Thoughts by the Beach

The teenager in me is listening to

songs that ask for freedom

on a morning after

Christmas by the beach, with a coffee

on the glass table and the burning sun

on my left leg, the sensation begging me

to notice the difference between the two sides--

the bright and the dark.

The twenty year old in me is listening to

songs of reaching, of regret

at 9am in a seaside town inhabited

by those retired and comfortable,

those who have perhaps given up their dreams.

The thirty year old thinks technology is incredible,

for allowing those of us in broad shorts

and those of us in thick winter jackets to be in love,

to be in touch, to see smiles

through frozen minus three degree weather.

Once, In Wonder

Reality has never felt more beautiful since I met you,

since I’ve touched you, since I’ve kissed you,

but the obligation of a poet

is to make facts fantastical,

and to never believe in the landscape

I try so hard to remember on paper,

to question the softness of the asphalt we laid on,

to find explanation for the hardness of your penis

through your khaki shorts,

to excuse the moisture on your chapped lips,

to notice the absurdity of street lights that shine way brighter

than any stars in the sky, dyeing white the darkness
of space above us.

Radio Silence (Father)

I want to write a song with you,

but it’s been over twenty years

since we’ve even had a meal,

or been to the cinema together.

Twenty years since I’ve wondered

what your face looks like if it smiled,

if only you did, then maybe

I wouldn’t be here looking for words

a whole ocean away,

while you’re there looking
at the keyboard on your cellphone,

wondering if it’s really technology

that’s made it so hard to write your son,

in that second floor apartment

I’ve only been to a couple of times—

the stairs must kill your back now,

but I’d never know,

your face never tells any stories,

or jokes, or words. There’s no lyrics

between us, no nostalgia

we could hum to,

just a silent chat screen we both stare at,

every once in a while.

Metaphor for a Friday Night

Your hands are clever,

I get that now, it’s not

just the sexy guitar riffs

or knowing when to rev those

highway near-death takeovers.

I got it when

your tequila persuaded hands stumbled

in the dark

all over my body

but somehow avoided to acknowledge

my sex, my name.

I get it now, your hands,

their resourcefulness and their ironic desire

for hairless body heat in the tropical east,

and maybe even

the metaphor of intertwining fingers—

That’s all I was, a metaphor

for sexual blindness, or ignorance;

a metaphor for

(your words)

a man’s Friday night.

Three Poems for the Nightstand

Straight/Lines

You were straight
lines parallel to my entity

and parallelism is meant to be

two beings on paths moving side

by side, having the same distance

continuously between them,
unchanging

as fact,

or so I thought even when

our bodies rested
on your bed, the patterns

of the mattress laid out a grid

marking our space respective

before

your penis introduced a perpendicular

that’s made maths,

or sexuality,

no longer important.

*

Sex Sounds

Was there a point to try

and harmonize the rhythm up and down

of my head on your cock;

saliva, tongue, on skin— unbearable sex sounds

with the moans that escaped

your lips, so dark I could barely see

my name over and over

reflexively whispered,

your eyes closed,

mine opened.

For just a moment

I thought I heard assonance

in our separate sex noises playing

at different time signatures,

and harmony

in resolutions that never came.

*

The Mourning After

I woke up 

to the sweetness of

courtesy Listerine on your breath,

your arms still holding my head

in the coarse black hairs of your chest

where I tried to search for vacancy

in the dark of this graveyard

to mourn the half bottle of whiskey

that we didn’t get to drink last night,

still standing on your nightstand.

Sofa

It has to be a sofa,

no guestrooms or blow up mattresses,

and preferably canvas

with lots of cushions and a throw

that can easily turn into a blanket

for those 3am nights.

It also need stains—

chocolate pressed by a lover’s body,

blood from an embarrassed friend,

biriyani from a drunken hookup;

a loved furniture, if you may.

I want to add my own stain onto your sofa,

maybe wine, or the tears

that inevitably run

for our first hello’s, and our last goodbye’s.

I want to leave something there, permanent,

as if to say I’m sorry for being absent, sorry

for missing the nights you had to fall

asleep on your own on this sofa covering it in

solitary sweat and tears,

when I should have been there

as a reason, a reminder

that you have a bed to sleep on, to love on.

It has to be a sofa,

something about the way it allows me to sink in

with just enough resistance lets me know

I am loved.

Red Envelope

Fifty dollars; a hundred dollars.

Same bills I gave her

a few weeks back, all stuffed

neatly in a Chinese red envelope.

It’s for you birthday, and Christmas,

and Chinese New Year, all together

she said. Even though they are

at least six months away.

That’s what our love has become lately,

cram-packed in a week or so

and paid out in advance,

no room for words,

no space for debate,

anything more

it would just tear, and break.