Untitled 

 

first you juxtapose two images 

with a gap of silence in between 

mix in some interconnectedness 

a dash of dharma 

zen 

a sprig of chinese poetry 

beating the connection 

into fragments 

until endlessness appears 

top it with ku 

sanskrit patanjali 

yoga 

some fine wine 

get scuzzy and abandon it all 

begin again with emptiness 

and call it asian america 

poetry 

for that is all you know 

breath like shakuhachi 

within a closed system 

of 

 fertility of the soil 

the journey of the tribe 

and yes, give it form 

leave things out of the right spot 

that’s it! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jackson Street Manju Trilogy 

 

l 

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forever if 

again home 

fu Manchu 

jade snow 

miko taka 

go bao bao 

in the yellow stew 

go bao bao 

and blackjap 

go chinkchat 

fingers poppin’ 

tongues clickin’ 

like dragon dancing  

turned on 

daddy-Os 

 

hustle down 

hustle back 

cruisin’ around 

the sanjo track 

jackson street  

and the manju boys 

take no lip 

from east side poi. 

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II 

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asian sister 

with manchild seething 

against the studded sun 

with the bones 

of the fat land 

teeming with storms 

teach me the song 

of hands 

while dancing 

to taiko 

hard and wet 

head band puffed 

loins strained 

for it is you 

who dawns the masks of ghosts 

and the manchild 

curled dumb and waiting 

like lava 

will of your blood  

sow. 

 

as for me 

a thousand cranes 

isn’t enuf 

for poetry. 

 

but you are fundamentally 

escapist, 

 

you step out of your cloths 

and move naked in the wind 

and call me a ‘prick’ 

in the primal sense. 

 

later in your notes 

you write 

‘the tone of his eyes 

has the color of the wing’ 

and were it not for poets 

i would tear at the pages. 

 

yesterday 

old friend 

like fish 

from the depths of the calaveras 

cross the placental river 

with bento on his face 

the boat’s prow 

angled to the east 

ryoshi 

wants to be good buddhahead 

wants to fingerpop 

wants to go crusin’ 

for hot, yellow mamas 

in the fahn fields 

and never read mirikitani or inada 

and thinks chin is a part of the face. 

 

manzanar was a place 

where his ma learned ping-pong 

listened to Dorsey 

and jitterbugged 

in bobbysocks 

while america  

was being blown away 

in the pacific 

yea, i thought 

it was a sight 

to make the eyes sore 

 

afterall 

i found myself 

from what i understand 

and what i understand 

is who I am 

and what you are 

stripped of history 

unfinished 

disordered are stones in my mouth 

barbed wire about my breast 

whole forests on my back. 

 

white 

behind the yellow mask 

I sd ‘jism’ 

and howl madly  

after a print of ozeki 

for aren’t we loud 

lazy, gardeners 

houseboys 

sexually loose 

miserable 

creatures. 

 

manchild must learn  

the tricks  

of gold mountain 

that truth kills 

sometimes in the name  

of leaves you older 

homeless 

while dancing in some dark 

festival beating 

bones from the dead. 

 

listen to me then 

this is blood 

this is what i am 

your village was bombed 

your ancestors went hungry 

their skin burned off 

their children sold 

the woman entered 

and those left  

made into pack horses 

to be barbecued 

over a spit. 

 

this is historic truth. 

 

those who are America 

are circling overhead 

on mad wings 

where even the tides 

do not reach… 

 

(it’s part of 

a tradition  

of ‘purification’) 

 

to be defined  

one must struggle 

to be free 

one must over come  

become prismatic 

like a dark moon 

lurching towards 

the next day  

or live  

to be human 

believing that 

in this arena 

no man dies mad and hungry 

no man 

or precious blood. 

 

i would do anything for you 

(almost) but 

during the rebellion 

i would not know what side 

you were on 

maybe pilot 

air American 

with kilo of opium 

tiger brand by your side 

maybe just another fish head 

tasteless 

tubular mouth. 

 

manchild 

like sound of waves 

tearing off the crests 

to be defined 

will be defined 

there is no other way

​

III 

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asian sister 

do you listen still? 

it is not just you 

but the natural order 

of the dancing 

hands waving 

beneath the akari 

shinning black hair 

with name 

onna 

shojo 

bijin 

where do you lay 

with your golden arms 

whispering? 

 

you are beauty 

there are mirrors 

crossed by silver  

which shape images 

to the shape  

of your breathing 

 

there are avalanches 

behind your eyes 

 

ika in the marrow 

of your bones 

 

dreams in the dark 

of your sleep 

 

crosslegged 

you have entered  

through a hole 

of heaven. 

 

Afterwards 

 

miles back 

in the night wake 

zen master 

chi magic 

singular 

zazen for five days 

insular 

ta louie lu 

three psychic circles 

yin yanging it 

on Jackson 

like hard eraser 

washing silk 

of ink 

spilled thoughtlessly 

taken by the hand 

led to air 

all that could not be said 

but was. 

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Colmado 

 

He’d seen them come 

(weary eyes) 

all of them 

and men like this too. 

 

They were smart and white, 

shirtsleeves rolled 

up against the wall 

of entirely 

insurmountable problems. 

 

Eagerly they tore down his city  

of old things and remembered places 

and they told him to be happy  

in the new 

so kids who play and 

mothers on upper floors  

will never know the old. 

 

Slums and old men, 

father of these men 

who were 

sons of their fathers 

who said 

be happy your children 

beneath my cabin’s mark 

or sign here 

(you’ll pay later) 

take it home now. 

 

Old home buried by new homes. 

 

A cascade of bricks 

releasing impotent puffs 

of white smoke, dynamite 

for what has already fallen. 

 

Colmado, 

old man, feeble, wooden 

quality of age 

always forthcoming  

as laughter with no lungs 

behind its sounds, 

fashioned upright 

perfectly 

on two legs 

as if an extension of what was, 

beer in hand, straining  

to wake, breathe, 

slowly he turned 

and swept the smoke 

from his eyes. 

 

​

Suddenly 

without  passion, 

it was over. 

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