Look for Me - A Sonnet

Look for me in the setting sun,
the skies aflame, and when its done,
look for me in the murky moon,
on a Stockton night in June.

Look for me when a loved one dies,
his passing brings forth teary eyes,
and yours are drowning in your stately sorrow.
Look regardless. My strength's for borrow.

Look for me when you aren't looking,
when you're sleeping, working, cooking.
Look for my inflections and my tones.
I'll be home, but I'll be home.

Look for me in a toddler's laughter,
in a novel's simple start-of-chapter.
Look for me in a classic's ending,
or a child's sleep-pretending.

Look for me in the early morning,
in the sun-rayed room's adorning,
as you wake up next to me.
Look for me. Look for me.

Look for me in a fly's soft drone
when you're reading all alone.
Look for me in a beer can's foam,
in a smile lit when I call your phone.

Look for me in a line you write,
without me in mind at night.
Look for me in your dreamlike stares,
when future's daunting prospects scare.

Look for me as the rain comes pouring,
the patter upon nature's flooring
becomes a splashing mud and leaves
a comfort - wet reprieve.

Look for me in a country song,
the twang of Tweedy won't be wrong.

Look for me in a winter's dark,
in frozen redwood's bark
as I stand with a deathstick ember,
by the bay in cold November.

Look for me, then,
out of the blue,
and you'll find that I
look back at you.

09.10.12

December 5th, 2011

Passively we sit, nothing but the next funny thing to happen, so we can laugh from it. Nothing but the next romance to fill our supposedly mundane lives. Are we so empty without the lives of others to fulfill us? Are we so worthless that we need to derive worth in ourselves from other people's lives? And did I really just reword the same question?

It is the basic unit of storytelling that enriches us: we can experience that which we could not have experienced otherwise. What we listen, read and watch tells us what kind of people we are. What we create tells us what kind of people we want to be, and if we create only gossip, then we strive only to be trivial.

Write What's Left

"Write from the heart,"
I say to myself,
"and let her know how you feel organically,
naturally, beautifully and
straightforwardly and right from the heart."

But I can never convey the depths of joy
she brings to me with every smile
she coyly returns to me,
like a tennis volley
that goes to and fro.

Or how the thought of her
brightens my day,
where I can watch only ten minutes
of "The Price is Right"
and feel the anguish of every contestant
as well as their euphoria.
Ten minutes is all I need to know
that she amplifies every emotion
I feel or see felt.

Or even when I'm sick,
throwing up,
and my body punishes me
beyond what I can say is my comfort zone,
her presence uplifts me,
and my spirits give me
the necessary vigor to smile for her.
The most difficult part of having her heart
around mine at the start of every morning
is deciding which I like more:
her kiss on my cheek or mine on hers.

One means she cares,
and I wouldn't dare say there is a feeling
fairer than the bare, raw happiness I get with her lips
on the side of my jaw.
For all I know, I saw this coming from a mile away
and I let it play out,
I let the plane land on the runway of my cheek.
But the other, my lips on her cheek,
conjures a smile so pretty and meek,
and for a moment I peek into heaven's mystique,
the joy of an angel I see.
I seek nothing beyond than to pepper the world
with more smiles like hers.
If I can conjure a verse (like I conjure her smiles)
to tell her I would,
but it might be worse than the terse lines
I've dared to rehearse right now.
I'm ready to burst with unworthiness.

I cannot convey how I simultaneously miss
the smell of her
and the impression she leaves on my sheets,
her beet-red cheeks and the beat of her feet
upon my legs, a-tappin' away at some
song I play.
"Stay," I say, but she smiles my way again.
"Nay," says she, and so we lay we
for only a few more minutes.

I count time subconsciously
so I can save room in my conscious mind
for her.

And if I can barely pen this,
then how can I convey her leaving
promptly sends my body to pain again?
If I can barely say this aloud,
how can I be allowed to say proudly
that without her I'm lousy?
If I can barely read this myself,
how can she read and then see
what she means to me?
Despite my easy rhyme schemes
I swear in my dreams
there is none fairer than she.

"Write from the heart,"
I say to myself.
Words fall short,
so I'll give it a rest.
Perhaps feelings are best.

Yawn-Echoes

The brittle bristles on my eyes
drop tiny leaves of greenflakes
in the morning of my ascension.
Call me yellow, I think to myself.

The bristles on my teeth shake-a-shake,
to and fro and around again,
in the mirror, and my reflection
is still blurry.

My teeth are a shade of not-quite-white,
and my yawns are uncensored,
for no one is around to hear.

I can echo any thoughts I want in my head.

Call me yellow.

And I suppose this is just another morning
I wake up Vietnamese.

Off My Chest

Sometimes Aprils feel really long, and sometimes they go by too quickly. When I was a young(er) lad, a wee bit leaner and a mite happier perhaps (and when I didn't write like an Irish grandfather), I felt the months bleed slowly into each other, like the viscous movement of molten lava or molasses. Words took longer to fall out and come together, both in reading and writing, and one good night felt like it would last a lifetime.

Memories were easier to cherish, mostly because I had fewer of them, and heartbreaks felt much harder to pass (maybe because I was rarely on the receiving end of one). Maybe I've never known true heartbreak at all, or maybe as I get older, I realize that those very things we promise to hold forever are just emotional tattoos. You get them when you're young, and sometimes by the time you're old, you're over them. Perhaps in that way, they're not like tattoos, since the ink leaves a permanent impression on you, but if you manifest your love in a baby or a marriage at a young age, that's something that you're going to keep forever.

And not everyone regrets their tattoos, so I'm not saying to deny love while you're young. I am saying, though, that young love and promises made at a young age are made without the concept of time. You can't promise "forever," if you're only 15. Or 18. Or 22 even (I'm an exception because I'm hella wise and shit).

Yet here I am, perusing blogs from all over the (first) world, and I have observed many things about my blogging habits and readership. Firstly, I follow a lot of girls. I have no idea why, but girls like to blog more. It's probably an emotional outlet for them or something. I'm talking about teenaged girls on Tumblr, mostly. And girls' obsession over at Pinterest. Reddit is...different. Less blogging and more snide comments. If you notice, Reddit is a point system and while 80K combined karma (I'm shameless, aren't I?) is more indicative of my ability to say/submit the right thing at the right time, it's also a slight indication that perhaps I need a life. Especially if I'm bragging about my Reddit karma score on my Tumblr. On the list of "things that are internet douchey," this will rank among the greatest moments of social media history.

Knowing the internet's quick memory, though, I will be forgotten in a few weeks. The more we blog/reblog, post/repost, tweet/retweet and friend/unfriend (all while memeifying absolutely every moment of our lives), the more our sense of time gets warped.

I could rattle off a few memes (hide yo kids, hide yo wife...) and you would realize how long ago it seemed. I could also rattle off important historical events like September 11th, and you would remember it like it was yesterday (as long as you were around 10 at the time, which might be asking a lot). Did I just compare the Lincoln Park Rapist to September 11th? Yes. Did that analogy adequately convey the message I wanted? Jury's out.

The point is that my perception of time has changed. At 22, I feel like my life is moving at a torrential pace. I can't seem to slow down any week before it's over, and I envy those under 18 who hold on to every minute, even when it feels like they might die from heartbreak or some other really, really nonsensical reason.

I mean, c'mon. No one dies from a heartbreak.

"Andrew, I just got back from the doctor's, and I have some bad news."

"Oh, wow. What's wrong?"

"He said I only have 3 months to live..." sob

"What? I'm so sorry. What's the diagnosis?"

sniffle. "It's...it's...I got heartbreak!"

"WHAT?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Perhaps I'm cynical, but it's either that or I'm 100% correct and I'm happy with either judgment.

The point is that no matter how hard life may seem, if you're reading this under a roof with electricity and a nearly unlimited source of water (think about that), then you're going to be fine, and that your life is amazing and it's all over too quickly to worry about things you can't control or even more trivial things, like run-on sentences.

Don't wait until you're hella old (22) before you realize that you should probably stop procrastinating on Tumblr/Reddit/Flickr/YouTube/Twitter/Blogspot at 5AM.

Oh God, it's 4:50. What have I done?!

They say staying up blogging is a sign of early onset heartbreak.

Skills and Art

I think I'm a pretty solid writer, be it poetry, prose or simply expressing ideas. I generally know how to find the right words to write.

I keep hearing people say things like, "You should be a writer!" and while I am certainly flattered (oh, who am I kidding? I'm hella flattered), I always take this with a grain of salt. In my overconfidence, I sometimes entertain the idea of actually writing for a living. Then, I wake up from my daydreams, and reality returns.

It's cynical, but what success can really be had from writing? I look at my ability to write with others' ability to draw. It's not a perfect analogy, nor is it the only one, but I think it's the closest one to writing.

I've known many people who are extremely talented artists. Among those, very few of them have pursued a career in art. In fact, I can only name 2 from the top of my head. But, out of the dozens of talented artists I know, very seldom do I hear people tell them, "You should draw for a living!"

It could be that people do say that often to each other and that I'm just not around to hear it, but I think it's because people know that artists have an extremely difficult time making money from their craft.

In fact, I think my friends are just as talented at art as I am at writing, if not more so. Their skills involve perspective, shadowing and a controlling colors to make their compositions exactly how they want. Likewise, I have honed my own skills, like learning syntax and grammar rules and the mechanics of the various parts of speech. I feel smug saying that I'm a good writer, but it's the same thing as people showing off their drawings on their blog (or so I try to justify).

Anyway, that's why I don't think I'd make it as a writer, the same way people who are very good at drawing wouldn't make it, the same way great musicians are discouraged, the same way athletes eventually give up.

I don't have the gumption, and the unknown terrifies me back into reality.

Here's Dudamel conducting Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns's Bacchanale.

What Is My Voice?

The only difference between how I use this blog and how I used Xanga when I was 14 is the form of my outlet. Instead of simple paragraphs, I write verses. Is that censorship? Only Future Andrew can decide, I suppose. Hey, Future Andrew. Hope things are better on your side, because right now, life's pretty uncertain.

"What Is My Voice?"

DO I HAVE A VOICE?

Well, of course I do,

but I guess the more interesting question is

does my voice matter?

IS MY VOICE WORTH USING?

Probably.

Perhaps not every person in the world

needs to hear what I have to say,

but for one person at least,

it's worth hearing.

No matter how

quietly small

my whisper

may seem,

I still

I still

HAVE A VOICE.

Do you care about another child

born of immigrant parents?

Do you want to hear the bellows

of another American

who grows up learning

that the "American dream"

is so much more than a goal?

Can you stand

the murmurs and

odd complaints of

my loud mouth

while looking at my slanted eyes

as both communicate to you

the fervor of my plight?

Do you think I have a plight?

AM I A VICTIM?

Or am I like you,

my fellow citizens,

just doing my thang

like any other citizen would?

Do I have things about which

to complain

other than people ending their

clauses with prepositions?

I have food in my stomach

and my parents' hard work supports me,

their sweat results in my penchant

to complain

or work harder

to feed my own children

(should I have any).

DO I HAVE A REASON TO COMPLAIN

OR SHOULD I QUIETLY COUNT MY BLESSINGS

AND ACCEPT HOW COMFORTABLE MY LIFE IS

(relative to others')?

Do I have a voice?

Or am I just another privileged

American

surviving from the charity

other Americans endowed upon my parents?

What responsibilities do I have?

To what duties must I adhere

and by what code of ethics

must my decisions be guided?

I am the m-word,

the manifestation of

"East meets West"

-or, to be fair,

"West meets East."

Does that identity engrave upon me

certain expectations?

Well, yeah. Duh.

Of course it does.

But which ones?

By whose expectations must I live?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

Does it belong in the discourse

of injustice

or am I just

another Vietnamese boy

overwhelmed by how different

life was supposed to be?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

What is my excuse?

March 11, 2012

Ending the Wrong Way

I'd like to admit to myself

that the only problem with me

is lack of you,

but it's more than that.

It's my tendency to

at

tach so well

and detach so unwell.

So deep is the depth

of my affection

that the thought of you brings both

smiles and sadness.

I have never looked so happy

while feeling so

empty.

Or I could be less direct

and say:

I am in a plastic coffin

looking out to you,

our hands nearly clasped together,

palm-on-palm,

but so much still separates us.

Or I am at the bottom of a well,

fallen for you (did I really?),

and looking up above.

The ground is like heaven,

and you are the angel

who cannot save me.

But it's not as simple as

a goddamn metaphor,

and what I met you for,

no longer is enough.

Prepositions and propositions be damned.

It's always been easier to complain

than act

because action means one step closer

to goodbye.

March 8, 2012

Notes:

The title is a reference to how relationships end as well as ending independent clauses with prepositions. I also dislike cliches, so the parenthetical (did I really?) could be taken as a question of my "true love" for this "angel" or as someone who is reading the poem might react to the overused pun on "falling for" someone. "Did he really just use that?" I also talk about wells and depth both as an emotional measurement as well was a physical measurement. I purposely mix depth and distance to give a warped sense of spatial orientation. I also intentionally ended with "goodbye" to point out its irony with respect to the title.

I agree.

He took the knife by the handle, thumbing it carefully. He was always wary of knives, fearing his own thoughts and actions, fearing his body would betray his reason.
"It's a beautiful artifact," he told her.
She smiled. She had dug it up herself, and had not been able to part with it since. We place sentimental value on some of the most mundane things.
"I agree," he said, reading my mind. It's weird for a character to read the mind of his creator, right? It should be the other way around. I can definitely read his mind, but he pretends to think he can read mine. I let him get away with sometimes because when a thought goes into his head that is so foreign, he just blames it on his creator thinking it. In a way, it's much easier to deal with.
"What do you agree with?" she asked him.
"'With what do you agree,'" he corrected. He can be such a stickler for grammar. I really hate that about...him. Wow, I totally forgot his name.
"With what do you agree?" she asked, slightly annoyed.
"Nothing."
Fuck you! she screamed within the soundproofed walls of her mind, and really, I don't blame her. How could she know he was responding to a thought that wasn't his? Even if he tried to explain it, which he wouldn't, he would sound crazy and she would reply with the same thing.
"I was thinking something as if someone was talking to me, and I responded to it," he told her. What the hell? Well, it looks like I was wrong. He explained it to her after all. I obviously have no idea what I'm doing.
"What?" she asked him, confused. "You're telling me you said that in response to voices in your head?"
"I...I guess," he said. He put down the knife and looked at her. "Is that so weird?"
"Yeah, John. It is." JOHN! That's his name. John! Wow, such a simple name, really. I can't believe I forgot it.
Fuck you, John, she thought. Told ya. I know her. She's predictable. John's a bit less predictable, though. Weird guy and way too solemn for my taste, but he has a special place in my heart. All my characters do, oddly enough.
We place sentimental value on some of the most mundane things, don't we?

Brainlapse

I swear that my brain is messing with me. This was the third time this week...Let me back up for a moment to provide context.

Earlier this week, I couldn't find my backpack. Since I planned to go to sleep soon, I went downstairs to look for it. It was fairly late, a few hours after midnight, so all the lights were off. As I head down the stairs, lights still off, a thought struck me. This was my house. If I can find my way through foreign cities by glancing at a map for 5 minutes, I can certainly roam around my house in the dark to look for my backpack.

I should explain by saying that I do this more often than I'd like to admit. It always starts with a seemingly mundane thought.

"Hey, I wonder how blind people would walk in my house?" or "I bet me that I can't get a cup water in the dark," or "Let's be stupid and not use lights, Andrew," followed by, "Okay, Andrew!"

So my blind search for my backpack was not without precedent. I walk down the stairs without any problem, and I turn the corner into the living room. I remember that I dropped my backpack in front of my couch before dinner, so I cross the room confidently toward the couch.

The furniture in my living room can be a bit tricky. The main obstacle is the coffee table in the middle of it. This wooden table, though, is propped up on wheels, so unless we're entertaining guests, it is sometimes rolled to the side. I was 70% sure that was its position when I walked into the living room. Thankfully, I was right, and I did not jam my toes into what would have been very solid mahogany.

The second interesting fact about the furnishings is that the couches match the coffee table. This may not sound unreasonable, but we actually bought them separately. The point is, the couches are made of wood, and the only thing comfortable about them are their three cushions. Otherwise, they can be very unforgiving. They look like this, except with a bit less tacky design on the pillows:

Anyway, my backpack, as I recall, was on the ground on the far right of the couch. I walk across the living room and search with my hands. I then get the bright idea (get it?) to search with my leg. I kick exactly where my backpack should have been. I say "should have been" because my backpack was not there. Instead, the wooden bottom of the couch happily greeted my shin.

Angrily realizing my backpack was not downstairs, I walk up again, and lo and behold, my backpack was chillin' next to my computer. Vexed, I went to sleep, feeling like the fool I was. This was the first incident.

The second incident occurred a few days later. I won't go into as much detail because I think I got way overzealous with the last one. Short story short: I couldn't find my phone upstairs so I went downstairs. It wasn't there and so I came back upstairs and my dumbass brain remembers that I started charging it on my bed already. It was another waste of a downstairs trip in the dark, less painful, but definitely equally as stupid.

At this point, I'm rather peeved at myself for not remembering, but then again, I can do nothing about it. It could have been worse, right? I could have lost those things altogether.

Tonight, though, was the final straw. Right now it's 6AM. About 15 minutes ago, I decided it was well past my bed time, so I decided to sleep. However, I couldn't find my phone again. Learning from my previous mistakes, I decided to search my room thoroughly. I spent five minutes rummaging through my pockets, my laundry and my bedsheets to no avail. It had to be in my room. The history of my incompetence told me so. Frustrated, I began my trek down the stairs.

This time, I turn on all the lights. I was in no mood to challenge myself for no reason. I head into the kitchen and my motherfucking phone was sitting right on the fucking table like the smug little fuckface it is.

The moral of this vulgar story is my brain is a worthless piece of shit that has the memory and retention capacity of a rock.