i know i’m a liar, and i regret the lying,
but some truths cost
everything
and no matter how much i search, scrounge and scavenge
beg steal and borrow,
i’ll never find the silver to pay such debts

i took 40 pieces
for the flamed kissed tatters of my soul.

now, i have nothing left
but my innumerable wrongs
like a siren’s ululations on the threshold of dream,
like the devil’s kiss and cheap liquor,
like the sudden absence of self
when bullets tear away all a man’s self-delusions.

i have failed every woman
that i’ve ever known, lived my life
like a luckless gamble
and drowned myself with whiskey and self pity
at the altar of my mistakes

but i promise you, here, now
as the world erupts and heaven falls, where god’s weeping
resounds across the sky like gunfire,
and reality itself bleeds from wounds torn
by human hubris,

i promise i will save you

even if i have to tear every light from every sky,
steal the songs from silence’s grasp,
rampage and murder till the crows grow too fat to feast,
smash every statue, man made edifice, self-aggrandizing monument
till all that’s left is dust under a bronco’s hooves, rip the voice
from every self-righteous zealot
and burn this city down until there is nothing
but ashes in the wind…

i am booker de witt. i am a killer.
i am death’s reluctant angel, anointed
in the mysteries of war, a soldier promised
to serve profiteers and pirates,
sworn to break everything i touch.

but He will not have you.

i will bring every man, woman and child
in these islands of folly
like lambs to the slaughter,
set fire to it all as a sacrifice, but you…

for you…

i will become that burnt offering.

________________________

poem #10
small city
(after john cougar mellencamp’s small town)

well i was born in a small city
but i live in a big city
probably die in some kinda city
every neighborhood, it’s own fucked up community

all the friends that grew up with in that small city
lived their lives best they could, squeezed
between adolescent dreams and the wearying pressure
of mundane, every-day struggle, making mistakes
and missing opportunities, building memories
that are always more glamorous in the re-telling

my parents live in that same small city
borne by the aftershocks of artillery shells,
saving and hoping with the tenaciousness of weeds
that their seed will thrive in strange soil,
my people are survivors, they said,
so i will never have an excuse to give up or give in

went to school in that small city
taught to fear a little bit of everything
but never to show it,

used to daydream of getting out of that small city
another born romantic that’s me

but i’ve seen it all in that small city
death and love and all the myriad ideals
poets obsess about, ran away
to realize that there ain’t nothing ideal

no i cannot forget where it is that i come from
i cannot forget the people who love me

politicians and gangsters, community organizers
and union labourers, a hundred uncles and too many cousins
to count, family enough to build a boy
and break the heart

got nothing against no other cities
but my head was made in that small city
and that was never good enough for me

well i was born in a small city
but couldn’t breathe in that small city
and i know, way i’m living,
i’m ineveitably gonna die stupidly
ah, boston
that’s prob’ly where they’ll bury me

_____________________________

poem #11

we are more than our brain chemistry
more than the wearying mix of neutrons and dopamine
firing in off-beat cadences
like lightning storms or inspiration
and when the balance teeters between this element and that,
when winds of fate tear at our grip on reality,

maybe love, whatever it may be, will be enough
to hold us steady.

____________________________

jack phan listens to hank williams and johnny cash,
drinks evan williams
and wishes he could fake a southern accent
without sounding like a jackass

as a kid, guitar town was always the song
he went to when shit got too much,
the only thing his deadbeat dad left him,
so when the possibility of pharmacy school
and living a life he hated, rather than chasing the dream he loved
became too close to inevitable,
he took all the privilege his mama worked for
and called bullshit, like lost boys everywhere
he left, looking for something, anything that’d make him feel right

jack hitched a ride from the bronx down south,
working his way to nashville, singing songs for handouts
and picking up whatever penny ante job’d have him,
told everybody he met he’d be a country star
as if belief alone was enough

(it never is)

but ended up like his mama always expected, a failure,
who’d a thunk
there’d be no market for vietnamese boys
who sang with a twang, and played guitar like every string
was a whiskey lullaby

nowadays, he plays for tips and ‘tends
for rent, getting paid in stories,
from the tired men who pay tabs after gigs
and ride their barstools
like cowboys on old nags, off into the sunset
that comes both too slowly and too quickly

he somehow still insists he’s going to get a deal
and to be fair, if you just heard his voice
you’d think he was the next steve earle (brad paisley for you kids)
but these days, there’s too much hurting in the world
for soul-ache to sell, and like that dick of an AnR said
nobody’s going to buy country music
from a fool that don’t look like he’s from this country

—————————–

diane nguyen was actually named diem
got sick of the dnd jokes

(what? too nerdy?)

changed her name the minute she turned 18, she’s
always been decisive like that,
valedictorian in highschool, top of her class
in college, president of this club and that society

she made the firm 10 million last year

so when she says she’s too good for this shit,
she wants you to know
it’s only the truth.

this shit being
flying down here to bumfuck tennesee,
to fix some yokel fuckup

but fred from the atlanta office just had his baby
so here she is, flying into nashville from new york,
wondering how much of an ass
she’ll look in her jimmy choos and oscar de la renta dress
amongst cowboys boots and plaid

fuck fred.

diane’s thing, she’s never satisfied
(why should she be, right?)
she grasps for the next achievement,
the next promotion and accolade,
she max leveled in WOW in a week
because ain’t no computer beating her,

and not to be cheesy, but it ain’t easy
watching your dad work two jobs
and your moms struggle to stretch
too little into feeding too many
so yeah, maybe she has an acquisition problem
but it’s always better to have too much
than not enough

(there is no inherent nobility in struggling)

and that’s how she ends up here,
trying to find a bar in a flyover state
after having pointed out, in detail, exactly why
everyone in the firm’s office in this shithole of a city
is an idiot.

as if that weren’t obvious from the fact that they lived here.

————————-

they meet
two shooting stars set
on their wayward courses,
drawn by the vagaries
of this wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff
from which all love springs

she sits down at his bartop, orders a manhattan
he smiles, thinking he’s met a kindred spirit here
in this place of unfamiliar faces, makes her her drink
and asks her name.

she tells him to fuck off.

he does. writes a song about it.

the end.

poem #9

had a poem about growing up in boston
and the craziness inherent
in living life ridiculously

but ain’t nothing more ridiculous
than accidental racist
that is all.

we embrace what we can, when we can, right?

also been feeling rather shitty, writing’s always been a way to remind myself that i’m more than my brain chemistry. which i forget, wallowing in the fucked up nature of neurons and dopamine levels.

poem #5
my regard, a sliver of silver
beaten into translucence, spun drunkenly
onto its side

i’ll write love poems
and letters from the past
as cynical as hope can be

draw my letters in cursive, mercury and neon
the particular bright
hiding in the corners of blinded eyes

april, with all its promises
i’ll give you one for each day
and hope i can be good such debts

poem #6
self-involved and self-righteous
a palimpsest of sins
blinking to find cognitive comfort in the familiarity
of my many faults
they do good cosmetic surgery in korea
no?

poem #7

ben’s eyes always feel bruised
as if he’d been crying, auroras
sleep deprivation like a mother’s woken fury
all bluster and tired indignation

it’s 4 am, and he’s writing another financial review
numbers and letters
dancing strange pirouettes
in the milky edges of his vision

rubs the dragon tattoo
that he got one night, drunk with his boys
grins halfheartedly to think most of his stories
start and end that way

he hasn’t slept, chasing just enough
to not get charged too much money
for not having enough
loans and rent and bills, oh my

met son cá when she asked him for cigarette
his gait shaky from the swirl of lights and her smile
and yeah, to be honest, like always
the beers and whiskey had their bit to add

he tells her, his pack ain’t got nothing left
shows her the battered packaging
contorted into the folds of his pocket,
but that he’ll share what he’s got

son cá thinks that’s a wack line
knows she’s too good for this alcoholic bro-seph,
dressed in the unofficial asian american yuppy uniform
but she’s fiending for a cigarette

’cause it’s been one year
since the incident, and she’s still reeling
as if the blow’d come so hard
she’d never recover

and maybe this boy who think he’s a man
might not have his shit together, but neither does she
so she’ll split the nicotine
and maybe give him her name

depressive brain state
wandering biology
can we get drunk now?

poem #4
this is poetry?

imma drop facts like bombs
and explode yo’ whole world
cause talking about oppression
is better than dealing with my depression
and see, i’m a poet
and i want you to know it
so imma rhyme all the time
fine?

but see, i don’t want to be cheesy
so i’m going to unironically
spout didactic, make absolute statements
like i’m worth listening to
announce that the revolution is here
my brother/sister/gender-non-specific-family-member

and it’s in my pants.

let me drag out all the self-righteous indignation
i can muster from reading too much che
on my laptop
and i’ll spill it all across stages and pages
and wonder why no one is listening/reading/blogging

i will say nothing new
but flaunt my originality
by dressing as outlandishly as possible
or by looking like a caricature of allen ginsberg
and take myself entirely too seriously

because you’re reading/listening-to/auditing this
and that’s exactly what i want

life’s been, uhhh, interesting. ups down and all arounds, roller coaster and drunken spins

performed in iowa recently for via-1. had a great time, met loads of beautiful, wonderful people.

more about that as i process.

oh yeah, follow me on twitter @vinh_hua. i’ll be posting quotes and words in compelling combinations.

but yeah, national poetry month:

poem #1
(for jenny)

if life were a korean drama
i’d probably have to learn korean

if life were a korean drama
everyone would have illegitimate siblings
or secret parents, entire histories
lost in mistaken lineages

if life were a korean drama
only pretty girls and cute kids would get cancer
and love could cure all
tragedy’d be a test
and adversity would have a purpose

if life were a korean drama
we’d be eating a lot of jjangmyung

if life were a korean drama
tears and grand gestures
would be commonplace
hard work would pay off
and being special would be so much easier

if life were a korean drama
i’d probably be funnier
and definitely a bad guy

if life were a korean drama
i’d promise you
that your dreams’ll come true
and everything will work out
cuz darlin’, you’re the hero of this story

but it’s not
so i can’t
just wish you the best
cause you deserve it

poem #2
(growing up)

we reign in our dreams
imagining somehow
that deferment
is neither capitulation nor dismissal

we learn to lie

we accept responsibility
obligation
and crutch, growth
justification enough for giving in

we learn to vacillate
and ponder, bargain ourselves
into corners

wonder becomes mundane
and we see the world
not for what it can be
or what we wish it could be
but for what, now, to us
it is

i’ve been told i should write more, that it’ll open up my upper faculties, and no matter how difficult that may be, it’s necessary. i agree.

it’s strange that i’m so much better at rambling disconsolately when i’m emo but now that i kinda have my head together, i struggle to find the words. i grope for them blind, not in perpetual darkness but in light which blocks out the shape of things. so my hands reach, gently run themselves across the surfaces and try to discern their shape by feel alone.

it’s surprising but i feel like i can almost make them out, if anything, i’m glad that they’re even still there, waiting.

like an old friend with the right bottle of whisky. like family. like love should be.

more on finding my way back to a more fulfilled and less insane place soon. and i mean it this time. no dennis the menace.

following thought strands up and down my brain, trying to make sense of it even as it tries to make sense of the world. how ridiculous doe that sound?

everything makes sense, because it doesn’t.

ill be jumping around. i’m sorry as a heads up, it’s just where my brain is right now.

music is so fucking clutch. i broke my earphones a bit back and hadn’t bought replacements for the longest time. having music, listening to it, vibing to it all the time, like i did for so long. i also got my hands on a 600 gig portable hard drive. which has made me reexplore music, looking for rando shit to fill up the drive and falling back in love with music, the sheer variety of good music once again. for the longest time i just listened to the same shit over and over again, but i realize life’s too short for that.

i’m a man, a boy, a human fucking being with so many faults. shit’s ridiculous. one of the many is an inclination to drink. the temptation to just say fuck it when things get bad, to jump feet first into the bottle and never look back gets overwhelming sometimes. alcohol is amazing cause it can do two things for the broken hearted soul, it can numb the hurt, make it go away for a short while. and sometimes, more importantly, it can let down the flood walls, allow one to give in to the overwhelming power of feeling, give up the fight temporarily and let the emotions flood through. and yes, this usually creates huge problems the next day, but i won’t lie and say it ain’t occasionally cathartic as hell.

and i can be an alcohol snob. fuck that, i am. but maybe thas so i don’t find myself buying a bottle of georgi and finding god at the bottom of it.

ok, im ending this before i get too maudlin. i’ll be back soon. i promise.

and if you believe that, you’re as deluded as anyone who’s ever loved me.

i think the process of growing up, truly growing up, is the process of reconstruction. admittedly, i’m talking out of me arse for the simple fact that i ain’t all that grown up. i’ve done a lot of living, sure, but that doesn’t mean i’ve grown up. i guess i’m thinking about this because i’m trying to consider what it means to be a man, to be a citizen, to try to be a person.

we’re taught all sorts of things when we’re really and truly young, in those formative years before we’ve developed enough of a brain to question our reality, to consider that anything we learn may be false. admittedly, not everything sticks, but not every drop of water stays in the sponge.

age is such bullshit measure of maturity.

and yes, that seems abrupt. my mind works that way these days, even more so than usual, jumping about. i’m on a bus, a few miles out of the city, watching this fucked up little scottish movie named hallam foe, considering god and life and adulthood and continuation and all those important things. in another window i’m putting together a list of things that a person should know how to do before he dies, obviously building offa heinlein’s list in time enough for love. it’s a meandering sort of journey i’m taking. there can’t be any other kind when you don’t know where yah going.

and though i’m speaking at least somewhat metaphorically, there’s such a desire in my heart to just say fuck it, pack a bag and hit the road. start walking or hitching or just going anywhere but here, change my name and be anyone but who i am, if only for a moment.

now as i blink the sunlight out of me eyes, trying to make out the words i’m typing or the movie i’m watching, i wish i had a anti-glare screen. but i don’t. so shit out of luck once again.

but back to construction and deconstruction and reconstruction. we construct our world, our understandings of it. and if critical thinking and college and all that shite has its way, we’ll deconstruct the same. consider them, work them over, try to sharpen their edges and examine our prejudices, wonder whether what we’re thinking is right or wrong or somewhere in between. whether we may be mistaken in how we interact with the world or whether we’re just affirming what we believe. but the point is to question, cause we, each of us, have different enough inputs and different enough processors that we’re likely as not to ever be able to get the same results. which is why we aren’t perfectly rational beings and all that.

i think most folks, for one reason or another don’t deconstruct, don’t question. it’s fucking difficult. and scary. because if we question the foundations that underpin our reality, what have we to stand on? let’s face it, the human soul, it fucking yearns for certainty, for something to believe in, something it can hold onto as the waves of life wrack and rage. so most people don’t. they can’t.

i believe that those who deconstruct, however, always attempt to reconstruct. and that’s where the broad majority of those critical few get stuck. because once you break something, even if you have all the pieces ,it’s damned hard if not impossible to put it back together again or even to make something new.

oh and btw, bloody hell sophia myles is gorgeous.

then again, it appears i’m inconsistent with most things in my life, so it shouldn’t be any surprise now eh? maybe drifting into and out of lucidity is how my life is ‘sposed to be. candles flicker, so doesn’t the sun. so what makes me so fucking special?

let me take this space to just write. i’m not saying any of what i write will be good. that’s a promise that i can’t make. hell, i’, not even going to try to promise to be consistent, because that would most likely be a lie.

what i will promise is that i will make at least an effort to be candid, to be truthful, to reveal of myself whatever i can.

fuck using this website as a place to tour and such.

let’s face it, i ain’t gigging nearly as much anymore and i don’t enjoy gigging any more. maybe i’ll slam or go to an open mic or sommat for old time’s sake, but while fun, it isn’t nearly as addictive as it once was. it’s almost passe. there isn’t the same excitement, the same connection.

maybe it’s me own fault. maybe i’ve grown callous. isn’t that what becoming an adult is about anyways? becoming more callous i mean? hiding the reality of emotion, both cruel and virtuous behind veneers of gentility that allow us to more easily interact with one another. it makes us numb, allows us to trample over others and ourselves. admittedly, kids do the same shit, but at least they’re honest about it.

i’m writing here because i can’t seem to write anywhere else. my ability to do homework is bloody non existent. it’s fucking horrible, because it’s so late in the season. i need to be operating at bloody peak efficiency, but that’s certainly not happening.

so i procrastinate like we all do.

drive myself up the wall.

i need to learn to let go. and bloody hell does that ever sound cheesy. there’s such an aversion in me to thinking and feeling in cliché, but the more i go about it, this growing up business, the more i realize that cliches are there for a reason. what i feel is not unique. or if it is unique, it is only unique in the sense that every snowflake, though it maybe chemically identical to every other, is different in some form or another, in its shape, its size, its depth.

fuck me, but i’m rambling. here’s a poem.

punching bag

i swung, like a marionette,
spine creaking after the beat
of fists against sides
jabs and crosses in rhythms of flesh
you walked away.

you’ve gone, left scars
scrapes, a hundred blemishes
across skin,
numerous like misplaced dreams, empty beer bottles
the blotches across my tears

patchwork, haphazardly sewn
with duct tape, scavenged leather
the tenderness in fingers i fell in love with, gentle
as your hands never are, always
tempestuous in their impotent frustrations

you held me, quiet
your cauliflower ears, your cheekbones
resting like gaunt knives
against the cracked softness of my chest
the only sounds, the subsiding
of your breathing into the spent silence,
the sweat dripping laconically;
my trembling

a handful of years you’ve had me
mute companion, ready vessel
for when the rage
or the unbearable bleakness of being
would slip its way from the laughter in your eyes
rise like hurricane winds, like thousands of voices
in supplication, like wildfires up mountains
to consume all that i was made to be

everything i am, you have
my flesh, an offering, my life
but for you
empty in this space, these times
we’ve created, my presence
unwavering through all, through the dark
and the day following
that confirms it’s not just a nightmare

i’ve given the good fight,
gotten in my licks, snatched scraps
when you weren’t looking
knocked you on your ass
for lack of respect, giving
and receiving, deserved or not
for someone else to decide

so tired now, the stuff
of my heart grown thin, barely any weight
within these battered confines
barely enough to hold your troubles, treasure
the tears that imprint themselves
like tattoos down my shoulders, seams
that hold me together

tonight, you say you’ved moved on
that it ends,
take me from my place, send me away
with only a final caress on some mark,
some flaw you left some
forgotten night ago, maybe
a rarely seen smile,

not enough.

i prefer writing on the computer… mostly because i can’t read my own handwriting. but there’s also such an impermanence to digital writing, even if, on another level, it’s the most immortal thing evar. cause once you save it on the internet, it’ll be floating around somewhere probably longer than you will be on this earth.

i like the malleability of digital writing, i feel like it’s more similar to the way a person thinks. there’s a constant give and take, an ability to change, to go over, to revise. there’s no permanence without change in this life, so why should there be in the form of writing?

jeebus. i wonder how long i can go without jits/working out without going quite nuts.