______For George Oppen A stranger peeked in Plath’s and Dickinson’s windows late at night, and thought, “Man, these are lassie rooms,” and laughed alone. Yes, a woman’s room is a girly room, and I hope men know that the intelligent prostitute will excite a man, a whore not a girl reaching for... Continue Reading →
Migrant Burden
Migraine headache ___a migrant backache ______from father to son. An American daughter-in-law _____our burden together. Donna wears her emotions on a flushed pale face washed with ivory cream ___what she brings to the table white rice _________mother taught her to wash and steam. Her father and brother wonder why I never finished business... Continue Reading →
For an Old Lover
I can see your gaze on the horizon, steady, not like mine as I drive alone glancing at everything ____________________that measures how far I am from home. The number on the trip odometer is a fraction, nominal in the permanent measurement, scant but significant, vital to the equation’s precision, it itself a testament, _________________as... Continue Reading →
The Time Machine
The Powerball is thirteen and I watch the guys in the bar clutch their tickets. They’re anxious for Laurie to scan their numbers but I don’t care. I sip the rest of my gin. It’s down to the dregs. Just melted ice and lime with a whiff of its piney scent. “Hold your horses!” Laurie... Continue Reading →
The Next Day
This is an old poem I wrote about fathers and sons, relationships, love and being an immigrant. I think I wrote it a half dozen or so years after my father passed and maybe a year or two after I broke up with a woman who I thought I was going to marry. I think... Continue Reading →
Mister Saechao 