REPETITION IS AN EASY WAY OUT

so much holding of hands, even in the cold. and fall leaves fading slowly as winter creeps in and people pass by them briskly. so much anticipation for lists and checklists of gifts and resolutions. and much laughter. that is for sure. much warmth and cozy blanket mornings and late night listens to favorite songs remembering the wishes for snow days. so much love, and hating of loving. hating that loved ones are no longer here, cannot share in the joy of holding someone who has a part of you in them, in their dna, in their genes. but loving nontheless. and so much thought; thinking and hoping and worrying and exploring, traveling and conducting, playing and fighting, sexing and working, partying and finalizing, trivializing and flying, scrabbling and gwaving, listening, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling.

YOUR HANDS BELONG IN FLORIDA

it's painful to think that i am alone, again.

in the airport i miss my niece, obviously.

i miss my mom and dad, my sister patty and glenn.

i miss kimchi smell in the mornings,

sweaty feet at night from the florida humidity,

i miss stories told at the dinner table that i had never known:

your grandfather was a wrestler and went semi-pro;

i once ate raw rice for two weeks straight when i crossed over what is now the demilitarized zone;

my best friend died in philadelphia the day you were born;

now all we talk about is how my grandparents are gone

and that i should quit smoking

instead of the fact that i really will miss the ocean and

the clouds which wisp along across the horizon,

and the sun particular to the south.

i miss listening to songs that i never listened to anywhere else.

i miss the awkward hugs.

i miss warm hands sweaty hands with which i typed early in the morning with so much to write

right now,

i miss having the feeling of missing something,

somewhere,

someone.

UNTITLED

what was it then
woven blankets scratchy, like
shed caterpillar skins
I had never seen meteors before
or found black holes to nowhere
our spines resting in damp earth,
soiling our youth
for a while, thinking

what is it now
feeling the sky straight
ahead and touching the darkness,
with stretched eyelids. you
wanted nothing but
what this was
now that its then and not
now, or here

what was it then
smiles plump like grapefruits
chasing swift dog tails
and matted fur
picking out the red of rainbows
from bowls of dried fruit
tossed with salted nuts

where do you go to
his framed mug preserved
and holding you
at attention, soldier
from across the room

do you see him
sometimes
or often, or never
and weep

how does the water taste
now that he’s gone
like flowers
or paint, or maybe cigarettes

well,
what its like now

I can see the Antarctic
feel warmth like thick polar bear coats
heading up the mountain
and not missing oxford commas.

- Jane Shim UPenn 11'

UNTITLED

One day I’ll do it and live
with intent radiating
from the balls of my feet
burning holes in my shoes.
Traipsing rush hour crosswalks
like a homeless man
with nothing to lose
armed with an empty daybook
sterilized against the terminal illness
of “let’s do lunches
and orthodontists - I’m dying
from malignant growths
that inflate like balloons
celebrating my insides.

One day I’ll do it and go
where ideas cant be
recycled and then
waste my imagination
until it pollutes my mind.
I will refuse to go green.
I will go black and turn yellow
and magenta and then red
until my head explodes
and balloons glide
up and POP on the sharp edges
of my cracked skull.

One day I’ll wrestle my cell phone
and body slam it
into oblivion,
just so I’ll never know
if he calls or not.

- Jane Shim UPenn 11'

UNTITLED

boats and ships
are headed your way
across five oceans to
remind you of carpets

and tiles and those
surfaces that feel smooth
like a babys ass
just weeks after labor

they sail to show you
that its really out
there, mixed in with all that
Technicolor and African bush

only lonely Laundromats
and waiting lines at the DMV
know how cotton feels
when you meditate on it

how much would you
shell out of pocket
to taste the air that flows
under armpits and between thighs

I could take a wild
guess but I wouldn’t
want to insult you or
your perspective on wine

sometimes chaos feels
like a fucking rainstorm
but other times like just
throwing your head back

and feeling silence
rush over your eyelids
and cheekbones
and tufts of hair

TIA (this is Africa), as
they say and
this is everything
but parents and pets

what fucking hemisphere
am I in or is this
a sick fucking joke. have
I arrived squeezed in the middle

smack dab in the
goddamn middle
between lace and bounty
just how you like it

with peppadew and mushroom
and love but
just because you’re American
and voted for Bush

you didn’t invent sarcasm
just thought you could
perfect it by the
beam of a flashlight

shut the fuck up
its really that easy to
chug a drink
and get down with yo bad self

how long did it take
to know this as truth
whatever the hell that
means to you, in Iowa

or Connecticut or another
obscure ass place that
commands unmerited attention
because they struck gold

will you pack me into
the front pockets of your
suitcase, I won’t cry
if the zipper catches me

I promise.

- Jane Shim UPenn 11'

IN A HOUSEBOAT I'LL BE WAITING

she will probably be late; will arrive 23 minutes after schedule, in a haste, hair shuffled and shoulder in slight pain from the weight of cigarettes and poetry in her purse. i will have checked my watch 32 times, re-read the text which stated i will be there, babe, 18 times. skipped 29 rocks into the lake.

she will be wearing black tights and boots. will have cute, black overalls. a scarf and a white blouse. a creme colored crocheted cap; gloves, large sunglasses, a coffee, a half-smoked cig ashed violently by a howling wind. she will be wearing dark red lipstick, will have a smile on her face.

she will say sorry for being late, for making me wait so long. will give me a hug - deep surprising hug. will smell of two bodies in bed on an autumn evening while the rhythm of pitter pattering rain explains the word love. she will want to talk to me for hours, even will, much later, hide the fact that she cannot keep her eyes open, hide the fact that she would only sleep if she could be with me.

she will touch my arm. she will laugh too loud at something dumb i said. she will stare without blinking deep in my eye when i am looking at a bird up high perched in a tree. she will lay her head on my chest as we lay back and guess what the animals in the clouds are thinking. she will ask how are you? are you happy? she will make me feel as if i am half asleep.

she will make of this moment what she wants: to be, fully and completely, loved.

and i can do that for her. i want to do that for her. i am waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting; for her.

THIS WORD WAS A 70+ PT SCRABBLE WORD IN A GAME THAT HAPPENED SOMETIME AND SOMEPLACE: INFINITE

when i approach this man who is very much like myself i may greet him with a 'hello.' i may say, 'how are you.' perhaps, "how's your day" is the best. maybe i offer him a glass of water. i may give him a hug, and i might cry a little bit after. i might ask how she is, if her hair has turned silver metallic. i might simply laugh at the sight of him but not in a degrading way, a laugh of pure joy. i don't know - i could, maybe even for some reason, perhaps if the season is winter and we are stranded on the side of the road in the midst of a blizzard on the outskirts of cold boulder, having to change a flat tire, be upset.

maybe i'd say nothing. just stare. crazy twilight stare.

maybe, just maybe, i'd ask him a random ass question: how many times have you shit today? do you piss in swimming pools? showers? what did you REALLY think of twilight? what do you do when you are alone at home? how many people have you seen die, right in front of your eyes? when you were 24, what did you think was in store for you? has it come true? should i abandon all hope?

one could also easily imagine that i'd immediately suggest, off the bat, minute i see his face, that we play a game of scrabble.

maybe i tell him a story about a memory that he was apart of, but isn't really his; i mean, i was the one who lived it, so it's mine, right? it'd be about a day in september when we were at my sister's home with daly. i'd say dad, remember when we were at sis's (my sister won't let me call her patty) for my birthday awhile back. we ate sushi and talked about tiger woods and golf and graduate school (the only things we ever talk about)? you fell asleep on the couch. i was hanging with daly and she was walking around and then she walked up to you and kind of played with your socks and kept trying to pull them off. classic dad socks, smooth, velvety black socks (i did read/play pat the bunny with daly when i babysat her so she has an affinity for touching). anyway, it made me want to cry. i don't know why but we were all there, three generations of kims." then i'd probably pause because he doesn't really understand english all too well. let him digest the information. "yeah, so, anyway. i just want to tell you that you must want to know what it's like to be a korean in america who got to grow up here. and i want to tell you. but there's too much, just like you probably can't tell me everything about your life. and i imagine that's why we have an unwritten understanding that there is not much to be said. we know what's up, and it's all good, and we appreciate, and know without having to hear any words. all i want to say is you are the patriarch now dad. when grandma and grandpa died, you became the head of the household. and then i look around at everything sis and i have, and now daly, and i have to say, good job old man. and you know, i'm pretty scared to become the head of the household someday; i'm scared of losing you."

i may make him come with me to the corn field back home where my friends and i used to smoke copious amounts of drugs, drink and play guitar under crystalline icy skies in the fall; where i lost my virginity, where i had my first break up, my first kiss. i would make him lay down on a blanket and tilt his head backward to look at the world upside down, to see the sands of stars. i would make him promise to listen to pavement and read william faulkner and my own writing. i would make him talk about sex and drugs and love and heartbreak and holding hands and the most arrogant thoughts and the most debased thoughts he'd ever thought of. i would make him tell me all the thoughts hidden deep down, never even attempted to be put into words, he'd ever had ever in his entire life. i would make him expose himself, answer my questions, my demands to know the truths - to know the truths about me, myself, and who i am.

i would make him, i would make him; i would make him.

EXCESS

write too much. awake too much. love too much. wish for cuddles too much. lend myself to people's trouble too much. watch pbs too much. eat bad food too much. drink too much, smoke too much. categorize too much. judge too much. want to own people too much. want people too much. overanalyze too much. want to talk to her too much. want her to talk to me too much. wish for things to be different too much. criticize too much. think too much, philosophize too much. forget too much. say too much. feel too much. see too much.

am too much.

too much wishing to be something i am not yet. too much wanting to be with someone i am not with yet.

too much, too much.

too much life for my languishing, weakening, terrified body.

TWILIGHT

why do people like twilight?

because two people love each other without any explanation. do things for each other for no reason. meet for a day and are instantly connected. would die for each other. would blame themselves rather than the person they love. because he would change his monster heart, and she would change her entire being, for love. for the fact of divorced families of normal everyday people, and happy and loving families of outcasts. because of white lies aimed to protect.

because of the moment we anticipate and wait for patiently until it happens and it is two people in embrace, when all is laid bare, with sneaky sniffs of and shaky fingers through the hair, the kissing of noses and cheeks, of the weak knees and butterflies in the stomach, because in those moments it doesn't matter if the love doesn't make sense, or is intellectual, thoughtful, provoking, meaningful, logical, sensical.

because love is none of those things. because love does not, will not ever, make much sense, at all.

PERHAPS

... i am nocturnal because in my body the blood which flows knows that home is not here, it is in korea. and so day is night and night is day. it may sound outlandish, but i just can't escape the blood in my veins, the spirit of my ancestors which makes my nights strange. it does not just up and go. doesn't when i look in the mirror, or try to say 'rural', or eat a big mac at mcdonalds with my parents. certainly doesn't when i am called a chink walking home from the bar.

so of course i would be up now, at 3am, wide awake as if it were the middle of the day. no, i am supposed to be at the doctor for a 4pm appointment instead of being in columbus, oh twelve hours earlier writing in front of my computer with a chestache. my parents should have never left. should have realized how hard it is to adjust and no, not to the culture, to the time: i am always ahead, feel ahead, feel as if i was lead here against my will and my body is telling me that i am not in the right place. it is obviously why my mind will race at the wrong time of the day, and i cannot sleep, cannot dream of beautiful things. cannot meet her out at the east bank of the stream; cannot skip rocks into the moss-covered electric machine; cannot not speak and hear, nonetheless, everything.

a shame but it can happen often, when nocturnal; goodnight moons are said too soon. before you know it the sun is up and the sky is maroon, and birds are chirping, and cars are honking in traffic, and children wait at the bus stop with sesame street umbrellas and yellow duck rain boots. but even then, when said too soon, my body knows that back home the land where my spirit was born, it will always be a true goodnight moon.

UNTITLED (WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR)

not the pumpkin pie, not the turkey, not the cranberry sauce, not the stuffing, not the rice, not the gravy, not the beer, not the wine, not the smell of it all, the smell of grandma's cooking, not the smell of grandma herself, not the scent of her hair or mother's, not the smell of sweat both the women and the men, not the tablecloth, not the special forks and spoons, not the beautiful wine glasses that tattered tablecloth under the expensive chandelier, not the pretty blouse your mom wears which she will dirty later, not the rings on her fingers or the way she laughs, and not the way dad grumbles and stretches out like a fat cat, lying next to the window as the sunlight pours in generously, not the sounds of the doorbells and beeps of cars as they lock, not the doors that open and close with a creak, not the music, not the crinkle of clothes on clothes during extended and close hugs, not the sighs, not the smiles, not the drive home along the highways of ohio, not the mass of dead trees that lay on the high hills, not a heavenly sunset that chills the skin, not shaky fingers while writing, not colors, not taste, not scent, not visions, not feelings, not thanksgiving, not words or meanings, not sense, not nonsense, not logic, not reason, not science, not god, just the moment when all you can think of and feel and believe and utter under a soft gasping breath is the word life

ROMANCE

"Always running and always wanting to go back but always being farther and farther away until finally it was just a scene in a movie where a girl says hello into the cauldron of the world and you are just a woman watching the movie with her husband on the couch and his legs are across your lap and you have to go to the bathroom. There were things of this general scale to cry about. But the biggest reason to cry was to drench the air in front of our faces."

- Miranda July, What is Romance

AM I COOL

a questioning culture is what i would like for us to be. then people would realize that no one really has any answers at all. the world wouldn't mind if you were an aimless traveler, a human without a home; we would all recognize it in each other. we'd hitch hike to Albuquerque or Denver and rummage through a dusty dumpster on the side of the highway in the desert, or kick an old tomato soup can around with our feet and boots in the snow. i would remember that it is November 16th and i would get you to smoke a pack of cigarettes with me through a simple smile or a laugh or a longing look in the eye. then, we watch a meteor shower and drink whiskey and take photos with our phones-

which reminds me, you know when you move a camera real fast and snap the shot, the pictures come out and there are fantastic streaks of light which sometimes zig-zag or are beams or light rays or precise lines which are all blurry but sometimes more aesthetically pleasing than the actual image itself, or the actual moment of the image? like streaks of light emanating from the boyfriend or pockets the kitten or the weeping willow in bloom on a rainy sunny day outside grandma's house.

well, i think that is very much like a meteor shower.

it could be a prerequisite to be chilly when viewing the meteors. so you can have someone close to warm you. for the opportunity of embrace. so you can meld with him and the moment, and the stars, and yes, the crickets and the air, crickets and air.

SUBLIME

this is a night writers dream of. and a cigarette that even people who don't smoke would relish. it is shadows of raccoons who scrounge the dumpsters for scraps, and parting couples in the early morning while the dew is on the grass, at the airport, sending their loved one soldier off to some foreign country with a hug and kiss and a picture of their daughter dressed as a fuzzy duck on halloween. this is the kind of time when the moon has a haze and is bright, and halved, and prompts me to think of the 'other' half.

all kinds of thought arrives in these moments; of happy times, when life hands its best hand to you, and you are mostly assured but confused as to what to do. what to do with such responsibility. what to make of success and its burden, of the pressure to live up to whatever it is that determines glory and greatness. what to do with words that jumble and become mumbles after too many drinks and smokes on a third story porch when then moon hangs low and ...