so jimmy and i get together for dinner and spontaneous poetry games. the game are fast and free and fun. prompt one is to study a loved one's face. prompt two is to dream "if poetry was easy money."

i.

my brother's face is a study in winter
my brother's face takes the shape of a round cut watermelon
a radiant red on his cheeks (even when sober) with cool secrets inside
the red roundness of his face is a long story of how he bled to be here
his shaggy hair uncurls the length of his soul, wild, untamed, fearless...
he dreams of having a mullet
there's an assholes who lives in his eyes, who laughs with resonance (more likely at you than with you)
his smile is cocky
but the smile saves my life so it has every right to be so

watermelons are perfect for the summer, but who needs watermelons in the winter?

tonight, his face dreams to be fire but is lit only by the static of a television set
his eyes are dim, like a well in the woods, you look down into it and nothing seems to look back
he hugs with half a hug, hides his hair in beanies, and maddogs the two blonde kids down the street
he's not even here
he's so absent
he could stand against the sky and even the wind would pass him by

my brother
lost boy
saves my life
i can't forget to save his

ii.

if poetry was easy money
i'd hussle a haiku
lie with a limmerick
and push the pen to pick a pocket
a poet is a thief of words
words like
cheddar
bling
lincolns
scrooge mcducks

if poetry was easy money
pablo neruda would live in a mansion in the bermuda
robert frost would pave the road less traveled by in gold
and beau sia would say "see ya" to his civic and opt for that bigass hummer to paint in

if poetry was easy money
the haas school of business would lose its house to the creative writing department
bill gates would be kicked out of his own front gates
and weekly open mics would be held at the white house

if poetry was easy money
war would be fought in poetry slams
people everywhere would be able to read
and poets would never have to worry about the world their kids would grow up in

if poetry was easy money
we'd all be poets and maybe, just maybe,
we'd all start living in the metaphors we dream of

the absurdity of architecture explodes to its highest height today in lecture as lecturers, families of lecturers, and a student dive into a "i'm deeper than thou" debate only to be displaced by the foxtrot of a big black dog onto the stage (where, i assume, he hollered hello to the lecturer's shoes.) the final project is a bittersweet excitement for me. i'm not sleeping at all, ever. i don't think very many people understand how it's like to be an architect major on campus. when i reveal to people about my major, i usually get a sympathetic look in return with a "man, that must be tough" glimmer in their eyes. i'd hate for people to feel sorry for me so i assure to them (no matter how i feel) that it's absolute fun, and anything that they may have heard is probably most likely grossely exaggerated. not true. architecture is a motherf*cking pain. but... pain ain't nothing but change. i'm changing like no other, learning incredibly so much, and growing creatively and intellectually and emotionally. people sometimes ask me where i get all my energy from... it's simple. you go and you go and you go until you burn out, and then you rest, and then you go again. over and over. appreciate your breaths, find what drives you, and challenge your breaking point. when i used to race the 3-mile back in high school, i'd blow-out at the last leg of the race and speed and speed and speed, until i would suddenly collapse out of total utter exhaustion. let's hope i collapse somewhere after the finish line.

don't just raise our glasses, break our damn glasses! shatter the shots into a thousand spilling dreams, over and over, a thousand times over, until we're neck deep in a strange wash of shards of glass and red wine, and then let's go swimming, don't be afraid of getting cut, no one sees the blood in the red of the wine

goodbye duy, thanks for passing on the torch. a loudmouth loves other loudmouths over thai food and wine.

let the saxophone burn and sing like the sun, let the drums storm swiftly and call rain to come, let the guitar bend light and move shadows to run, 'cause lordy, the blues got me down but this jazz sounds like fun

the kenny burrell quartet rips jazz to a room of hushed finger snaps while dennis kim hits the page with an anguish of cries and craze... these days are savored well.

"you can do it. be strong. you have to have the willpower and the determination. you have immense creativity, the greatest tragedy is that you don't apply it to its full potential."

"what a tragedy... can i go cry now?"

"don't cry... no use for self-pity. i'm not trying to make you feel bad. you have to be brave and relentless, crazy and breathless, you can't let your heart and your mind dull, you've just been to a dope magical spoken word jam, you have to grab every ounce of inspiration you've gained and apply it before it flies out, falls, whithers and dissapears. the secret is to go in eyes closed but heart open. no the secret is to believe in the you and the immense possibility of tomorrow that begins today. no, there is no secret, just do it."

andinh and i shared a long morning and then evening and then morning again of refreshing and refreshing and refreshing and refreshing radiohead's ticketpage in hopes of scoring some front row amphitheatre seats. the website releases tickets randomly throughout the day. no one knows when tickets are let out. you can only pray that you refresh the page during those itsy bitsy tiny moments tickets are free for everyone's grabbing.

if you're lucky enough to get to the tickets screen, there is one last obstacle to overcome. radiohead tricks you into thinking that there are no more tickets by taking you next to a sold out page. you have to manually write in the "View Basket" address into your web browser to view your (secret) basket full of tickets. then, and only then, can you buy the most sought out tickets of the radiohead's 2003 hail to the thief north american tour. one false move, such as hitting the back button, or refreshing by accident, or clicking on the buy button more than once, and you are thrown out, launched into the outside world of franctically hitting the "refresh" "refresh" "refresh!!" in dire hopes of being let back in.

guess who got in.

how people's opinions of me vary quite dramatically:

a kathy bach tells me, you make people dream

a jean guo tells me, when i think of bruce all i think of is pain! pain!!!!!!!!

i feel anxious about tomorrow's mad desperate dash to purchase two radiohead tickets. i've never wanted to go to a concert so badly until now. other artists who i dream of rocking to live: dj shadow and unkle, lovage, flaming lips, sonic youth, and typical cats. by-the-by, there is not one but two cheesecakes in the fridge... it's a beautiful time to have a good metabolism. i really want to watch the vietnam war documentary - hearts and minds - that i bought. soon, very soon. i might have to watch it by myself, most likely, the dvds that i own are not for all tastes.

i explored south of market yesterday. damn beautiful city, damn sad city. there's so much sadness in the streets. it's total bullshit how the city is trying to remarket the entire area as a trendy artsy fartsy bourgeois district. a brand new trendy alumminum lofts sits side-by-side a dusty collapsing overcrowded apartment building and guess who's moving out and who's moving in. the streets are filled with the lonely. ginsberg has always been right, there are the starving, the hysterical, the naked... but no one really notices anyone anymore.

anyways, i'm off to bed. to all you cats waking up early to buy radiohead tickets, good luck and see you in the front row.

today i find reaffirmations of architecture. my teacher is encouraging and pushes me incredibly. she makes me believe that mayhaps perhaps a future in architecture is not just an illusive dream. hope. she gives me hope. confirmations from the san diego asian film festival also graces me with a glowing hope in filmmaking. i am grateful to have such things: hope and dreams (cheesy, i know.) fast food nation keeps me in check (read it yall.) scrabble at night is fun but i regret cheating, even though it was just a joke (only nerds cheat at scrabble.) mike nguyen flakes on me but its ok, he's tired and he's still a good guy. sara is quite a sight on nights on dwight. i am burning dope cds for my brother, who just got a puppy by the name of rufio (rufioooooooooooooooooo), jimmy, do not worry, neither of us will ever burn out (we'll make sure of it), i am chilling at the kwon-espiritu apartment now, jamie and sara chat smack about architecture gsis on the couch while josh reads about bizarro (superman's weirdo twin) on the hardwood floor, it's a hot cali night and i wish i could visit prague tomorrow. happy birthday, alex shen, and have a good night.

"norwegian wood" will never sound the same again.

don't you love/hate that feeling?

when a song is forever connected with a memory or an imagination?

sorta like how whenever i hear "who let the dogs out?" i think of luca screaming "who let the dogs out?! woof! woof!"

this morning i stuffed my headphones full of sigur ros and i journeyed to point reyes. the beach is beautiful and windy and full of ghosts stardust dancing gently over the beach. this is a source of strangers, the beach and the sea who don't really know each other but hold hands anyway. there are so many beautiful secrets in point reyes, we have to film a movie here. we have to, we have to, we have to. there's no other way about it.

yesterday i secretly cried (well, no longer a secret now) while finishing murakami's norwegian wood. i'm reading fast food nation right now and i'm already on page 93. beautiful books. i cherish every idle moment i have with either reading or writing. i finished the first draft of a children's book last week, which i was 76% happy with, but draft two is full of potential (thank you, you all who encourage me.) children's book two is hidden in morcels all over my sketchbook. the play hesitates with her lines, i just need a moment to bumrush it all out. the poetry tries too hard, so i'm letting him play. but i really shouldn't talk about my writing...

yesterday was also beer and crabs aplenty.

yesterday is as sleepless as today and tomorrow.

did you catch the full moon rise this weekend?

i missed her too.

sky-gazing, like writing love-letters, has gone out of fashion.

mars will be in full bloom come august. this is not a metaphor but a fact. let us not forget to toast the red sky with our red wine and our bright red faces.

and i am moved by ishle's song "distant stars"

"we are like distant stars, we glimmer soflty, and we live on our dreams, our small dreams, and we dare to be beauty... to be beauty. we are like distant stars, we glimmer soflty, and we live on our dreams, our small dreams, and we dare to be beauty... to be beauty..."

to be an artist is to be lonely, it's inevitable. we are but skin and bones that will scar and break but please, if that means being alive, scar me, break me, how could i have it any other way?

a slight slight regret.

i was holding a copy of radiohead's now out of print "airbag/how am i driving" ep, a beautiful b-side collection of the magnificent ok computer cd, and i wussed out and decided not to buy it at the last minute right before paying for all my cds. what a nerd i am sometimes.

i scored some very beautiful music recently:

antonio carlos jobim - finest hour [we all know how gorgeous this is...]
awol one and daddy kev - slanguage [a jazzeeeey trip...]
cherrywine - bright black [ugh... a very big dissapointment]
christopher o'reily - true love waits [very damn nice]
cunninlynguists - will rap for food [sick]
dj cam - soulshine [pretty good... not very into it yet]
eels - daisies of the galaxy and more [you all know how i feel about the eels]
flaming lips - jesus egg [chaotic goodness]
madlib - shades of blue [gorgeous...]
medeski, martin & wood - last chance to dance trance (perhaps) [very damn good]
mc honky - i am the messiah [it's ok, fun stuff]
serge gainsbourg - comic strip [sleazy, so i like it.]
sleater-kinney - one beat [fresh]
solesides - greatest bumps [DOPE]
stan getz - mickey one [BEAUTIFUL]

i just hooked up onto soulseek. very fresh. i'm scoring a lot of cds online, which might make buying cds a luxury for me instead of a necessity. i just downloaded a ton of music that i've yet to listen (vince guaraldi's good man charlie brown, nutter 08's butter 08, doves' last broadcast, flaming lips' transmissions from the satellite heart, radiohead's my iron lung, a godspeed you black emperor cd, and james mason's rhythm of life!!!)

ok. this music thing has become a sort of obsession. i've found enough music to last me a lifetime. this is not part of a need to expland my record collection. it's part of a need to find good music. i want to discover beautiful music. the bells, the strings, the howls of desperation, funk songs no one ever grooves to anymore, silky voices of regret, songs of redemption, political prophecies, trumpets, songs that make you dance, songs that make you cry your heart out, songs full of metaphors no one understands, breakdown drum solos, old guitarists crying, and that last laugh at the very end of the track...

first star.

the first star that i see tonight is a girl in pink who crosses dwight avenue the same way comets cross milkyways: gently, softly, brightly.

what i miss: the sweet smell of thit kho in the kitchen. i can't cook the way my mom does. but why do i associate the kitchen with the mother? why don't i think about the way she pays the bills, takes care of my brother, does tae-bo, plays tennis, colors her hair, writers half-novels, paints on the computer, dreams of porshes, and sings when drunk. and where is my brother, trucker-hatted and baseball tee-ed, tonight? trucking his way through la? sleeping to surf at dawn? practicing the guitar in his bedroom?

hanging out with the lin siblings, ronnie and diana, makes me miss my family.

the eels makes me miss poetry.

second star.

the second star that i see tonight is a barrel of apples in the fillmore hallway. there's something magical about listening to music while chewing an apple. you eat something as something eats into you.

for dinner we had mexican food and talked about murdered ducklings and a hate for people who verbally approve of humor. you can blame andinh for the later. hater. actually, i joke. andinh is a sincere soullover.

the third star is being at home with the potential of tomorrow.

i am not at war. i am not bombed. i am not starving. i am not alone. i am not at a loss. i am not poor. i am not disgruntled. i am not without a friend. i am not in prison. i am not housebroken. i am not raped. i am not in the hospital. i am not so many things and i am thankful because what i am is something that i can still control.

watch yourself. more art is on the way. from me and from you.

let's promise ourselves a future that we've always dreamt of.

i'm lost in june jordan as i pass into my twenty-first year. a night of a "fuck you!" cake, a blow-up doll in bed, and a little too much indian tea.

thank you, my friends.

thank you for letting me live.

"sara and barry"

this is how we celebrate.

mustard chicken and pears in a pie. a roof with a red dress. an escape to a paranoid apocalypse. a loss for words on lost highways. ghosts of friends through paper heads. chocolate and ice-cream masquerading as cakes. a shuffle and deal of tarot cards. a drive along mulholland. a book in the bed.

a very happy birthday, sara kwon.

a very unhappy deathday, barry white.

a song: barry white's can't get enough of your love, babe

"hurt"

random memory of angering jason and jerry and a failed attempt at soothing them with a poetry reading.

"your strange words only confuse and enrage me! now i have the strength of TEN MEN!" screams a gamma-rayed jason.

and the pummeling begins.

what lovely doves of roommates i have.

ps: this sparks another memory of jerry and i dropping eaves on jason's singing in the shower. he proceeds to collapse us onto the floor and kick the beeswax out of us.

pps: jerry - "haha remember the time jason was so angry at you that he climbed over jade's drawer and jumped on you? you gotta blog about that!"
jason - "i'm sorry about the noogie. i went too far. i'm really sorry about that."

ppps: this all births an even new memory of jerry and i pushing to read this blog entry of jason's computer, only annoying the man. he proceeds (or will proceed) to beat us up again, and again, and again... the cycle of violence continues.

a song: frente's labour of love

"scapegoat"

i am a homebody these past two days. good change of pace. gives me no excuse if i don't work on children's book (no scapegoating architecture projects.) amit makes good caramelized brownie cake in honor of sara. an won't give me am elmo band-aid and tries to distract the fact by doing a happy jig (i am not fooled.) jimmy, as usual, brings exciting news over the phone. do i have good friends, or what?

ps: be well, mike nguyen and kathy bach.

a song: atmosphere's scapegoat