Poems & Short Stories

Who she was isn’t there

Who she is, is someone new

What she meant is no longer

What she means is strange fiction

When she loved was something to cherish

When she changed is something to perish

Where she lived is a memory of time

Where she goes is of no consequence

Why she did it is the enigma

Why she does it is for her and her only

How she entered is a story of caution

How she left is a story of The Other

No one cares

No one sees

Said the man in striped shirt

His hands waving in the air

His white beard tapered

His mouth singing the lyrics of Cherry Bomb

I sat on my stool holding on to my cup enjoying the company of my friends

Sure there’s family but in the city your friends are your family.

The dancehall was broad and open, the mod kids were dressed to the nines

And our conductor for the evening was a wild old man, confident in his ways, wailing, shouting and screaming with pure joy

No one cares

No one sees

Amen.

When a man loves a woman he sees his life with her in all streams of a lifespan.

He sees her walking down the aisle, eyes prancing, giddy smiles, nervous tears.

He sees her meeting him across the street, hands waving, happy gazing, a tiny shout.

He sees her nursing a child and speaking to her, low tone, holding hands, gentle prodding.

When a man loves a woman, he sees his life.

He sees.

He told me he saw God.

He emerged from the pool, the heavens parted and he was saved.

Or so he told me.

My father’s eyes were piercing, he was not lying.

I looked at him and accepted his witness.

He said he had been searching for this all his life.

An Answer.

A Creed.

A Religion.

A Home.

On weekdays, my rituals include a swim at Echo Deep with one of my dear friends.

We wait in line outside amidst street vagrants aiming to take in a hot shower.

Once we change and rinse, we don our goggles and we swim our laps.

We go back and forth, each stroke costing a breath, a hold of air, a test of our core

To swim is to be free. It’s the closest to what I imagine it must feel to fly.

The water is resistant yet once one understands how to navigate, the body suspends itself in harmony

I like to dive deep and see how far I can swim with one breath.

I haven’t quite managed, yet the feeling of emergence from water is a feeling of relief, a feeling of gratefulness

We continue to swim back and forth

We rest

We quip

We share stories and a laugh

I do not see God in these waters but I do feel something

I feel calm, rested and at peace.

To the women I’ve loved in my life

I thank them all for the moments they’ve provided to this dear boy

I say boy because it is the undressing of the man to the child which allows connection

At least for me

These women are no longer, they’ve moved on

But I do thank them in providing me their grace, a space for my mind and heart to rove in their magic

I thank the girl who sat with me on the rooftop of my apartment located in the fringes of Koreatown

We sat in the early dawn listening to Air, the morning mist enshrouded us in a bed of cloud and we looked at each other

barely making each other out and we smiled and we knew

I thank the girl who sat with me on the windowsill of her downtown loft

each with a glass of red in hand, passing a cigarette in between, as we bravely confessed our sadness and our wants

The sun refused to rise as if wanting us to cherish the night forever

I thank the girl who sat with me across the bar in Roppongi

Her shoulders moving to the music, her fingers jauntily holding onto her champagne flute, her lips mouthing a song

She stared deeply into my eyes and I was transfixed, my heart leapt

I thank these women, these beautiful darlings for showing me their reach

Love is a grand thing

A thing of phenom, a thing of glory.

Days of rain were days of calm

It meant that my older sister and I would get picked up from school

I was 7, she was 9

We lived in Reseda, a part of town in the Valley comprised of broken families and poor immigrants

My mother would pack our lunches, I couldn’t bear the ridicule

She would be upset when I lost my chopsticks, I never told her I threw them away

I couldn’t stand being different, it was hard enough being short, small, face flat, eyes slanted

On days of rain, my father would drive his big GMC truck and wait for us after school

His landscaping job was cut short which put him in an unusual good mood

He’d pick us up and take us to Caeser’s Pizza

I was always suspect of him when he acted this way

I wasn’t sure if he was faking it, pretending to be nice

He was quick with the lash, his voice would soar and crash upon us with fright

On days of rain, he would implore to pick any topping we want, he would buy extra breadsticks

At home, he would hand us each a hot piping slice and talk to us with with a kind and earnest heart

As the evening settled and my mother returned from work, she too would follow suit and the house was at peace

I would sit alone in my room and hear the rain gently drop against the window pane

In the distance I could hear old Korean folks songs lilting in the house

I hoped it would rain all night, all week, all year

I could hear him from the walls

He cried for days alone and didn’t leave the room

My mother asked me to to bring him rice porridge on a tray

I knocked, he opened the door and he gave me a gentle nod

I never seen my father so broken

My grandfather had died the previous week and my father did not attend his funeral

He would later tell me that he couldn’t

He said that had he left to Korea, he feared that he would lose his business and he would endanger our livelihood

At age 12, I didn’t believe him

I could tell he was scared to face it

He didn’t want to accept the death of his father

When I was four, I remember my grandparents visited us and lived in our cramped apartment in East LA

My grandfather would burn incense and chant his Buddhist mantras

He would invite me in and have me sit on his lap and he gently swayed me to sleep

My grandfather was kind

When he died, I knew that something changed inside my father

He became colder, he became easily agitated

He was quick to reprimand

There was something unspoken

It was as if my father wanted me to feel his pain

I could hear his moans from the walls

A wounded man, a wounded child

He was no longer strong

He was true

He was beautiful

He was the lion.

She was tall, white and hip

Her name was Ms. Swanson and she would arrive to my house on a weekly basis to teach me the Bible

She had me memorize all the names from Genesis to Malachi to Matthew to Revelations

She taught me how to pronounce my words correctly in English

She introduced me to pumpkin pie

I was seven years old.

She would drive stick in her Honda Prelude and whisk me away to the local park

She would feed me alfalfa sprout sandwiches and homemade iced tea

She introduced me to Orson Welles and The Beatles

She once took me to Bullocks and bought me a clean linen shirt, a neck tie, a pair of pants and a set of penny loafers

I was suited up and ready to preach

On weekend mornings, I would walk ahead of her and knock on stranger’s doors and recite scripture

She instructed me on how to stand while speaking, chin up, chest forward.

This was my childhood, preacher boy in training.

And my teacher Ms. Swanson: tall, white and hip; did her part and taught me well.

We will never be friends

These words were muttered from my father

He sat stone faced back towards me

I was 9 years old. A frail scared boy holding in my bated breath

My father was a man of contradiction

He was a natural charmer

He knew how to tell jokes

He knew how to command a room

I would observe from afar in wonder

Attempting to understand this man and in turn myself

Who was he

Why was he so capable of showing his humanity to others but not to his own kin

He was quiet at home

Stern and serious

I knew he was wounded but refused to heal

I am no longer a boy.

I am a man.

I am still his son.

And I wish I could tell him that I’ve been his friend all along.

Oh Great Mountain

How high you tower over us

Your trails rocky, dry, and scorched

For whom does the bell toll that I may endure such anguish

Why must my trek be so harsh

For what sin must I abandon to disallow this pain

What is it that you wish to gain

The Sun beats down

My legs give way

And yet, I trudge forward

I come before you to find an answer

I come before you because I have no where else to go

I come before you to leave my past behind

Once I reach your peak

You embrace me with the wind

I scurry down lush green and muddy rock

The moon greets me and says hello

The city looks bejeweled from twilight

I am no longer sad

I am no longer defeated

I am cleansed

I am neat

I am