there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay

Kindred, we converse

Over a meal

Your words, warm,

A broth to fill my belly

And the variegated jetsam

Jests

Flotsam of our earthly

Experiences

So many a clumsy lessons

Learned

The times we recollect with laughter

Kindred you give hope

And how my wisdom swells

Not so alone

In the confidence of your smile

While a confidant

With the eloquence of intelligent

Sentiments  

Just right

Not too cold

Your shoulders to lean on,

Not too hot

You're never angry to dismiss

And will understand

As I do now

The danger is

To drown alone

In a life without light

Remiss of truth,

I long eschewed on this ...

But you fill me up, my Pho, my kindred

Spirit

With goodness

A Dearest friend indeed

A pho no less in times of need

Again next lunch date

We'll shoot the breeze.

“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
(www.prematureejaculatorsanonymous.com)
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2019225/Kelly-Thomas-Poli­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | (www.mervlazarus.com) Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpcEietIoxk) Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ... www.seinfeld.com

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,
Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ji0B98IMo).
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.

Closespacesmakeyouanxious
Thesqueezingofmyexpectations
Pressurein­myswingingmoods
Myselfishnessslamsdoors
Myheatshutswindows
I’mver­ytight,small
Shrinkingismygift
Iadorethatinstinct
Yourescape
Self-survival
Da­rwinism

Stir fried pho won my heart
While I was visiting Thailand

Back in my hometown
I looked for Pho
And it is everywhere
And cheaper

The best is always nearby
But life is so rich so full
Sometimes  
It takes a journey or two away
It takes a traveller’s eyes
To spot the new
In the familiar world

Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.

Ngizwe kuvuka usinga kwathi angibhale
ngesizulu
Bathi ayibe isazekeka uma isinkulu...
Ngicinge amagama alula okuloba lendaba, le
ndoda yathi izongilobola, angazangake ukuthi
kanti nangomlomo sekuyalotsholwa...
Aybo phela mina le ndoda yangthembisa!
Igama uNomathemba odabuka eMzumbe..
Hhay limnandi iTheku ..ungezwa ngabantu
bethi.. phela mina lana ngidla ama fish and
chips ..anginichomeli phela mina
bengizijwayelele umdumbulu namadumbe..
ekhaya eMzumbe..
Aybo phela mina lendoda yangthembisa..
Sengazitholela uThemba.. Loluthando lunginika
ithemba! UNtuli wam' ! Ugodide ! Ofake izinyo
legolide.. Ngyamthanda uMphemba wam' !
Phela yena ulithemba lam' !
Ngimenze uNkulunkulu, ngamnika lonke uqobo
lwam'
Wangenza ibhange lakhe, wangnika yonke imali
yakhe..
Uthe angeke angiphule inhliziyo, akasoze adlala
ngemizwa yam'
Ngamtshena ukuthi angisiwo ulayini wokuhola
iqolo angeke ngimmoshele isikhathi sakhe..
Ihhe angikazikhohlwa izethembiso zakhe..
Ethi uzongenza umkakhe.. :/
Aybo phela mina lendoda yangthembisa!
Amagama angbiza ngawo amnandi, ethi
ngimuhle ngathi ngigeza ngedanoni
Ekhuluma ngama bhanoyi, ama private jet,
phela lana sasi planner umshado wethu and my
wedding dress..
Ngazigcina ngifunda eNyuvesi yaka Zulu..
Angsayaz ngisho I timetable yama class..
Phela mina shangane lakaMakwakwa sengzobe
umfazi womzulu..
...Ngaphuma ekhaya ngiyofuna ulwazi
olunzulu.. Zulu khuzani niyabuka elikaMthaniya
elihle lifa phambi kwenu ..bheka njalo ekhaya
banamathemba ngam'..
Ngakhetha ukwanelisa uThemba ngakhohlwa
ngezidingo zam'.. Ngazikhohlwa izifiso zabazali
bam'..
ERes ngahlala inyanga eyodwa ..phela mina
senghlala ehotela... Lol angisiye umculi kodwa
ungangbiza nge 'Hotel queen' ..
....................... -- ........... -
- ..........................................
Langa limbe ngavuka ngaphuthaza
..ngaphuthaza embhedeni.. UThemba
akekho..ngivuke ngiye e
bathroom..akekho..ngimshayele ucingo..his
number doesn't exist.. Ngimelwe
yingqondo..ngicinge khabetheni lezingubo
izimpahla zakhe azikho :| .. Ngimemezise
okohlanya 'Themba ! Themba ! ' Pho ke
izindonga ezine zingigqolozele, zingabuye
zenzenjani?
Ithemba lam' lingishiyile ngizokwezenjani?
Aybo phela mina lendoda yangthembisa!
Iphelile I semester yokqala, kwamele
ngiphindele ekhaya.. Ngizwile ngomngan' ethi
aphumile ama result.. Awami
ngizowathathaph' ..
ND>>eMzumbe
-- -- -_- 'Nomathemba'ukube bayaz
ngemikhuba yam' ngabe abangijabuleli kanjena
.. Uphasile koda, yebo mama ngamalengiso..
:/ ..
Aybo phela mina le ndoda yangthembisa!
Ay ingibelesele le flue,
Umkhuhlane onje angiwazi..
Sengkhwehlela negazi..
....Ngyonda..kodwa isisu sami si.. Hhay
ngisuthi.. Ya ngisuthi.. Cha bakwethu ngisuthi..
Yekani isisu sam' ngisuthi.. Yebo ma ngondiswa
izifundo ngifunda kanzima.. Cha asisikhulu isisu
sam' ng gqoke I jacket enkulu..
..Ziyahamba izinsuku ngagula kakhulu ..
Dokotela, umkhuhlane wam' awupheli ..
Ukhulelwe.. 5 weeks ..aybo! Mina angeke..
'Angikaqedi, unegciwane.. Ingabe uyamazi
umuntu okuwuye oku ..Themba!! Ubani?
Nomathemba, Nomathemba vuka!
Saphuma isisu.. Ngafa mina.. Lashabalala
ikusasa lam' .. Aphela amathemba abazali bam'
ababenawo ngam' .. Kwaphela ngam' Themba
waze wadlala ngam' ..
Izethembiso zakho ..
Owangithembisa zona
Mphemba wam' wangthembisa..

What thought I have of you now, my love
As I quietly eating pho alone.
On the brink of light and shadow?

I thought I saw Whitman.
Oh, it's just you wearing beard again,full
The way I love the most.

As  I quietly eating pho alone,
Adorable babies parading by with their genuine smile and
Dimples in those little fat hands
Whitman takes the seat in front of me
"You should stop listening to Captain's words"

Ngalala nendoda engaligqokile ijazi, ukuze
ngikwazi UKUMITHA izidingo zami.
Namanje ngisawenza umkhuba.
Umkhuba omubi wokungalaleli uma
bengishumayeza
Mabeshumayela izwi liyawushisa unembeza
kodwa mina njengeRadio Station ehlihlizayo
angnandaba
coz to-Night e Durban ngiyozidansela
iShumaya.
Ngicela utshele umfundisi wakho
Angangithandazeli.
Njengo R50,
Mina ngibomvu.
Ngibomvu izono.
Nginesono Sokuba Isoni.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
A car accident, ingozi yemoto.
Shuthike bobalili BABELULA ngoba
AKUSINDANGA muntu.
Njengelanga liyozilahla kunina Bashona.
Njengokuphihlika kwe Glass, Bafa. I want you
to understand this, njengentombazane efake
uBra, Babhodile.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
I had a fight with the school, Sangihlula
isikole.
Then The Church had a fight with me,
Wahluleka Umthandazo.
You tell me uNkulunkulu uyaphila?
Pho mayephila akazizeli ngani Yena, wena (are
you well) Uyaphi LA?
Noma ucwecwa amazambane uya PEELER?
Lento ayenzi sense like leaving your wife for a
side chick.
Tshela umfundisi wakho engangithandazeli.
NjengeDimoni, Angiwufuni Umthandazo.
Ngathi nguMatshidiso angfuni Nomthandazo.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
Njengo R50,
Mina ngibomvu.
Ngibomvu izono.
Nginesono Sokuba Isoni.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
Ukushona kwabazali bami kwaba isqalekiso
kimi
Ngalala nendoda engaligqokile ijazi, ukuze
ngikwazi UKUMITHA izidingo zami.
Namanje ngisawenza umkhuba.
Umkhuba omubi wokungalaleli uma
mengishumayezwa,
Kode Ngicela Ningangithandazeli.
Ningangicabangeli nginengqondo yami.
Ningangisukeli nginezinyawo zami.
Ngicela ningangithandi nginenhliziyo yami.
Nibaleke, ngoba anginayo icalculator.
NingangiZondi, ngiyazithulela angisiye
UNONDABA.
Ngicela Ningangithandazeli.
NgiyiNtandane ngizohlala kulesi Sibaya
Sikababa Nginibuke eSikhaleni sezinti,
Nginakhele icebo likaZungu Ngokunga Qondi
kwami lelizwe enithi liyaThandeka, Ngizoba
uMelusi wamaBhubesi vele aningiZweli noma
Nginesiphiwo eSihle nithi Ngi Bhekifa, ningenza
I shepherd ka Sathane nithi Ngi Lusifa
(Lucifer).
Ngicela Ningangithandazeli.

He sat watching as the love dripped out of her,
like broth dribbling off the spoon back into the bowl;
each drop of pho causing ripples of warmth.

He wished to plunge deep inside of her soul,
to penetrate her mind and pause briefly, but
long enough to see how much love remained.

He watched as her hands became a swarm of bees,
her brown eyes turning to fire as she spoke,
and in this moment she was still beautiful.

His heart writhed while slowly realizing that,
it doesn't matter how much you love someone.
Sometimes love just isn't nearly enough.

They're Everywhere!, The Beautiful Badger Skins, All Of Your Things, To Conquer The Ant, Feces Feline, ******* Traffic, The Coloring Books, I'll Catch You With Nets, A Truce To Trance, Pale Nosed Girls, Jars In June, Fake Fight Fridays, Just Like Madeline, Cats And Dogs, The Poor And The Smiling, So She Says, No Strawberries Please, Bicycle Chase, Chickens Don't Fly, Behind The Shed, Cars In The 90's, Carl's Disease, Anthropomorphic Crush, A Cheer From The Waves, Bubbles Bubbles Bubbles,  The Floorboards, Suitcase Joust, Beneath The Forest, Myspace Meltdown, Call Me On Tuesday, Take Me Out To Pho, Grave Of The Cameras, Toothpicks And Cigs, Wax On Wax Off, Bad Days For Good People, Burnt Bacon.

.
                         glyphos
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                     g l y pho sate
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                     ch lorpyrifos
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take three hours of low-quality sleep,
and sprinkle lovingly with the midnight threats
of the racist and schizophrenic Madam Crazypants who lives on the next floor up.
for milder taste use the glowing red profanities that she hollers through the vents at the Mexicans who aren’t there.
for more spice use the white hot suicidal screams that saturate the night sky like streams of lava that shoot from Kilauea.
call the cops when she threatens to jump.
their lights and sirens will render waves of space
into solid panes of ice that smash into your head in surges.
go to school and simmer in silence until it’s execution time.
while the blood is still flowing from the bullet holes that you gave yourself,
pour on half an hour of "constructive" criticism from your professor
which will burn like lye or battery acid depending on the day of the week.
wash down with caffeine. simmer for three hours in a soulsucking class.
go home.
drink beer.
play Halo.
bury your anguished cries beneath your vice
and that secret codeine
and the bottle of wine you sequestered
and the cough syrup
which makes the world warm and salty and drippy and noodly
like a good bowl of pho.
let it sit in the oven
but don’t turn it on
and then pull it out on Monday
wrapped in a cotton blanket of cold *****
bleeding from the brain and fingers
empty of meaning.
and when the sun blows a fuse
well I guess then you can eat it.

He wants to tell her of a story he read once
About that gorilla who could sign
And taught its baby to sign
How when the baby died
The flailing of her fingertips
And the movement of her hands
Said more about loss than anyone ever cared to know

She looks at him
Hot pho steam moistening her face
There is a man pacing outside the windows of the restaurant
It is a whole in a wall
In a small city
The city is *****
Next to the restaurant is a bar
They listen
Juke box bass hick thunder through the walls
She ***** a noodle into her mouth

“Is this a date,” she says
    If you want it to be
“It’s not exactly romantic”

He smiles
thinks about what it means to be romantic
Remembers the list with the boxes to check off
  Of will she **** me later

It’s all too generic
And we are so talented at romanticizing the trivial
That people forget how to be charming

He thinks of death-beds
And what she might say to him

Maybe it isn’t now. But later, you’ll remember this guy
And you’ll think of that weird place he took you to this one time.
It wasn’t exactly romantic.
But for whatever reason
You will remember me for doing things like this.

He wants to tell her of the gorilla
With the sad hands

His own hands tremble

He thinks of languages people spend lifetimes learning

She sips her water
Wipes sweat from her face
She smiles
It is beautiful when she smiles

He smiles too
Shivers as the doors open and the cold comes in

Maybe in some other universe
The words would have meant more to her
They would have made sense

He fills the silence with the sound of soup
She looks at him again
The thunder through the walls stops
And all he can think of
Is the gorilla who learned the language of love
And lost the need to use it

Lily on my crown,
My soul is rooted with sunflowers,
Love springs from my lungs.
Death is a garden.
Affection a coffin.

Hedge around ribs,
Holy light tightened on heart,
Beating carols only heard by dogs
Like a whistle, thistle on my knees cutting heaven real deep.

Tulips lace my tongue
Taste of angels, backwash of Lucifer.
Eyes pupiled amethyst. The healing stone. My world is healing while thorns and samsara hold my ankles to material and the edge of avarice.

World of loom hill parade ecstasy while weather ignites to 24° psychic readings being hosted in palace atrium & column walls where the archaic clock gongs upward to ****** addict ghosts and mental wards in lucid Babylons.

Lovers screaming against bombs, blister billow black clouds and smoke with marijuana haze in flats and compassion for grief cottoned years.
Rumble of music soaked into ratless insulation, long conversations with the insomniac self who hides from monsters inches over his head.

World of daysetting group understandings amidst orange moonlight. Coalmine haired bereaved droop nose man crawls from darkness for another cigarette on the balcony, 4th floor apartment complex in May. Depression hit like **** **** fogging out the brain.
Emptiness is the west.

Travelers who sway on driftwood face The Cascades acknowledging past times, revolving themes and bullet mouthed villains who seek away from starvation from ego lacking.
Their bile is sentences and the rest, anyways.  

Japanese instrumental rolls through closed eyelids in flashing Technicolor, rabbits watch the highways unaware of mortality.

World of bicycle rides on packed ** Chi Minh
City 2016 Winter where twenty-something North Americans go for pho while others go for broke. Palm trees polka dotting college campus in Afternoon, insects whine for the daydreamers. One is writing poetry in a small Vietnamese cafe sipping earl grey inspired by the Oriental clutter and a redheaded girl back home who paces frantically in the attic besides a crooked lamp scrawling flowers to the rotted whitewood panel work

The artist’s craft is a keepsake for eternity, as wells dry out and desert becomes ocean, poems will melt to matter zipping to outer space, satellite ink spots expanding by forever realms.

Pillow foot sole cracks shell casings on forgotten battlefields in later decades, wiping off grit shoeshine boy corpse particle reformation and fairy spit from brow, the last mad prophet sees visions of Christ as arachnid wretch black widow who venomed our bones with rapture,
doom wax peeling away after the damages had been committed.  

Now I check for spiders beneath my sheets.

Banshee howl symphonic sorrows leak in unison with all lanes of commuting traffic. Denial curse for positivity, mindset slate hiding
The weary souls radiance. On the 15x down Johnson! psychedelic chasm quakes through the wheels and my thoughts are spinning sunshine!
Washing machine dynamo recollections of whiskey spilt over carpet dark sand shade while La Vie En Rose resonates from playerless pianos topped with incense sticks in arabesque ashrams, imaginary shelters. We all have one!

Nick Cave is sleeping by back row while we approach final stop in front of bankrupt Chinese corner stores. He’s murmuring Oblivions and the bus keeps on going.

Death is a garden.
Tears are its rainwater and bucket flow.
Nectar pattern reveries honeybee the flowerpots.
Peoples sprout from them bloomed full.

Rosy reaper blasts past the solar system in a comet rocket since she saved the aliens, she hums Vivaldi and huffs a good huff from her cherry cigar.
She tightens her starlight hood and black holes be born.
Torn apart Pluto goes

B    A    N    G

Comet delirious ignores the decimation
And shouts the Lotus Sutra

“ALL GODS WERE TOO PASSIVE”
Reaper hollers back steering by the milky way and beyond on their hallucinogenic trip.

Lily on my crown.
Crown for the kingdom
wherein Reaper resides
and sings with galaxy ukulele to
the great empty.
Great as all can be.

I have forgotten how happy this makes me
But I am grateful for it

Grateful for the mistakes
For the learning that comes from the ****** up things my mouth does
When all I wanted was for you to laugh

I am thankful for the laughter
And the overwhelming smile that I am normally self-conscious of
When the laughter makes me think how much I love you

Come sit with me in the middle distance
Between the times I want to remember forever
And the fast approaching future
That I don’t want to miss without you

It’s not gay when we hold hands in public
Unless we’re being gay about it

Look around
Who is staring?
They’re just jealous of the love

Thank you so much for getting me
When I feel no one else does
For understanding me so perfectly that
You can stop my stupidity mid-sentence
Just by saying my name

Say my name again like a double negative

Let my mouth slip a little further into absurdity

Thank you for the dancing
On dimly lit dance floors
Slick with sweat
And scuffed with heel-heart grace

I want to remember my awkwardness like a scar

Your smile is a scar reminding me of us
When I begin to tell these stories again

Like that time I broke into a car to steal him a pack of smokes

Or when we sat in her car after class til 2 am just talking
Just laughing

When I remind her how much I like kissing her
Especially when we’re drunk
Sloppy and passionate

When I pull my face from yours
And you smile so beautifully

When I slept on her couch because I didn’t want to go home that night
So I treated her to pho the next morning

When I held her after drinking
Under blankets she warmed in the dryer

Every time I tell them I love them
I mean it

When they taught me how to dance
When grace is something I never needed
To move like this feels good

The beer
And the tears
The laughter
The mornings after

I am grateful because of you
And because of you
I am full of greatness

Full of can-do-fire
And won’t-quit-cliché-heart
Full of first attempts with the goal to fail
Because I want to experience it all

With you

So thank you
For the laughter
And the dancing
And the awkward scar smiles
That reminds me how worthwhile living is

It is worthwhile
Because of you

The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.

The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle ***** Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****.

The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.

The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.

How much for breakfast,
coffee chocolate and vanilla
Ella, el, el LA.  
One right, 2 the nose and back across
My belly, Elly, Ella, el la.  

Fitzgerald.  

The phone, pho' phourdy eighth street
San Diego, 8:51, vah nella, naps on my bed
Chocolate prefers then under the sink
Instead.  

Coffeenchocolate vanilla
El, ella, el LA.

For phone foes of pho are the best. Their blood is the drink of the birds in the nest.
The blood hungry villains dig deep in the ground
Digging much faster than any ole hound
These birds on the wing are quite strong so it seems
Their thirst for the living is shown in their gleam
The dead are forgotten
Dirt covers their bed
Their bodies are rotten
So why are they REaD.

I got pho today.
It didn't feel right.
When I put the noodles to my lips ,
I could only taste you.
The warmth I should've felt was gone.

i actually took to taking heidegger seriously,
i don't know why, it just happend,
i like the fact that i only have a sketch of him,
being & time and ponderings ii - vi
don't account for much... but it's worthwhile
ground to begin sketching oneself,
how, or more precisely why writing
is self-absorption, until there is no "self"
for others to ask about, that's utterly fascinating,
people ask the question when people fall out
of line in the dimension of morality,
if they ever do, in all honesty.
             but sometimes, it just so happens
that the heart says what it wants to hear
and the brain doesn't have the barricades against it,
for all its reasons it just remains a ****
encompassed in a cranium...
            on the basis of understanding the
categorical imperative... categories...
             brain is primarily fat...
                           what can poison the brain
or simply "eat" it are hostile proteins...
                  so where is the true account of what
ails?                 i'd understand a parasitic instance
to account for tapeworms, but the idea of
      hostile proteins attacking an ***** that's
primarily fatty seems as much as
           prescribing people with omega-3
in tinned fish...
              we know too much to then speak the truth...
the point of pragmatism is to lie,
our safety is bound to lie, we lie to avoid
rubbing the jinn-bottle to conjure something that
many other will disagree with...
       akin to enlarging a phobia so it's massive...
hell, by comparison to heaven: is tiny...
but then heaven enlarges itself and mars descends,
that fake hope of finding like on mars?
that died, when earth was born
   and the sun went through its secondary cycle...
oh there was life on mars, but mars is
a quasi moon, hello and welcome to radio lemniscate,
but sure, go ahead, find me martian bacterium
while i watch an oxfam advert of people starving...
i'm just going to take a very, very long bow
from this circus... drink a great deal and write
as much ******* as i can...
  i think all of this began with: a real great respect
for books... how you're not supposed to treat
books as you might, in my case, deal prostitutes...
caress them, use bookmarks, fiddle the pages
as if touching trees... taking the sleeves off hardback
editions, reading the book in hardcover,
then putting the decoration sleeves back onto them
and the shelf...
        i don't have a populist culture-effective view
of ******, i just have heidegger...
            what he wrote in the 1930s resonates as
it did back then... after going to university i felt
limbless, i was almost actually but more so honest
akin to dante's depiction of bertrand de born,
a ******* dentist had more bones to a body than
i had, thinking it was only a case of me chewing
meat / vegetables...
            universities these days represent
**** germany in the 1930s...
            i'm waiting, and i'm waiting, and i can't see
anything being born...
                          more crass on crass than
criss-cross... usually it's something you do and then
you get to forget about it... clearly people are
reading into history as this need to brush-up on
their arithmetic... me? i don't remember how
the alphabet goes, but i know a word or two,
i have respect for certain sciences...
           like abacadus?
     abecadus? 3 results (0.59 seconds),
so near to a google-whack! ****!
                            http://tinyurl.com/go9g3b8,
that "alphabet" of numbers! what's it called?
                         oh right... an abacus....
          similus non similiis qua abecadus -
but the algorithm understood it...
               but university has become that sort
of magnet of failure...
                in the earliest past of the 21st century
the labour government allowed too many of us
to access this medium...
                      what we should have been taught
was how to not be bored from a boring / repetitive
environment... i'd gladly learn that course /
unless of course that thing is self taught?
  funny enough to also state: surgeons don't
have these problems, as butchers don't have them,
it's the buddhist territory of the middle
    that gets the most spank of oink huh?
             then poetry gets agitated because people
start throthing into its gob of worth with some
obscene content, and poetry is like:
call papa phi pho lee... so people can see how
pointless their argument will eventually be,
and they can go along the route of scuttling past like
scared rats... which in this language, makes perfect sense,
given they branded western slavs as vermin...
                thank you, i'll just stick to me
aphorism no. 34 (ponderings iii) and be on my way
to stage an "islam",
                         or what most would claim to
be defeat (there really is an interpolation between
ditto and italics, or at least a symbiosis,
for what could never improve punctuation,
let alone spelling)...
                        i really have lost my "christian" / western
sensibility of indoctrinating darwinism on people,
i lost my mojo / atheism-drive of "zeitgeist" vogue...
i lost the need to indoctrinate darwinism on people,
there's too many of them, and what i see is
    "zen" libido, or at least tao libido...
i think i'm going to call it tao libido in all earnest...
well... an asian paradigm if anything...
or why the west is obsessed with fame but that fame
results in a billion chinese / blue indians that...
simply don't give a ****...
       the first rule of tao?
                   to keep a world at peace is to ensure
you forget the world, and the world forgets you.
    by this point there is no dasein,
                               there is no "happening"...
or what compulsory thought patterns suggest:
there had to be a darwinism and there had to be
a big bang, for per se reasons,
    the democratic totalitarian obliteration
                                 of the individuation process;
at least in islam we are bound to disagree...
here? we agree to annoy, or we are agreed upon
toward a zenith of annoyance that translates
into subverting violence, or micro-violence...
or: that our past be no burden on our future tomorrows...
we really are living in times that history
will later define as merely a blame game,
   after that.... people will reflect and state
the unimportant content given the context,
            and then vice versus...
   then **** sapiens will suddenly fizzle out of
existence and **** schizoi will establish his rule,
to what was naturally teasing man:
                           tell a lie, write a history;
or that "metaphor" of eden.

This far divided land

Where the rice grows free

Has always had corrupt men

Stopping their life's dreams

It's in their veins

It's not that easy

To make it flow on out

For a thousand years

The same has been

Even when a million men

Wearing blue denim jeans

Came marching in

To change our ways

It's not what this is all about

While the people we trust

Pop out of man-made holes

And look like they've been

Tunnelling like moles

Where the enemy lines

Have stood for a thousand years

During the day

We're all so polite

But in the night

We all have to go and fight

The un-invited western men

Always seem to lose sight

Their communist fears

Were ingrained in their mothers womb

And will always end in tears

Where the streets smell of Pho

As you pass on by

And if looks could ****

If you dare to say hi

The aromatic love incense

Wafts in the fog filled air

Where the market crowds come

And traders buy and sell

The lonely planet guides

Write of this unusual smell

The local giggles should tell you

That you don't really belong there

So goodbye Hanoi

This time we can't ignore the flack

I'm going home

And I ain't ever coming back

My wife is waiting

To mend me back in one piece

We've had that awful feeling

Since it all became so fierce

I want to head home so bad

Now they've invaded our embassy

When they don't want our help for a truce

And it doesn't bring the change

That the westerners wanted to produce

So just leave it in the hands of ones own chosen destiny.

The Talk To Text feature is stuck on.
Aww CRAP! Come on you piece of junk, stop, Stop, STOP! Aww.. !

Oh, hey Bob. How are you doing today?

I am fine how are you?

Oh, I was fine until my talk to text feature broke. It is recording everything it hears.

Really, Jamie? Let me take a look at it for you.

Oh no you don't, Bob! I am waay better with such things, you broke my last phone, remember?

Well, it couldn't hurt for me to take a look at it...

No.

Really it will be fine...

No.

Duder, it's just a...

No.

Why are you being so hard headed?

Hey, look Bob! I fixed it.

Oh, really?

Yes.

Did you really?

Yes.

Let me see.

No.

Yes.

No, Bob. Go to work.

My work is hell.

Yes Bob. Go there.

I am telling you, I fixed the piece of...

Oh, hey Mom. However is it that you do?

Is something wrong with your phone, Son?

Not anymore, I fixed it.

Well, he says he fixed it. But...

No buts, Bob. Go to work.

Let me see your phone, Son.

No, Mom.

Yes, let me see if I can fix it.

No. I have been working on electronics since I was 8 years old. There's no way you can fix this ****** pho...

I live in a dark coal-de-sac
giving off Bonnie Tyler sparks
the Rod Stewart of loneliness,
feeling heart arch at Market Basket

I go up and down elevator
music with hooks
and loops bringing
back Ghost and Word

Modern interlacing
ritual and food
in my head and in our
breaking bread

Why do you think the feast
is movable?

Weekend food shopping;
stocking; cooking some,
but most of it,  wasted,
rotting away even with
modern coolness

It's just me. It's just she
The time is gone,
the nest is empty
wish I had something more
to say

It's just Dad visiting
every weekend
to sit with his daughter
to watch his granddaughter
play soccer

It's just Mom cooking
a minor chord meal,
nothing like the Major
meals of her missing
older Sister

It's just weekend sushi
or Pho in Simi Valley
modulating one
Key memory to another

The voices go
ghosts fade
and yet the ritualistic
love persist in my
looped head in my
OCD play
at every meal
repeatedly self cutting
our geometric thought
Elements within a Euclidean
subspace

Paint me as I appear to the world
But his art was beautiful,

of good food literature,
You are a beautiful jewel
I opened my mouth and it felt like my soul was speaking in vowels.
And the years well get to share
Beautiful is a word that I rarely use...
****** metaphors are the height
in the deeper part of the forest,
Paint me soft

You fear that I might see them
Beautiful (10w)
"Beauty's in your eyes that see me as beautiful
Paint me in any manner you feel just

"You're beautiful"
The Artist
You are the most beautiful
Or it'll cover up your beautiful heart
more complex than pho,
Are just as beautiful as you
PERFECT
it flourished with vibrancy

his style lacked pencils, paints or ink
hotter than szechuan rabbit,
as bark on a roasted lamb,
but not the kind you think

Vowels/Angel
deeper than massaman curry,
but I wonder how it would work
You are your temper and your lips

eyes the color of fallen leaves
The scars you keep within
I wonder.
Eyes the Color of Fallen Leaves
You can go to sleep in peace
locked in his mind.
We always compare food to women.
He was different,
A jewel no one will EVER be
Paint me beautiful
Make the angels want to cry
sweeter than fresh cream...
Each time I opened my mouth, it felt like I was speaking in vowels.
You are that goodnight kiss
You are that tidy room...
Don't be afraid to remove
The brightest star upon the sky
The man was an artist,

Your brilliant rays of sunshine
Beautiful
for he kept it hidden

Your brilliant rays of sunshine
Beautiful
for he kept it hidden

But sometimes, I feel like you are a synonym for beautiful.
So when you sleep at night

It lacked a physical appearance,
Because I do not know how to define the adjective -
If I met a beautiful lass,
And what came only ever sounded a little like Y-O-U.
and I told her that she was lovely
Paint Me

in reverse...
But my Prince, I have scars too
You are your insecurities