Grinding

dark dark the night outside, through the window, my face in the light reflected to the runaway sound of the train
and I think
what is love really, other than a compromise, made
out of fear of loneliness. It is not what is hoped for, no roots deep in some life force promised once in poems that I believed in.
It is merely this:
age and society, and bad romance movies
they tell me it is the way to happiness, to fulfilment, and where the soul resides, it will conquer all things: fear, even death
but it is a lie, of course, it is a poor consolation to our true destinies.
What love really is, is this: A vow made in some secret part of the heart, like the old woman in the old story who would one day turn a metal rod into a needle. You grind day after day after day
moment after moment of work
then one day, you wake up to the face of a stranger beside you, and you think, I have loved with the bones of my hand.
This is love. It is a work I have chosen to do day after day. It is the happiness grasped at and pieced together. Stuck together in notebooks or keepsake boxes. I have snatched these moments of light against the darkness. That's when I kiss you again and again, and you wake up and smile at me, and I wonder again, how short these true moments are. And how long those other moments at the mill, praying for the day after a hundred years, the old woman finally holds a needle up to the light.

later

It was around this time of the year, (wasn't it?) When I made a fool of myself.
I was a fool. To think... oh well what does it matter anyway.
It will not be the first or the last anyway. And you.
I will not be the first or the last either. Just one of those in the middle
forgotten quite easily soon enough. Only,
I take a long time in forgetting.
I will though. Sooner or
later, I say,
always later. Always.

Tonight

Same old bus ride
through the dark
this cold night
even the lights seem distant and I can't find the right words
but I thought i needed to do something different
take a new route tonight and call it an adventure
but I didn't
did the same thing over
and over
again
I got home and closed the door to mild night air and the jaded moon tired like street lamps
I now know what age is:
it is this lack of adventures, not the desire of,
but the will
to see it through,
And god,
I feel so old tonight.

bloodydon't

I don't have a knack for poetry.
Words so easily turned bad--like milk, like poems, like milk
garbledtonguetwistedkneeyessiree
See what I mean?
How to take that seriously?
Told to extract meaning and clarity
from abstract
is a poetic command, very zen like
but terrible, unless you're Neruda, but even then
he never did have a sense of humor
knowwhatimeanknowwhatimean?
Yes. That's my point.
Poems---ah. What was I trying to say? not out of anger, or say, a desire for beauty
words turned into art, uneasily--like this, like poems, like that.
There really is no art there. Or there is. Truth be told
I just don't--bloody don't--have a knack for poetry.

October

Thunder-- drums in the distant
billowing curtains
a mosquito buzzing
lazy Sunday

Music Box Monologue

I got you Christmas present early. He says.
Don't cry over any broken music box anymore ok?
This one. It is unbreakable. You're going to need an axe for this one.

Cold weather

makes me think of you
and how
I should have followed you home--
let you ravage me,
because
I would rather have been cheap
than incomplete.

Broken hands

I am not destined for beautiful things
no
I break them
lose them
with my clumsy hands
clumsy heart

I am careless with fragile things
dropping
breaking

I tried once
it was a music box
on three golden legs
with gilded edges
the pink and cream profile of an English girl with blind marble eyes
I had begged again and again
for my mother to buy
she told me no
I will break it
she said, like it was a fact written in stars
I wouldn't
I wouldn't
I wouldn't

I hid it, in a place no one would find
I look at it every night
afraid for its beauty
and my cursed hands
I would not touch it
so it is nestled
under my mattress
close to my sleeping heart
I said goodbye every day before school
aching fearing
and rushed home to check on it
but my mother was right
no matter how I tried
I came home one day to find it broken in two

The mattress was clean with new sheets
my music box came apart into two
Who did it? Who did it?
I asked over and over
no one answered but blank stares

I kept the broken remains
until all that was left was the metal mechanism that played the tune
a reminder
of twisted hands

I have never believed that I can hold on to anything beautiful after
including you

Sometimes, I think
you are simply too beautiful for me
too beautiful
for broken hands

fist

The heart
is a stubborn organ
keeping its beat
day after day
after day
For what?

Ondaatje calls it the organ of fire
But it is one of stone
It has no pride
or too much
it keeps secrets tucked away the brain has forgotten

It is mined with spider webs
glisten
only in the morning light
the moths of our fancy
caught fast
throbbing, throbbing

It makes no sounds
excrete no waste
gathering everything like a waste house

And in sadness,
it only makes a single sound

It beats stubborn
clinging
to fond memories
and foolish hopes

They call it a fist


The heart
is a stubborn organ.

this hour

I
revel in this thick hour of the night
when the world like ink
dips in silence
in a well of possibilities
when the lighted window shines
like a soul exposed
and I
think
of your darkness
and wonder
how are you swimming in this witching hour
between sheets, or pages
are you traveling on dark roads
headlights turned inwards
into the heart
and I write
because that is the only place I still find you
and because
I learnt to love this minute space in between hour hands
when all is silent and
still
when even the heart shudders in the emptiness
waiting
for a sound
I think of buffalos I never saw
and the words I never said
then this silence
heavy like a blanket
so still, my heart aches.

Geography

I am certain
you never think of me
as I do you

Perhaps for you, it is a matter of geography.

How many fishes are there in the sea?
And how wide the ocean?

The letter you will not read

Last night, I laid in bed, retracing my steps
decision to decision, to find out how I got where I am
I went as far back as my memory would let me:
if I never met you at the bookstore
and you weren't standing there holding the same book as me,
then,
where would I be?

Even when I was at a young age, I have believed that I have been cursed with the opposite sex,
every boy I ever cared for, always disappeared without goodbyes,
so that I have learnt that it is a way of life,
that I will not get what I want,
that longing does not materialize
and cruelty is the only way to save myself from being broken
but,
you are the exception.

I've never told you about this tree, back in Singapore
before my move across the ocean
it stood lonely on an empty field,
one day struck black by lighting,
became a burnt stump in a black hole,
but it came back, I watched it,
day after day, green taking over black,
suddenly one day, there were three trees.

Last night, when I brawled,
like I regularly do,
even my sister, who I've come to believe is my soul mate,
was on the verge of frustration,
you said: calm down,
and I did.

I've never thanked you, I doubt I ever will,
not like this at least,
and you will not read this, even though it is public,
laid out naked for all to see,
that's just your way, I guess,
of a kind of trust, or oblivion,
I don't know which.

But,
you are the exception.

I'll always remember the boomerang you told me about.
because you are the boy who came back for me
again and again,
even when I turned away from the wind
thinking
I have thrown it as far as I could
but there you are again,
an exception.

Pubic hair dialogue

He says: Your hair all grows in one direction, it's like communists. You have communist hair.
She says nothing.
He says: Look at my hair, they grow in all directions, they are Americans, individualistic.
Still, she says nothing.

I wrote

a terrible poem.
That's a bad poem. It is.

Strange nature of a strange thing called love

Can't say that I understand you--in fact not at all
When I was fifteen, they asked me once
I fumbled for an answer with empty innocence
and came up with a blank paper
I could fold paper hearts then
I've forgotten how
old bus tickets became fragile hearts
If the numbers were lucky I knew I would be loved
You were that simple
You were origami decked onto numerology
if I could get the folds right and the digits
But now
here I am
there you are
I say your name easily enough
a simple three syllable
but your meaning
I can't excavate
every night as I walk home in the lashing cold
I think that I can grow you
that you are the reward at the end of patience
that you are worth waiting for
and I walk in the dark. I walk.

Lee

Sitting next to me in the theatre
snorting, arm over arm
you are a mess
I found
that you are not something to clean up
so slowly,
I learnt to embrace

Anonymous

You, it's always you
when a car drives by
or I see an overcoat.
Lee calls you poison,
I call you
the fog, the night, the sea.

Linseed oil

This world, is made up of things, things:
like that robot fish on you tube
silver knobs twisting
movement as real as anything at sea, and
fingers pressed against aquarium glass--
a little girl--
who'll grow up remembering a jeweled fish
swimming lopsided
because
things are real, no matter how much people tell her it was an illusion.
Sylvia Plath lied
when she said: you,
can't put toothbrushes in poems
Linseed oil, for example, has memory,
they will always remember their first contact with light
If
that is true, how different are we?

The toothbrush is real,
it is this poem
that is not

I was never a very good poet anyway

Dusk, after work,
the tiger-striped sky
royal blue
gold like the eye of cats
and shredded clouds
made
the Golden Gate look ravaged
Always, at this hour
I feel
that I can forgive myself all my sins
I don't need no God. No.
This world, the yellow traffic light, the off-key singing of the kids on the bus,
they are all enough
I don't need love, torment, philosophy.
No paradise lost or inferno. No.
This,
is enough for me.

Love

It steals in
so gently
fingers of light
through thin curtains
unwarily, already on your skin
you wonder--
when did it happen
how
did you miss it
how did it touch you through
that wall
how did it
light up that corner of your heart

it is like opening your eyes
already, it is morning.

Yosemite--a journal in sentences

Houses peering over the hill, their hidden faces, eager like children.

That white in the distance above the peak--is that the clouds or snow?

The graveyard next to the vineyard--clean rows of tombs facing neat rows of trees.

A chorus of screams--there's a bear.

Rust-grey barks, black twisted trunks--signs of last summer's fire.

A still pool of water littered with brown leaves--what's that--a fish.

The night sky is a dew covered celestial web.

They saw shooting stars; I only spotted an aeroplane.

Campfire with strangers, full of awkward silences and firesmoke.

Bacon juices make the fire sizzle, sputter and fizz.

After the long climb, the cool creek is tempting, even with the undercurrent.

Late afternoon sun scorched patches of black soil gold.

Early morning--an owl hoots so sad in the dark.

At the peak, trees look so small, I feel like I can eat them.

The stream is a swirl of colors--rust, jade, coal and sparks of sunlight.

I found names of people I know carved out on trees, rocks and moss.

Tents are so thin, our dreams thread together in occasional sleeptalks overheard.

Morning, my jacket still smells of campfire smoke.

This city

Taking the 6.40am down nineteenth
sped down the city
sun barely a rose
the world, an orange edge
houses facing the sun like first flowers
the air laced
with cold
my skin, prickled with the renewal of morning
squeezing this new life under my pores.
I kept the window open
feeling of morning as strong as at six
as I waited for sunrise cycling around and around the living room
past an ambulance's red and silver lights outside
an opened door
a darkened room
Perhaps someone died
I'll never know
speeding down nineteenth thinking of morning, and peace and life.
This city never gives
under that thin layer of morning fog
it is
oblivious
to the bums coming out of hiding from wild bushes.
The Golden Gate and the shrouded hills
looks on proudly, rising up over the gleaming bay
keeping its parts and people--
wrapped up in the silence and
this new light.
I wondered, about life, stories, and mystery
but this city never gives.

old things

I am someone who can't let go of the past
old name tags I hang on to
Back home there's a suitcase of memorbilias
hand-made cards with my name misspelled
crinkled letters of highschool crushes
I hold on to every one of them
even those signed by names no longer with faces
And then
there's you
sometimes,
I'll find you
nose a little alternated
smile a little crooked
the way you are folded up like old letters
always along the same folds
familiar like origami crane
I tuck you away in a suitcase in my mind
opening to peek when the mood strikes
the moon's too bright or the night too warm
then I look at you
your changing face
and I know this sad truth about myself
I am someone who can't let go of the past.

On being tamed

I know what Carlos means when he says--
"Next time we'll come back, without the girl."
He thinks
that I have tamed you
what he doesn't know is that
I have opened up the shells around my heart
for the gulls to peck on
and feel it trembling
so tender, easily bruised
that old anger
is gone
What you don't know
and I never told you
whether it's for your life or your camera lens
when Carlos pointed at that overhang where the grass grew
your legs trembled
and I
felt such indescribable joy.

One night

Do you know? There was once I prayed for you
walking that maze outside Grace cathedral
that you may
find love
I hope you did
and are happy

Mapping the terrains of the heart

Mapping the terrains of the heart
is a difficult thing.
Like untamed wild
you conquer it inch by inch
a foot at a time
a step, then another
with nothing
but a flashlight in hand,
its thin beam
quivering in the dark
to the calls of Coyote
as the grounds beneath you--shift--
like shadows,
you stumble,
praying--Oh God--
please
don't let that battery die

Maybe.

Spotting cabs
eucalyptus peeling red
grey clouds
blue mountains
black mush roadside tree
you say "it's eucalyptus"
"a cab" I say
whistling trails
"would you like to live here"
I tell you Hong Kong typhoons trembling metal shacks
sunlight pulling in
your camera bag jagged on my knee
can we do this again? You smile maybe.

Baker's beach

Old men. Scattered on the black sand
like
beached whales (that's it)
old prunes, BBQ pork
red, greasy.
white foam
tossed by the sea
the wind, beyond the damp line
Me.
pretending to read
that man! with the thong up the crack of his ass
that young guy with the nice body
oh man.
Men.
scattered on the beach