soul mates

i, saw the wounds of the world

breathe like shooting stars

at midnight, when champagnes glasses

were touching lips

and i knew we both stared at the countdown blankly,

(simultaneously as we always are)

as if we were holding the sky up with our palms

waiting for the sighs of raindrops to

carry forth our souls towards the open blue.



a decade past of knowing you,

and i have reincarnated multiple lifelines,

we,an ancient duo, continues to spit our souls

reasons-why our spirituality

has become more paralleled and aligned,

and our fears has lessened and became lessons

so our hearts beats wickedly and widens.



and if anybody has ever doubted the way

growth grooves, i assume they haven't crossed

either one of us yet. danger reckons fire,

astrologically the definition of beautiful has us healing,

quicker than we're breathing. hearts beating.

becoming a pantheon of owning our phenomenon,

where we sip by the rocks

and write sweet poetry...........

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUcXI2BIUOQ

A lower east collective

we're moving too quickly and i forget how to stand still.
everything's changing, dear.
the legacy of how i grew,child- was once here.
I was born and raised in the gritty beauty of the lower east
and now through the inevitable gentrification of our hood,
my heart cannot
speak of it any further.
this collective is my heartbroken
attempt to hold on to the ugliness that made me
witness beauty in its entirety.

don't be afraid, don't run away.
stay a little longer
we just all got to keep on, keepin' on.

happy hour madness

...thinking of spaces in between the eerie feeling of running wild.
we live pretty crazily trying to run afar from the absurd danger of who we are.

i got burned before matches lit under boxed mattresses
sleeping into a masked glow of fire
and i'm running slow.

sometimes you're just not suppose to make it...

but when you do, you begin to weep from within the chest that carries
the onslaught of your happy hour specials......
until i forget how to cry and i begin to slur drunken howls behind a smile.

the filth of a confession.

for years now,i fold my hands-half clenched.

twiddling the trigger finger from this beast

that stood in front of my mirror.

bang. i can not recognize myself. boom.

what have you, you call me a female soldier,

and I'll lick my lips quickly

before i thrust my chin forward,

-daring you to frighten me,

quite impossible so,

i,being so hardened.heh

well..

you don't know self confessions

until you sat through therapy after therapists

owning up to your own,knowing the aftermath

it got to be more than letting go now,

i got myself so good.

i haven't cried for so long

and i'm desperate for a break through.

the woman i wouldn't become

this is her manifestation.
mama dooks
had cracked american dreams,
she fed self with spoons of longing
and wore sharp earrings-
a reflective
fixation on how her face spits
the starvation of wanting some sort
of salvation.
i asked for that jacket once
she still had it
i wanted to feel the empty places
this woman had gone when alone,
but she insisted it stayed
hanging in her closet...
like the emotions
that has scarred her face
from knowing a true smile.

Finding love through war-a tipsy love song.

To Lac Su- a comrade with a mean swagger.


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-Yous-Are-White-People/dp/0061543667/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231697933&sr=1-1

mr. richard avedon, photographer

so many more days ahead and i'm burnt. feverish nights and i'm still broke. in the adversities of being spared some change, there remains hope.the darkness spared me as I look fwd to pillars of greasy skies. I am a working wounded man, whose heart has broken and am looking for something better, something over this forgotten rainbow. I sweat coal mine dreams