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.

Goodbye

There are so many
beautiful pictures
because there are so many
beautiful things.

Like the rain on a windowsill,
while the sun still peeks behind
grey blanket-clouds,

or the movement
of a cat's yawn
before it stretches,

or the deep inhalation
as you're on the precipice
of something great,

or stumbling
over a small rock
and catching my balance again,
my sheepish smile screams for
a forgiveness that you've already given
by your chuckle,

or a tightening of my arms
around a branch
that may or may not
support the weight
I've gained this last year,

or my toes
and how they melt
into the sand
and melt out again,

or thinking there's silence
when really
a brook whispers softly nearby
and realizing it's been
speaking to you the whole time,

or a candid reunion
from a long-ago lover
who listens intently
and laughs loudly
like time told her to,

or hair freckled with snow
before it's freckled with droplets,

or the contentedness
of a dog to share a bed with you
and your book,

or the turning-off of a light
that waits to be alive again,

or the feeling of cold water
on a cold day
when the coldness of my friends
could not refresh me enough,

or a savory sirloin
on an empty stomach
at midnight,

or unneeded candlelight
at a modern dinner
with only the glow of company
for vision,

or the moment of understanding
of anything,

or the moment of happiness
even when I don't understand,

or silence,
real silence,

or sometimes, being alone,

or a book
that still smells like our last goodbye.



December 16, 2011

Dihydrated Rium

Beneath the once-turquoise pebbles
are the other pebbles,
more real and as much a part of the
aquarium as water should be.
A stalk of dry bamboo leans against
a large rock
and the transparent wall.

I look into my own eyes
and through them.
I blink and see them swimming.
Kermit
and Miss Piggy
I've named them,
their webbed feet paddling
in what I can only assume
is content.
The consensus between us is reached:
I feed and they teach
me how to be ambivalent.
Just two, just two.
My palm rests above the lid,
fingers gripping the top,
clutching their see-through home
in the clasp that usually feeds them.
They gasp and scurry in the water
as much as you can scurry or gasp in water,
and are as confused
as you can be confused in water -
confusing
water.
I blink,
and my own eyes stare through themselves again.

Turquoise fades to grey,
and dust coats the lid
that covers only rocks
and a desiccated bamboo stalk.

Borrowed Light

The room is dimly lit,
the only sources of
light are the tv
and the moon through the windows,
rays of borrowed brightness.
Sam and Diane are arguing again,
and next up
I get to relive someone else's
wonder years.
Chachi and the Fonz
are playing it cool,
and the ghost of Don Knotts
stares across the room,
only a few inches,
wide-eyed.
I get to laugh at them,
and sometimes with them,
and sometimes alone,
and then I sleep.

I dreamt of you again again,
but this time it was different,
like my soul had given up,
even when my heart
and indeed my head
say no.
We were friends, still,
and we laughed as only friends can do,
without the hope of something more.
Like a tv marathon,
our laughter lasts a night.
And in my dream,
I have already let you go.

All the dreams I've had of you,
were incandescent in their joy,
but incandescent dreams
are only borrowed light.
In waking, each time,
I was wrought with sadness.
But this time,
I never even had a chance at joy.
Even in dreams, you're gone.
I hate to be so straightforward,
but writing this is as much discovery
as it is poetry.
I hate to be so straightforward
because I want it to sound pretty,
but I guess it sounds pretty as it is.

I love you,
and please don't go
because even in my dreams now,
you're gone.
And I am left with nothing
but the borrowed memory
of what could have been.

November 19, 2011

Memorized

This is a poem I wrote around 4AM last night. I was already in bed, and "soul to soul" came across my mind. I was literally seconds away from sleep, but then "you'll never remember this when you wake up" crossed my mind. So I typed something up in my drafts and promptly knocked out. I had completely forgotten about it for almost 24 hours. I almost wish I had forgotten about it longer.

i haven’t memorized the contours of your face
or the shape of your hips
or the color of your eyes
but i bet they are as
grand
as sequoias
a copse for me to rest.
i havent memorized how long your hair is
how it looks in rain
or how it bumps and bobs
when you run.
i only know you
soul to soul
and this soul rejoices
when greeted by one of its same
and mourns
as we part.

and i’ve memorized this sadness,
for my body is the chamber that
echoes my soul’s melancholy
or whatever human word
i can call lack of you.

Heartbeat's Harmony

A broken record plays
behind the bookshelf of my mind.
"Don't do it. Don't do it."
But its muffled verses
are drowned by the echo of my thoughts,
still unblossomed but loud.
DUH-DUM, DUH-DUM.
My heartbeat is another echo,
And these two
harmonize and sound so
right,
somehow.

And when I follow the rapturous melody
to its bittersweet conclusion,
I am left with nothing
but the quiet echos of remorse
and a broken record
behind a bookshelf.

Was there ever a heartbeat harmony?
Was there ever a heartbeat harmony?

The broken record plays,
and I am forced to hear its verses,
now repeating in my mind
like jaunts.
I jeer and curse it,
wanting secretly a reimbursement
of my too-late clarity.
I immerse myself in self-loathing,
so that is all I hear
in the taunting of the broken record,
the chorus for my mistakes.

I wanted to be right,
but now I'm left again
to listen for another song.

Slave-Beating-Heart

I dreamt again of you last night,
your lips were wet and smiling.
I never thought I'd want a girl
whose smile's so beguiling.

But once again am I proved wrong,
for warmish arms I crave.
With you nearby, my heart is hot,
swift beating in a rave.

And you can stop it, if you care,
or make it beat the faster.
My rhythm's at your mercy,
a slave and you're its master.

So gentle hand, do not delay.
Your loving worker's drained,
but he will work, and he will love,
even if his love is pain.

Skinner Talks

crumpled leaves and compound words
doghouse, catfish, snakebite,
subtle sounds that are
barely bearable.
like a mouse
in a two-
bit hole
that we
fashioned
out of air and
no air. I don't see
a future for our rodent,
who so silent slumbers in his
single-story home. quiet. timid. taciturn.
it's almost like his rapid breath
is a reminder of our own
mortality, but i hate to
extrapolate mice
actions with
our own.
quickly,
breathe
a bit faster,
for in dreams
mice have more
chance to dream than we,
who own our world. if a mouse
is small, it can only dream big, and in
comparison, our dreams are
nothing but a concrete
maze, and nothing
is at the end.
perhaps
our dreams
were once green
leaves, up higher than
our lowly selves. But now we
dream on asphalt beds and crumpled.
shorter our words and dreams
seem until there's
nothing
left to say.

I'm Not Here

I'm not here
to give you one of those rants
about how life is perfect and nature is beautiful,
how
the sound of silence in a forest
can be the most beautiful thing you ever hear,
or how
the air you breath beside a the ocean
flows straight through the lining
of your lungs
and into your soul.

I'm not here
to tell you that
a moment alone with redwoods
is like being a child again
among adults,
as if their presence alone
is all the security you need from harm's way.

I'm not here
to describe at your leisure
the drowning sounds of a waterfall
on a trail beaten only by deer
and the sound of water in your ears,
or how that moment
is the same as losing yourself
and finding yourself.

I'm not here
to teach you
how to enjoy a rainy day,
whether it's opening your arms
in a thunderstorm to embrace
the millions of water-kisses
on your body,
or wading warmly in your thoughts
to the background music
of nature's shushing,
quieting you and letting you love
yourself by yourself.

I'm not here.
I am there,
and I'm asking you to join me.

I Hate the Rain

i hate rain,
the sound of leaves being hit
all at once
like a constant tide
crashing in cacophony.

the annoying white noise
in the black night
vexes me,
and i find it frustratingly odd
how the grey cement
is a darker shade of grey
when rain drives by.

and how strange our sunrays look,
dressed in an admittedly becoming
frock of clouds.

i tolerate
the feeling of droplets on my skin,
like a soothing massage for which
i did not ask,
and i walk uncaringly
with my hair wet
but only because
my hair is easier to manage
damp than dry.

the beautiful autumn leaves,
now soaked with nature's tears
can't be crumpled,
and i so enjoy crumpling them,
even as i enjoy their beauty
strewn across my path
like the Earth's own stars
in endless constellations.

falling leaves are shooting stars
waiting to be wished,
so i wish upon a falling leaf,
who joins its brothers on the ground,
and in my wishing, i believe,
a quiet solace i have found.

the drizzle turns into
an endless stampede of tiny horses
rushing onto the floor and trees,
and upwards i look,
soaking it all in.

my wish for clarity
has been answered.

and at night,
with my window open,
the rain reminds me of the ocean,
with the leaves a-pitterpatter
in quiet, calming tidal breaking,
but that beach and surf surrounds me
and for once i am part of nature's nature.

and
i suppose,
i may love my rain after all.

The Plural of Urethra is Urthrae

I can make you cringe,
Or, for some of you, laugh.
Just think of holes being cut
in your urethra.

It's a painful thought,
and one from which you're
probably detaching
right now.

Too bad.
Think about it again.
Think about breaking your forearm,
So it looks like
you have two elbows.

Think about
Biting your tongue,
not like holding back your words,
but really
biting your tongue
in half.

It's gross and painful.

It's funny how we attach so much
to how painfully it affects our body,
but most among us
would feel any of these pains
not to lose the someone we love.

Except for the urethra one, maybe.
That one sounds awful.
I mean, you just don't mess
with urethrae.
You shouldn't anyway.

But for the most part,
we'd take a lot of physical pain
to keep our emotional pain at bay.

We might
bite
our tongues,
and in doing,
bite our tongues.

Our blood will save our love.

I don't know why we do it,
And I don't know if I want to do it.

But I will.
I will.

Originally

I was born speaking Vietnamese,
And when I started school
I was not American.

So I learned English,
And when I came home,
I was no longer Vietnamese.

So I went back to school,
To talk to my friends,
But that didn't make me American.

They ask me,
"Where are you from?"
"Santa Clara," I reply.
"No," they insist. "Originally."
"I am Vietnamese," I tell them,
Saving myself from the unneeded, diabolical dialogue.

"Where are you from?"
"Where are you from?"

I know the answer they seek
Because I've answered it my entire life,
And in answering,
I have learned how not to answer it.

They ask me,
"Where are you from?"
"California," I reply.
"No, where were you born?" they insist.
"Massachusetts," I say.

Their questions shoot from the barrels of their throats,
Each tonal shift of interrogation a bullet
that I deftly avoid.
I am a buffalo, and my life is open season.

"Where are your parents from?" they shoot.
"They met in Philadelphia," I dodge.

"I am Vietnamese," is the answer they want to hear,
so I give it to them eventually,
But it is not my answer.

I cannot answer a question
that I don't know.

I was born speaking Vietnamese,
And when I started school
I was not American.

So I learned English,
And when I came home,
I was no longer Vietnamese.

My First Period

It was not a dark and stormy night or some shit like that,
Nor was it the middle of summer while we were so quietly
yet so loudly in our own ears
dreaming our daily dreams.

Nah, my first period
was every morning at 8AM, and I was never late, usually
sometimes
maybe.

My first period was dirty.
The kids were loud and abusive to the high school teacher they only
vaguely respected,
and listened to even more vaguely,
whatever that means.

It wasn’t an English class.

My second period happened during my first period, when I got call from you.

Driving over, I knew that I had to do right by you, girl,
cus, something or the other told me so.
Well I skipped my first period cus I had to deal with my second period, your period.

I bounced to no music in the car,
swaying my head so much
that my neck was confused,
and beseeched me in its sweet neck way,
“Don’t break me, Andrew.”

So I didn’t.
I never do.
Necks are important.

We need them to nod our heads when you ask us if we love you.
We need them to shake our heads with vigor
when you ask us if that other girl,
who was smokin’ hot,
was hot.
We need them to hold up our craniums
jam-packed with jams
from the early days when compact discs ruled the music industry.
You remember. The things between cassettes and digital music.
CDs happened during the transition from hard music copies to soft music copies.
And you, my dear, during my first period, called me over to deal with your period.
It was our first period together, and well, I certainly showed it.

I didn’t bring the ice cream you asked me to because,
well,
I didn’t remember you asking me.
You scream something loudly which I kinda hear.
I should have already known you wanted strawberry ice cream?
Is that what you said?

I wish I could say sorry for not listening
but you’d ask why,
and the only answer I have is
that I was saving this conversation mentally
so I could share it with other people later.

My first period, my second period, our first period
lasted a week.
A period of a week.
That’s a lot of crazy to deal with in a week,
and I’m sorry you had to go through that.
Next time, I’ll know better.

Vanilla, right?

Pretty Good

“You speak pretty good for an Asian,”
is what I heard surrounded by las montañas in Montana,
the air more frigid than the glare of a jilted lover,
the snowy peaks sharp and steep like hoods.

“You speak pretty good,”
is what he actually said.
I added the extra prepositional phrase (that he implied),
but I still didn’t know where the restrooms were.

I wanted to say to him
with the vitriol of a burning cross,
that blacks and latinos,
and jews and assorted asians, for that matter,
are not the only minorities.

There are homosexuals, and the sterile,
the biology majors,
the policewomen,
the entomologists,
the yoga teachers and zookeepers
and chimney sweepers.
How many of those do you know?
We are all minorities in some form.

And that is why we congregate;
We want to be left alone,
but we don’t want to be alone
against-
the majority who doubt our abilities,
our ability to work,
to drive and to jump,
to speak.


But I will not be silenced by a stereotype.
I will speak, and I will speak well,
and I will speak loudly and use big words,
like gregarious and gesticulate
because they sound pretty good to me,
and are relevant when I speak.

So when you say to me,
“You speak pretty good [for and Asian],”
It is neither socially,
nor politically
nor grammatically
correct,
but I’ll let it slide -
since it’s technically correct,
ain’t it?

Perhaps

Perhaps
we are all poets
a little inside
we feel the undertones
the undercurrent
of a silent river
flowing
silent, but always flowing
and we feel the current
within us
even though we know not
the name of the river

perhaps
we are all musicians
and the songs of the winds
are just echoes
of our souls
and we chime in
we chime in when we run
and we listen for the breeze
like notes

perhaps
we are all artists
creating and making
as we have been made
have been created
and as all things are made
differently
so too are we different
but it is all still art
it's all still art.

I Can't Wait To Be King.

The heart to heart of freedom's chain,
The liberty and choices made,
The options which we must attain,
We deem as ours, demand our pay.

Yet pay's demand leads all astray,
While work must wait another day.
Impatience shows its subtle scorn,
From which Pandora's jar is born.

The truth of pain relies on this:
That we are all too used to bliss,
Too spoiled by our fathers fore,
Thinking we deserve much more.

But once again the real cares not.
The time rolls on, and we're forgot.
Pandora's jar had Satan's keys,
But perhaps most harrowing of these,
Is unlocked, unleashed reality.

The truth can be the worst of all.





I said, no! I don't need professional help!

Semi-epiphany

For as long as puberty has graced me, I have been somewhat different. If you were able to read my note about the 16 Things About Me, then you should (but probably don't) remember that I like analyzing and diagramming sentences. I attribute such English prowess to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Gloria Wayne.

However, even though my peers received this very same education, I am not aware if they have progressed to become good writers/essayists/what-have-you. Also, my brother, though very proficient in his writing ability, has never written as much as I do, at least as far as I know.

Thus, among my closer circles of friends, I have always felt like some sort of anomaly, a branch sticking awkwardly outward from a smooth hedge. Though the multitude of them are generally very good writers, able to voice their thoughts and skillfully manifest them into words, I viewed few of them as being formed and identifying with their writing ability. They always had their other capabilities, but rare was it among my friends whom I thought writing the core of their identity (with notable exceptions, i.e. Eric Woo). However, in the back of my mind, I viewed myself as someone who was not necessarily a writer, but had writing tendencies.

So, the majority of my self-perception revolved not on my writing ability, since I have read many works that reach well beyond my imaginative dexterity, but rather, revolved around my random whims to write shit. Yeah, I could spin a yarn or two, could give a few quick lines that I hoped was original, but I was never really a writer, per se (per say, ;))

So, over the last year or so, I decided that I would take on the title of "writer" and would hope to expand my ability to write extensively. I felt that it was the only way to channel my education, much like music is to some and sports to others. I conformed to what people told me I was good at doing.

Well, people. I think you're wrong. I used to think that I had writing tendencies, but as I was falling asleep in Macroeconomics today, I jotted a few things down.

When Professor Herrin woke me up (which is another story in and of itself), I looked down at my notes. I found a few lines of poetry written. I don't remember writing them at all, but there they were.

Then I knew it. My tendencies do not lean toward writing. Sure I can shit out an essay about The Little Mermaid or Howl's Moving Castle or something random for a long time, but it wasn't exactly a skill that came easily to me.

My tendencies are toward poetry. I am, at heart, a poet. Poetry is my hobby, is my sport. I write stories and describe events because sometimes it's just the best way to express certain things. But if I were to express myself fully and most earnestly, I would do it in poetry.



So that's who I am. I've finally come to terms with it. I hope people care, haha.

Here's what I wrote while falling asleep.

I am tired; I am beat,
Body broken, burdened heat,
Holding onto heart so hollow,
Falling fast my fate will follow.

I am sure that I am strong,
Yet still sure that I am wrong.
So which strength must I take heed
If I'm wrong and weak indeed?

Is there strength in self-awareness,
Analyzing my own fairness?
Or is there strength in being strong,
Trust my own self all along?

I have nothing to reply here,
No such answers for the sly ear.
Hear me ponder; hear me rant.
Find the answers that I can't.

Find the answers hidden in this.
If they're hidden, do they exist?

The Flame of Tar Valon and the Dragon's Fang

Something I thought up in the moment while studying for anatomy today.

And no, they don't have anything to do with anatomy.


The Flame of Tar Valon
"For Those"

Oh yes, there's hope for those who seek it,
Maybe more for those who need it.
But there's still hope for those who want it,
And some just have enough to flaunt it.

And yet for those who blinded cry,
Let me help you use your eyes:
Tears don't work to maximize
Your sight from which no truth can hide.

For sight is not in seeing with
Your eyes upon your facial gift.
No, seeing life for all its worth
Is living fully on this Earth.

And Nature, God or Life may not
Be easy to retain or taught,
But openness to truth is key.
The truth will set you free,
Thus will you live happily.

The Dragon's Fang
"Weakness"

Maybe there's just simply something,
Or maybe nothing's barely bumping,
Or somehow questions silly stumping,
Fixing, mixing, feelings clumping.

Maybe nature built us knowing
How we think prevents our growing,
How we feel will get us going,
But gone are we when we stop flowing.

Gone are we when we hold onto
All our pains; our pangs belong to
Stalling gains we make and strive to
Save for me and thus provide you

Thus provide you little choice,
Blocked by banking on my voice,
Holding in my thoughts, rejoice
In little as my cheeks get moist.

Little things I noticed lately,
Small they are but impact greatly,
I move onward, guise as stately,
Strong and steady, sigh innately.

Give you reason not to hate me.
Give me reason for my fate.




I'll give mad props for anyone who can find the connection between "The Flame of Tar Valon" and "The Dragon's Fang."

Hint: The poems are yin and yang.

We're not a married couple,
But we've duct taped these boxes
To put away firmly
In the back of our minds.

We don't have the heart
To throw out this stuff,
The miscellaneous mischief,
Missing all kinds.

The winds have been blowing,
Flailing the trees.
They were once so tense,
But now they unwind.

The redwoods, sequoias,
Reaching so high,
Wanting and grasping,
Just how I pine.

And like a broken valentine,
It's a symbol, a sign
Of how some things never shine
Once I've made it all mine.

I've lost the touch
Of Midas, my king.
I loosen my clutch,
Lose everything.