8.11.98 para sa insangmahal. one love. kalayaan. katipunan. ka. i, we. seattle. chicago. soulmates. ekalat muna. pass it around. destruction, survival. i in i in i in i in i in i in i...in shallah...no goodbyes. rather, until we meet again. peace.
word we the or must ours die word re or to claim live gether stolen un to hours der gather re white the claim skies his the for the stolen ever hers ours
contrition bless me father for i have sinned it has been 20 years since my last confession i know that would make me -1 years old but i was a mistake so my parents keep telling me. bless me father for i have sinned my friends and i have been watching tele-mass on wgn again genuflecting on stair steppers for the effect and sitting on mattresses hiding playboys bless me father for i have sinned although you never explained this colonialization thing and why my mother says puneta so often and why my name is demonio and why the fuck excuse me father we have these damn wooden forks and spoons hanging on our walls. bless me father for i have sinned but what's a santacruzan and does the lady in white attend while we turn our plates clockwise as she leaves and why will i go blind if i sleep with my hair wet does it attract a filipino strain of blindness and goddamn, magnolia ice cream would taste good right about now. excuse me father. mars 10.93
just another poem about race #2 it's a race and i'm runnin... it's a race and i'm runnin... it's a race and i'm runnin for dear life. not that there should be a reason for heavy breathin or beatin my fist to my chest tryin to tread that extra mile yeah, it's a race and i'm runnin but somewhere along the lines i lost you among the clueless browns the clueless blacks the yellows and what's worse the just kickin its the bought into its the quote unquoteless in betweens all laughing on the sidelines. you know you were there just a minute ago... smilin, struttin, and splendid in full stride and we thought we'd finish together or at least we thought we'd understand if we didn't and a no this isn't a jones poem and a no this isn't a jazz poem and a no this isn't another poem about post-teenage angst it's just another poem about race and why i'm still runnin in a land that doesn't want me from a people i never knew and a culture i inherited by my namesake and skin... always poppin is pop-culture like pimples on my filipino face if it's a race... if it's a race... if it's a race and i'm still runnin where is that goddamn finish line? i'm sick of the cramps and the pain, the crap and wise cracks... the 'go back to where you came from!' 's the 'so long have you been here in our country?' as if i ever left... 'you know i love that spicy dish...what's the name of it..uh uh?' insert psuedo-bastardized-aglicized-dehumanized-commercialized version of you food here... 'yeah, that's it. i love that shit!' 'and by the way, what's the deal with that F/PH shit? Philippines spelled with a PH, Filipino with an F or sometimes a P, and when all o yous pronounce F it sounds like a P?' sometimes i break stride and say... 'it's like this: if i were to say FUCK YOU, i can spell it with an F, pronounce it FUCK YOU. or with a PH, anunciate it FUCK YOU. or as my mom would say it if she were runnin next to me, puck yeu, hasshole.' hasshole would be my mom's rendition mind you. and every once in a while, in a blazing white glory that is the ejumicational school and scam system i hear, 'i believe in a color-blind society' or 'you know i only belong to one race, the human race' if it's a race... if it's a race... if it's a race and i'm still runnin, goddammit that bitch better be runnin too and runnin and runnin faster than i can catch her cuz she in for a beating maybe not from me but a beating nonetheless... maybe from this running called reality. oh, and this other brother P.C.- that's people of color and maybe you saw his sista people of conscience. there's the half named heritage-the other half name history, the cousin named culture and the momma named motherland. the new-timer named knowledge, the old-timer named wisdom. roundin this pack is a thing called pride. must we always be harkin and hollerin, fightin and scrapin for every mile of every day of every month? every month... every month... you know weez gots our months... thay say the niggas got febrary dem latins got march and orientals got april. packed back to back in 30 or so odd days like sardines in a can with an expiration date. 30 or so odd days seems more like an eviction notice and you know who the slumlord is... and a no this isn't a jones poem... and a no this isn't a jazz poem... and a no this isn't another poem about teenage angst. it's just another poem about race #2 you wanna run with me? 10.97
on the other side of granite -in defense of maya lin damn damn da-da-damn! you wanna ride that chink in you? that gee-golly gook in you? yes you can, be can-bo-jan. wok on da wild side with buddist brothas to the other side of the granite, don't panic. five-eight-zero-zero-zero heroes- that's fifty-eight thousand flag mans and woe-mans- chiseled like the armor that should have been theirs- like the dropzone that should have been dropped altogether- like the escalation that should have been decelleration, colonial desecration as is, puppeteers and pawn generals playing kids, all taking a back-alley yellow whiz, to the tune of a southeast danang fix-asian. damn damn da-da-damn! you wanna crown maya limb from lin queen of the mekong delta the 17th parallel prophet model minority by design architect of resolution- peace and salutations- after a two-bit worthless confrontation. damn damn da-da-damn! don't tread on me and my demilitarized zone- please just max out your agent orange exhalations and dreams of a repulican elephant brahma in red, white and blue- booo funkin' hoo. but maya made it all better. you say that chink made it all better. damn damn da-da-damn danang danang danang danang to do the abacus arithmetic on the other side of the black granite- two decades between g.i.- that's government issued genocides always one away from one too many mulitary junta homicides- five-eight-zero-zero-zero killed will never equal two million brown brothas with no memorial except cheap tickets to miss saigon- a free refugee ride to the capitalist machine- and your own killing fields of uptown- twin-cities gooktown- respectfully called g-town only this is anything but good ol' georgetown. and here you are contemplating the validity of a twenty ton memory half-remembered half-ass articulated. please correct yourself- carry the one right back to the south china sea back to the gulf of tonkin back to the other side of the black granite- where the names of my people are written. 9.97
mentor it's a gwen brooks thing i guess wearing academic suits will do that to you and years of praise and doctorates honorary thing i guess cuz i loved your shit and you thought i was high after hearing me read when all it was was a bad day like the way the shoe fits so well when you're eighty and i still love your shit though when in versities do the verse not born there the verse i heard before rehab which became clearer after and still after the gunshots and ghetto stillborns we helped bury together remember vacuums make bad company and reverberate the brooks the brookks the brookkks all the wrong way... mars 5.94
bass beat or rap for rodney king beat one two beat one one one one two three four five. beat one two beat one one two beat one two three one two three we are the children of the monsoon beat nine one one riding up culture shockwaves across the fertile planets of mars n watts n bad blacksploitation flicks to the incandescent green and blues and reds and whites, oh yes, whites through sewer drenched harbors and numbers 3-2-4 for your id and future body bag n tag. beat one two three beat one two beat one two three four it can rain for hours on end from the gutter looking up at poplar cities made of ivory and emerald and wait beat one beat down one but oops you're on film no matter when evidence has a way of poofing just like billy club bruises and link card legacies handed from welfare mothers and those who couldn't read a prop if they were taught how to in english in ebonics in that language only understood when whites watch fotball games ggggoooooooaaaaaaallllllll he cries little do we know what the long term is when we only see lalas scoring on the pissed parchment of my paycheck. beat it. beat it once. okay chaps, take it from the top. mars revised 6.98
asian x ala Quan Duc for Kathleen Chang my crispy bata- my burnt baby- from day one we are taught to do our homework- digest democracy manifest our own destiny embrace euphonistic flags fly air force one dreams high out of the ghettos of true multicultural isms- and never look back. but like my asian sister- my crispy bata- who burnt herself a crispy brown- like a rerun of x-fools- the one with the token asian doctor- like the argyle curb drenched with the smell of yellow peril- the shit still stinks. give back they say- but brotha can you spare a dime? a peso? a nickel bag? it's a pre-req from day one- for a non-credit course. so jive with me crispy bata- burn with me crispy bata- fry my little eggroll- learn from your aroma- slide your scream on my skin- your inferno won't fade out. because we tripped on takaki- nikki- inada- kyoto mori- shroomed on medina- mirikitani- mura- rumi. hugged ethnicities with hagedorn- charlie chan- that chapped ass chink is dead- crispy bata- that charlie chan ass chink is dead- and crispy bata- you are born- you are born- again. 7.97
my skyscaper thrift store dressed to make raggedy ann look quite dandy. dressed like an unemployed handy-andy, with an unseemingly lethal silver chain hanging from my shoe-string belt right down and up to my leather try fold- you don't have to guess at my lack of currency. custom fit loud and damn proud of my pinoy blood, young AsiAm man, already too jaded and screaming KILL THE WHITE MAN! not exactly a fan of getting a high-rise tan, a corporate tattoo in the shape of a half-windsor tied tie. NO this boy will take your land-stealing, land of the free buying, whiz kid from TIME, frail but ever-so-calculating perceptions for a second speculation. rigged waiting for your monotypes in a dark math class jack, jackichanamytanonehundredsecretfuckingsenses under my fist, i got your hollywood ninja right here, can't wait to ruin everyone's threefuckinghappiness, aren't i? a grungy activist in pop culture clothing always past-screaming, much to do about NOTHING. best suited as your waiter, shoe-shine boy, brownblending elevator man. saw my reflection in store windows nojaps-nobindi-nodogsorfilipinos allowed. i wore one to the camps the courts to the justice of the piece who said ah, ah, ah don't you know it aint right to mix dark and white meat at the table. wore ties and chokedhungswung by them not in streeterville but watsonville, fined them 2000 dollars and no change for a mowtown kill, a slap in the face across my vincent chin for everytime i cry to claim my red lantern legacy my SUIT 8.97
a little monsoon -for those who worked on it i carry this little thin book full of paperweight prophesies and stolen moments i carry this little tattered picture scratched and scathed in antiquity in lost memory i carry this little notion of family nestled in an amerasian nook a strange community i carry this little sense of pride jutting through the jadded cries of white reality i carry this little rush of revolution rappin and yawpin and bitin and clawin are we there yet i carry this little soapbox i stand on wakin and churnin and burnin and ragin pappa smurf are we there yet i carry this little can of you know what whippin and whoopin and stirrin and causin this monsoon in me i carry this little yellow movement in a journal in a picture in a heart that's still not still i carry this little yellow movement for a people and a cause and a moment when we're there for a moment when we're home. 9.97
parade this down wacker sinkil suckas wanna run culture craps off the wailing walls of post '65 die-asporas screamin my-boo-hi as if i saw you on a year that wasn't the centennial as if i saw you there when fil-ams weren't fashion rages as if i sat in idleness as you wore less faces than the two you normally have on. a field muesuem won't buy more of that browness or fund 1999 cotillion dresses that theorganizationassociationofnativismfrom whothefuckcaresnooneherebutyourpride can buy on false premature immature stances pickin on past tenses that never happened hopin for the beating pintig which you crushed at the screeching sound of your chis-miss. yes, sir may i have another. nandito ako for the pickin of pop-culture pies and a hip-hop bass line in beat to a tikibird which flew up may ass and said, bayang magiliw perlas ng silanganan well listen, your yellowness has set and the child of the sun sold out his timeshare for the white moon of a white man's ass at which i'm supposed to kiss beacuse it's america and we do that around here since we're the minority. niggas got february and the spics got march give a flip a week and he'll say, "yes, masta i be good this time," give me a field and i'll plot good boy manifestos to feed my sons and daughters with. and if bulosan can see you now pumped up on ignorance steriods only viagra would beat out at the store shelves beatin out toned down spoon fed bonafacio and raped verse of santos crying we have cuisine too... please listen we have cuisine too... sorry muthafucka, i don't eat PORK. 06.22.98 mars