In Lac’s Voice:
Ask me why my pants fall below my ass cheeks.
It begins with everything you said to me,
Da Nang disappeared after the last monsoon season
But it was never the wrong way home.
momentarily lost within a village buried
in between war bombs and unforgotten love songs,
The awakening nightmares of blue darkness
still thrust at the sole of my bare feet,
rooted with wild memories of shook beginnings
I haven’t stopped running towards my way back since.
The horror of heaven is strung out, black balloons takes the
aloofness out of junkies, slithering between the elongated
wretchedness of Pa’s longing for banh bao as Ma reaches for Ne
through Vietnamese folk songs. The heartbreak of digging through
dumpster crates- raggedy ends to hold us together, as we one by one
fall into an upheaval tale of needing to be spared..
Young men drowns in their drank
robbed from their indigenous swag,
They douse themselves in inebriated blood baths taken repeatedly
in the crossfire of reviving themselves in between
roaring ciphers of troubled Hollywood stories.
War tattered minds engulfed in drive-bys can only travel
miles before the dead thundering breeze pulsates their
undying boat-sunken hearts back into the pandemonium of L.A gun fires.
Son, how are you still breathing?
Through the gritty ugliness of whipping rods
A distinct iridescent of dragonflies flourishes
into the traumatized underbelly of one who heals from scars-
each lashing against the downpour of years spent swigging
40oz juices brewed from the stratum of a beast unleashed,
to unearth an amalgamation between pa and son.
Gratitude must cultivate from toughness, a ruthless veracity
for being an American-raised son, you always only read in between the lines.
The eyes glisten every night I spend looking up at the sky,
reminiscence of Vu grooving under the tomato riped moon,
with white sheets nestled in between bamboo sticks,
I bear the weight of my own children, waiting for paroxysmal dragonflies to
define their beauty despite the firebombs beating through a wounded heart.
Pa and Sky/Pa and newborns
will always be tangled in a spider web of love.
---Like a feather in the wind, here I go again.
If you love me, show me---
--------
http://www.amazon.com/Love
love & hate. war. I hear it in your "tipsy" love song. Your writing.......makes a man quite emotional
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