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 ...