The Gift


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Ode to Forever Swirling Sunlight

My final notation will come
Close to silence, it will be subtle
It won’t take me long to write
Poems ought to come naturally
Like kissing and giving voice

To what burns to get out
It will take all of my heart
The beating poor little thing
That loved too much, with
All the breath in the world

It will be simple, in that
The final notation is always
Somehow about God
Who is as simple as
The universe, as fresh
As the cities of the future

My descendants will know me
By what I chose to say
What I never planned, but was
What I dreamed most
At the core of my ribs
I am coming to all the pieces

Of my life that led me
Divinity, the outstretched gift
That was a human life
Like a valediction of all virtue
And a forbidden taste of morning

Before I even got to undress
In the empty notations of the sun.

The Silent Revolution is Inevitable


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– Pictured, Tina Chang (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tina_Chang)

Ascent of Asia

I am haunted by how little our children
Know, what we have done
To each other, to those we deemed
Beneath us, to the Earth…..

How a republic falls and how
Democracy can lie, how News can be distorted
How money hides its debt
By printing more, by pretending we are alright

Or worse, an old idea of Nationalism
Idols of a world out dated, euro-centric
I’m haunted by how little
Millennials realize Asia is the new Queen

Why do they not learn Mandarin, Korean?
We forever think we are the center
Of the globe, but I’m not a daughter
Or a son of East or West

I am haunted by how little writers
Write about revolution, about change
We cannot always repeat what others have said
We cannot always unravel in our

Personal voice, there’s a secret stairway
To broader concerns, more existential themes
There, the ultimate fiction is reality
There is a new world ready to be born
Will you join?

Orphans of Asia


May 22, 2013

The orphan of Asia is crying in the wind
She is this young, not old any more
Lost with the new age at her heels
Nobody cares to play fair with her
She must find her own literacy
In games of power and pitfalls of fortune
Create her own ideology of feminism
Dreaming of bananas, pineapples and freedom
Dancing in the street, a new order of consciousness
She is a kingdom of honey-sweet sugar
A pragmatism of following ancient ingenuity
The orphan of Asia is a sleek mistress of the west
Parody of the Earth, song-mother of empires
Out of Africa, home of the first-settlers
How large is your opportunity
Why else would you be smiling? India? China?
The orphan of Asia has Japanese wings
Singaporean inclinations, Taiwanese wise-sayings
The orphan of Asia practices many religions, and none
She does not sleep in her mother’s arms
Everybody tries to take her favorite toys
Lips of forgotten genius, voice of new originality
Pakistan, Malaysian, Indonesia
The orphan of Asia is crying in the wind
Still remaining muddled, trapped, a lost kitten
Under the weight of a terrifying World Government
In place before the outer signs are seen
Your air still sneezes intellectual adolescence
Your spirituality has been banished by your politicians
Your soil still stinks of colonial dictators
Your education still forces you to betray yourselves
What nationalistic statements can save you from yourself?

A Beat Poem as a Marvelous Omen


29

I’m apt to loaf for news about you
I heard you did Salsa from Singapore
Played the saxophone as a decoy
While translating and interpreting market values
Us poets work bankers’ hours

You know it, with your silk grin of patience, your
Vocabulary that can’t be cataloged
Your words strike me as a saber of the future
Street-smart, like laughter right after supper
Champagne that sparkles, in the world’s most bustling city

I’m apt to not know what to say, once I find you
With your spoken french so far superior to mine
Wearing a dress tailor made for how
We failed at secular life, it wasn’t surprising
That I’m running out of ways to distract myself from
The inevitable dilemma that I can’t stop writing

About my lack of mentors, lovers, heirlooms, legacies, girlfriends
Nothing can compare to the exposure of my dying lips
Of the trinkets of your humanitarian sustenance

I caught myself worshiping today
At the thought of discovering you, losing you, crying
Triumph in-between your surrealism and the non-locality
Of how we know of each other at all
Like a rumor of lost identity hushed in semantics.