"dancers in the dark"

dancers in the dark
can't rely on their eyes
they see with something else
an instinct
a rush to fill each moment
with a dare

dancers in the dark
sometimes dance with each other
sometimes dance with each other's shadow

dancers in the dark
stretch to fill the night
with their unbearable lightness

"mister frustrated-poem"

i have to sleep
but i can't

i makeshift mischief
and i drift my hips into the chaotic collision
of the sound of poetry

(or the present lack thereof)

nothing's coming out tonight!
not a verse
not a rhyme
not even a murmur

i have a dizzy silence
roaring thoughts cyclone my head
and they refuse to roll out

i don't know why
i just can't put anything into words right now

i have something to say
i know it
(i just can't right now)

it's pointless to poetry
when i'm suffocating on my own
inaudbile gulps

i'm here
teetering on the brink
always drawn closer and closer to it
but never quite close enough
to say anything

"a change of pace"

tonight's poem
will be visual, audio, and interactive

Lose Focus

to view:
user name: student
password: guest

(i actually made this a couple of weeks ago.)

"papi et mami"

i ghost waltz
with the sprained footprints
of my fading ancestors

i fumble words as we dance
our tongues are hollow to each other
we communicate incomprehensible babbles
me who lost our native language
who whispers in French and English

you know loss well
you spell it S-A-I-G-O-N
pronounce it "family"
define it as identity

my loss is not Vietnam
i never had it to begin with

my loss is you
papi
mami
i weave your broken ghost scrolls
with my own worried words
to write a world
for my seeds to find comfort in

my grandfather's burning stories are dying out
am i the one who's left to tell them?

are my children going to know Vietnam
know the prison camps, the helicopters, and the wartorn streets
or are you going to be faceless speechless and nameless
a lie in a US History book?

i carry your ghost on my back
a child piggybacking his mother
i'm a lost boy in America
when i think about you
i'm so scared to live
i'm so scared to die

sacrifice is an inherited scar

"papi et mami"
i will not give up search
we both know loss well
but i will find you

you
who i don't even know yet

"a reminder"

i confess
i still can't shake you off me
you
a warm tingle brushing constantly
along the stillness of my skin
i'm immobile
as i take the warmth in
i have to remind myself
to breathe
to breathe
to breathe

"poo" (or "how the english language was formed")

poo
a child's word
a seemingly innocent syllable
one of the first exclamations a baby makes
like "mama" "dada" or "googaaa"

poo
a bird's mating call
the opening of the song
"poo-too-tweat!"

poo
poo
poo
spell it backwards and you have oop
as in oops
a mistake
a fault
a drop
usually accompanied by the declaritive exclamation
"shit"

poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo
poo

say it out loud often enough
and you'll find yourself with another funny little sound

hah
hah
hah

"disenchanted doves"

sage francis sings the hip hop hymm:
'We dont need wings to fly
Me and you... we dont need wings to fly
Keep on singing give it a try, give it a try
Just keep on singing give it a try, give it a try'
with such bravador i'm caught
whisked up into the updraft
i hear the echo in his words
an audible reflection
and i believe i'm him
and he's me
and we're all going through the same old shit

'we don't need wings to fly
me and you... we don't need wings to fly'

you're easy to lift
if you're feeling empty on the inside
a worried frown shoved in the rush of cold Berkeley days
do we really fly
or do we actually float drift and glide
along the routines we're used to

'Keep on singing give it a try, give it a try
Just keep on singing give it a try, give it a try'

if you want to lift me up
sing your song
go ahead
give it a try

we can give it a try

"how i clean my room"

i pop in a cd
(beck's sea change)
i scan my mess
(bua poster on the floor, clothing on ikea chair, pastel chalk everywhere)
i scratch my head
(and miss the long hair)
i pick my nose
(an ephemeral guilty pleasure)
i sit on my chair
(tired back slouched over)
i pout a funny face
(for imaginary tv audience)
i go online
(when tired of imaginary friends)
i write a poem
(about my life so far)
and what happens next...
(i don't know)

"i still haven't called you"

fading pencil marks
in the form of your number
marks a napkin roughly tucked
somewhere in the wrinkles of my pocket
i don't think you remember giving it to me
i didn't until i dipped my hand in search of a dollar bill
but now that i have it again
i wonder
what should i do with it?

"a weekend in new york"

i
i
i
i
i
i
i
got lost

not along your intricate subway system
so full of artful mosaic walls along one corner
and vomit stained grafitti holes at the next

nor did i lose myself
at 5 am
on the empty streets somewhere
in between Little Italy and Chinatown
a cold wind against my cheek
and the city at my feet

nor did i dissappear
in a cyclone crowd of friends
spilling drinks at a bar
falling asleep in a subway car

i did however
get lost
in my sketchbook
as i desperately tried
to take you all in