.
I thought to myself “what kind of genuine advice can I give him?” I thought this because I didn’t actually have anything genuine to tell him. I was riddled with uncertainty—which I certainly wasn’t about to reveal to him.
I kept searching for the advice that would mend the sores of my half-panted friend with his bare thighs in my face and his heart on the floor in-front of my laced converse. But I had nothing. So I simply told him, “Want to get lunch sometime?”
He agreed that we would.
A few days went by, and both of us got distracted with life as tends to happen. Our lunch date felt more and more remote. But then I started to feel a little sad myself. Then I started to feel a lot sad, and I thought about death a lot. I wondered if this was the way he felt before talking to me, so I called him and asked to meet me for lunch.
We met up in a Chinatown bar, drinking cheap beer and trying to be young. After a few sips, he asked me why I had been feeling sad lately, but I still didn’t know what to tell him. If I had known, I would have had an answer for him when we sat by his bed, drunk.
I don’t think he knew what to say either, so we sat at the table and drank.
He told me I was a great man, and lucky too. I told him he was the best man I knew.
But somehow we both knew we had lied. Or at least our good praise cancelled each other out.
That night, I got a phone call. He had moved away in the night across the country. He told me to come visit, and I said that I would. Naturally, I never went out to visit him, he was simply too far and I didn’t care quite enough. But I still think about what I would say to him.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.
She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.
I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.
She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.
She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.
Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;
With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.
She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.
She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.
Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
I asked my friends to look after my house
while I was away.
I left a forwarding address
and nothing else.
A few asked how long I would be gone,
and I said I wasn't sure.
I don't know much more than my middle name.
My mother called,
breaking the silent drive I was enjoying.
She asked if I was still with Schyler.
I told her I didn't know,
and that she would have to call him
after his date.
I've heard she is a respectable woman.
I checked into the Chinatown motel
and tipped the bell hop after he retrieved my mail.
Not that I appreciated his services;
I hoped he would save his earnings and leave.
No one deserves to grow up here.
One letter was from my neighbor
asking for a postcard.
I sent my bill, hoping that was enough.
The second was from my brother,
his letter of resignation and a simple request
with a time constraint:
You have two weeks to make everything right.
While looking for a black pen
I found a green answer,
and the returning question of why
blue and red make white,
and not the beautiful purple hue
Schyler talked about so often.
I wondered if he had forgotten the color of my eyes.
I ran out of time and spent all my money
with no souvenirs to showcase back home.
Schyler seemed hesitant when I gave him
a date of my return,
and I lied when I said I missed his embrace.
I left a note on my pillow
appologizing for the mess
and said that I would be back next year.
My excuse to return the stolen towels.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
In Chinatown it is busy
Bikes go real fast down streets that are dark, covered with crumpled up chinese newspapers and what looks like the aftermath of a thousand party poppers
Colored paper that slowly disappears into the wind as the day goes on
An old man is wearing a sign on his chest
He speaks of anger towards the Japanese
How they have not rightfully paid China back for all the damage and heartbreak they caused in wars past
In Chinatown it is different
The air is soft, but the area is buzzing with people
I sit down at one of the bakeries
Here I am at peace
Here, although there is no one to talk to in english
I feel listened to
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
laying horizontally is an eastern
yoga relaxant for food babies.
I learned this while running in Chinatown
with stolen cash after a mob dinner.
the bodyguard knocked me out and my
stomach felt great as I layed their on the street.
aside from the headache,
and the mild Head-On addiction
I was fine and very sleepy.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
Bucket List
By Harriet-Tecumsah Watt
**What's left when it's done
No more to cross off with glee
No more to choose from**
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/648367/bucket-list
~~~~~~~
never write angry,
wise counsel for most,
but not this holy ****** off
poet~person
I am your bucket,
I am on your list,
or I better be,
and don't be thinking,
my dearest poetess,
that you are all done,
till we meet in the park,
ass-freezing,
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.
You, my Hamlet,
always questioning and
annoyingly annoying
keeping me ego-honest,
Ergo
you are on my
the toppiest ten of my numerous
bucket list
of lists,
and I ain't crossing you off,
no way, no how.
Word-slapping your face,
frustrated and infuriated,
Watt is left for needy me
in a world with no
rhymeslut
broke, busted, disgusted,
life can't be trusted,
so take your disruptive crying poetry,
bring to me in NYC,
and I'll take you to poetry slams,
tango parties, a real Chinatown,
blow smoke up your nose, Waltz step on your toes,
drink with you in Central Park at five am,
visit half a dozen museums,
take you to the ballet,
and then you can maybe,
cross a few to-do's
off of our mutual
intersections.
write poem lines together alternately,
hell, even post-modern alternatively,
if that is watt it takes to slap the
Most Uncommon Sensibity
into a woman asking an
A+ stupid question
you are one of gods most
hauntingly lovely gifts
to me,
and I ain't giving you back,
NFW
No-red-me-likey-heart for
Watt's "I'm All Done Bucket List" poem,
just me bucking the trend,
just a lightening bolt to send
up your sorry-for-me ***
and a private, tender,
missive.
I'll come to you if you feeling blue,
but
get this straight my Indian chief-girl,
no matter where or when,
you better have yourself
Sequoia tree hugging me,
list unchecked,
and not till then
can we toss,
our lists,
in the trash bucket
they belong in.
Am I clear?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
We are 9 miles away from D.C.,
the eye of the storm on the twentieth.
The suburbia love we had,
storm- before- the -calm kind of meeting we had on this chaotic day.
9 miles away is the city we love
It is a refuge for our boredom and our doomed relationship
On the metro ride, on the E street and somewhere near Farragut West
We watched small budget movies, had ice cream or playing with each others' hands fondly.
We are several blocks away from all the barricades,
So why don't we get in closer and go to Chinatown Coffee
and then wandering down the H street.
In the suburb, I do not feel peace,
Because the storm is coming.
I'd rather go in the eye of the storm,with you
Where you fell for me.
This Capital love of ours , on the outskirts of D.C.
Where in a perfect world we would both live in,
like last time you told me on the way to E street.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
A dragon so red.
Throw me on you'r bed.
Between your *******
I passed the tests.
Soft lining,
I see you shining.
Dress slipped off,
a fiery cough.
Precious eyes,
they speak so wise.
clawing down,
taking me to Chinatown.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
Leave it by the gate
Behind the red flowers;
And In the library
Near the encyclopedias labeled,
Firsts
Leave it on your way to her
Leave it on the 5th field during gym
When they’re beating you senseless
And you have no choice
Leave it near the white ivory doors of
his offices
Leave it near the sun
Have it bake in the light
Grind its face in the asphalt
Have it taste your two thousand tons
of spit as you speak
Let them know—
Throw it at the lake let it dance off into the distance
Let it spin itself to pieces
Leave it in the creases of her lips
her Fingertips—
Chinatown misfits
Graffiti your name on every single
Williamsburg, post no bill, post no hate
Post some self esteem
Let them know who you are
Have them find you in the fine print
Whispering sweet hymns in her ear
Have them chase you down the icy slopes
Towards the crashing coast
Leave it with them
Let it wash away in the swirling vortex
Of her, dancing till the sun sleeps,
Have it lie in the wake of your dust
Let it fall
and fall
and fall—
Let it tremble off in your voice
Watch it snow away with every move
Leave it in the pages
Close it in your book,
Let your tongue crash
Inside the hall of your mouth—
Let them know.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
The City in the 70s
Things painted diversely
Yet discrimination runs deep
A mother out to buy ice cream
English a foreign notion
Coming to the store
One pint of ice cream at the counter
Unable to converse
Chinese not understood
"That will be $50 he says"
Takes the money
Shamelessly
As she leaves
Ice cream for her son
Her son who did then weep
The character of a person
He knew
Defined by their actions
The seeds that you sow
Are the ones that you shall reap
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
the beginning was calm
you were alone
departed some time ago
you shook the puzzle a bit
and the pieces felt out of place
but you didn't complain about
picking them up
you said you were wired differently
that you can't fall out of love
even when the war came
and we sat outside chinatown
you told me you didn't care about
the water of the womb
you wanted to pack up
and go
somewhere
where the pansies danced
and the girls are tough
where this big ol' house
at the end of the road
is your home
you say you knew
your life was planned since day one
but for some reason
you are not there
but still
with me, sitting
outside chinatown
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC