My Happy Ending

I've never thought of
myself as a fairy tale princess
before tonight,
before you pulled me out
to dance on that dusty floor;
the back and forth between us
a waltz I didn’t recognize,
the music just words you said I’d like,
a tongue you promised I’d enjoy.
Was this ever meant to be romantic?
The way you held my face,
my head—I thought a gentleman
was meant to hold my hands, my waist?
I was told to relish the kiss,
the one for which I needed to open up more,
the one that leads to wedding bells,
and celebrations; walls coming down,
and rainbows coloring the sky above.
I was told
if we went to bed, and let you inside
all the magic would come
early next morning;
my happy ending.

Hanoi

My heart, like a Hanoi sidewalk,

was never meant for footsteps, 

just a crowded parking space, 

already full of noise making machines, 

yet somehow you always find a spot, 

a crevice left vulnerable 

that you force yourself in. 

I guess my landscape just tolerated 

the way you invade so imperialistic, 

in and out you shift

and penetrate my borders; 

erect me like architecture

and come inside like a colonial affair,

leaving me hollowed, not knowing how

or why I’m supposed to sustain this pretense of 

loyalty, or love, to an adventurer 

who never meant to stay.

I wanted to be
the dirt path on which you walk, 

the place for a breath of winter air 

rather than mild pollution;

your Annapurna, 

El Camino,

and not just 

your Hanoi sidewalk. 

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.