Perpendicular to a Texas Sunrise

On a day that should have felt like Autumn 

The car a/c made the air cold.

I played music that made it feel seasonal

While I drove through downtown

In a city that doesn't know my name,

Filled with six million people that don't know or care that I exist.

That music validated my existence.

It reminded me I'm not alone,

That there are things we all face,

That no one is ever alone.

And even if I can't move the mountains,

There will be a hand to hold.

I saw the beauty of love as it was made to be

In the notes they sang.

I felt my soul awake,

And I knew there would come a time

     with no more tears

Where love would not break my heart

     But dismiss my fears

And as I drove perpendicular to a Texas sunset,

I found myself more alive.

Subjects Have Points of View

Subjects become Objects in their own eyes,
And see things in a distinctive light.
I know because I've seen myself
Made subordinate to an active verb,
And left the dangling participle on a canvas.
I've seen the artist impose her will,
Imitating God,
Letting there be light, making man from dust.
I've come to terms with being prepositional,
With having a Word define my place in a sentence,
but having meaning of my own.

The One Eighty

I don't know any other way to say it,
but this is like suicide fighters in a war.
—Keiichi Nakagawa,

Limits doubled from normal levels.
Eight times greater exposure in an hour
Than recommended yearly levels.
They still go in.
Hydrogen builds up to the point
Where combustion is inevitable.
They still go in.

Facing an enemy they can’t see,
Can’t smell, can’t fight back against,
Can’t shield themselves from.

They deserve better words than these.
They deserve to be the heroes of Japan.
Red and white flags in their honor,
flowers in the streets,
and memorial songs.

Till Death

I want to be a widower.
I want to be the one
Who puts you in the ground,
And listens to a minister's words
At graveside.
I don't want you to be the one
To see crying children, or grandchildren,
To lean on the shoulder of our oldest son
And drown his shirt with weeping.
I don't want you to face the empty side of the bed
That you were so accustomed to share
For twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years.

Hi, Soul of Asia

I’ve seen the pretty places.
I’ve seen the soft lights
protecting Baekje artifacts,
Shilla spearheads, and Bhuddist paintings.
I’ve seen the bright lights of central streets
and business districts at night.
I’ve seen the neon of advertisement
after advertisement after advertisement
for every product in Seoul.
I’ve seen the buses, the Kias and Hyundais,
and the motorcycles, especially the motor cycles,
weave in and out on Jongno, Chungmuro, and Sejongno.
I’ve seen four story buildings
with a different coffee chain on each floor.
I’ve ridden the subway four stories beneath the earth,
and travelled thousands of kilometers faster, cheaper, and safer
than American exceptionalism has afforded me.
But I’ve seen the ugly things.
I’ve seen the advertisements
that look like stripper playing cards,
littering the ground on side streets.
And I’ve seen the drunks
staggering along the sidewalk or falling over
as their friends struggle to keep them out from under cars.
I’ve seen a homeless man riding in a subway car,
beggars in the market laying on wheeled planks
pushing steroes, pan handlers on the bus
cajoling the riders for a few thousand Won.
The whole time it never felt like a city at war.

The Day the American Boy Came East

After fifteen hours in a plane,
up to the north pole,
down through Siberia,
and careful to avoid NK air space,
the plane touched down.
Seoul shimmered and shone,
active with ten million people
walking through the dark,
cell phones and city lights
lighting up the sky.
To jet lagged eyes
it looked like the future.

Reflections on an Atlantic Coast Town

Gold, silver, and bronze,
or silver, gold, and bronze,
or gold, gold, and bronze,
or silver, silver, and bronze.
Always bronze closest though,
until you slip beneath the surface
where the reds and greens and yellows
of eros, envy, and too much alcohol
share space with grays, blacks, and off whites.
But the bronze fades and has to be reapplied,
because it wasn’t real anyway.