Stories Of The Han

The heart aches and yearns for days of yesterday It wants a repeat, a rerun of memories It wants to revisit the good times On hot days, I am transported back to Shibuya, Tokyo I feel the humid heat on my legs as I wander through the avenues, making my way to a house where I am greeted with a pour of red wine cold, a lighter igniting a pair of Japanese cigarettes and a set of stools out in the patio I hear her murmurs, her soft voice speaking in her sing song lilt, A quiet laugh A quiet look The heart aches. . #STORIES #STORY #POEM #POETRY #SUMMER #LOVE #SHIBUYA #TOKYO

The tents caught fire A plumage of smoke wafted in the hot air The Valley was alive and if that was any indication of the night I knew I was in for one I sat at the bar at Sally’s minding my own business, chewing through my umbrella The drink was hitting at a good angle as Mona appeared to my right She cooed in my ear asking if I wanted a dance I looked at her and she looked pretty, pretty enough She walked me to the back, signaled to cue her song and began her trance I sat there looking at her, examining her face, that dimple on her back She was young and experienced, there was hurt and danger in her eyes She slowly churned her butter, swaying her hips, mouthing the lyrics to her song I smiled quietly to myself and thought of her, the other, the women who had shared their tales of sadness They were lost and found and lost again Soon the music ended, I stepped outside feeling the still of the night. The moon yellowed and strange. I looked as far as I could, admiring that dark sky, that cloak of

It’s not about the car It’s not about the clothes or your looks It’s about what you’re trying to say And how you say it As quick and bold as possible It’s not about the girl Its about how she made you feel It’s how she made you look inside of you and admire parts of you, you never knew And then, It’s not about you either It’s about how you can help your fellow man see inside of himself, so that he can help others We are only one organ of many One note, not even a song It’s the moment when you meet her, when you meet him that in which you are enlivened, where you feel exact, where you feel alive This is the construct, this is the way. . #POEM #FOCUS #THEWAY #LIFE #PHILOSOPHY

She was a looker She came in with her gaggle of girls, laughing aloud, enjoying the attention She knew she had that thing He was new, back in town from a voyage afar He walked with the confidence of a man who’s been to places His American Marlboro Red lazily resting from his lip He smiled and gave her a kind stare She liked him He liked her They danced the night away Each sharing a puff of his smoke, drinks in hand, feet shuffling, laughter abound To be Young To be Free My Mother. My Father. . #STORIES 
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She follows me in my dreams Sometimes I hear her voice I said goodbye to her months ago Yet she reappears and sits, stares at me and remains silent It is then, that I awake She follows me in my dreams She was my lover She was my one Where have you gone What have you done She follows me She follows.

We enter alone We leave alone Throughout our travels we meet lovers and broken souls We are all broken We are all needing to be loved We are empty We are full We are joyous We are blue We may be happy for many years We may be sad the following We are sure of ourselves one day We are unsure on others On what note will we leave when we do leave What model, what pattern, what rubric Better not bitter A Journey A Quest A Life This is a Gift Treasure it Celebrate it Give thanks to it The Solo.

My father said he waited for 7 days. He looked up towards the hill to see if she would return. Each day he looked up, each day he looked down. He began to lose faith. He was 5 years old, a little boy, desperate, face wretched in hunger pains His younger brother was only 3, he would nurse him with what little food he could find Moments of delirium mixed with fear, despair, then fear again would mingle and dance around him He could hear the moans, the feeling of grim, the silence of hopelessness If only he could rid the hunger If only he could avoid his eyes from seeing the pain around him He looked up and she was no where to be found He was looking for her, his mother One day she appeared, her silhouette casting a shadow, her hands holding a bushel of grass She would boil what vegetation she found and would feed her children telling them she had already eaten My father knew she was lying but he ate quietly, swallowing his tears.

A HEAVY BLANKET. The kind that smothers you in your sleep when you wake, desperate to breathe, bewildered that you haven't been swallowed in its grasp already. You dreamt a pleasant dream. You felt calm and you felt still, much like what you imagine it must be within your mother's womb, that cloak of flesh, that feel of being contained and held. A natural opiate this blanket is as such is the feeling of self pity, that essence of the han. That streak of pain unbridled from generations of men and women. Such is the feel of this pain, this sorrow, this slight. A heavy blanket.

Go Farther Go Beyond Be the Rhythm Be the Song Enjoy the Valley Enjoy the Peak Forget the past The Future you seek Cherish the present Be alive and wary Everyone will pass And all will be merry Open the Heart Open the Mind Be One Be Many And always be kind.

Who she was isn’t there Who she is, is someone new What she meant is no longer What she means is strange fiction When she loved was something to cherish When she changed is something to perish Where she lived is a memory of time Where she goes is of no consequence Why she did it is the enigma Why she does it is for her and her only How she entered is a story of caution How she left is a story of The Other

No one cares No one sees Said the man in striped shirt His hands waving in the air His white beard tapered His mouth singing the lyrics of Cherry Bomb I sat on my stool holding on to my cup enjoying the company of my friends Sure there’s family but in the city your friends are your family. The dancehall was broad and open, the mod kids were dressed to the nines And our conductor for the evening was a wild old man, confident in his ways, wailing, shouting and screaming with pure joy No one cares No one sees Amen.

When a man loves a woman he sees his life with her in all streams of a lifespan. He sees her walking down the aisle, eyes prancing, giddy smiles, nervous tears. He sees her meeting him across the street, hands waving, happy gazing, a tiny shout. He sees her nursing a child and speaking to her, low tone, holding hands, gentle prodding. When a man loves a woman, he sees his life. He sees.

He told me he saw God. He emerged from the pool, the heavens parted and he was saved. Or so he told me. My father’s eyes were piercing, he was not lying. I looked at him and accepted his witness. He said he had been searching for this all his life. An Answer. A Creed. A Religion. A Home. On weekdays, my rituals include a swim at Echo Deep with one of my dear friends. We wait in line outside amidst street vagrants aiming to take in a hot shower. Once we change and rinse, we don our goggles and we swim our laps. We go back and forth, each stroke costing a breath, a hold of air, a test of our core To swim is to be free. It’s the closest to what I imagine it must feel to fly. The water is resistant yet once one understands how to navigate, the body suspends itself in harmony I like to dive deep and see how far I can swim with one breath. I haven’t quite managed, yet the feeling of emergence from water is a feeling of relief, a feeling of gratefulness We continue to swim back and forth We rest We quip We

To the women I’ve loved in my life I thank them all for the moments they’ve provided to this dear boy I say boy because it is the undressing of the man to the child which allows connection At least for me These women are no longer, they’ve moved on But I do thank them in providing me their grace, a space for my mind and heart to rove in their magic I thank the girl who sat with me on the rooftop of my apartment located in the fringes of Koreatown We sat in the early dawn listening to Air, the morning mist enshrouded us in a bed of cloud and we looked at each other barely making each other out and we smiled and we knew I thank the girl who sat with me on the windowsill of her downtown loft each with a glass of red in hand, passing a cigarette in between, as we bravely confessed our sadness and our wants The sun refused to rise as if wanting us to cherish the night forever I thank the girl who sat with me across the bar in Roppongi Her shoulders moving to the music, her fingers jauntily holding onto her ch

Days of rain were days of calm It meant that my older sister and I would get picked up from school I was 7, she was 9 We lived in Reseda, a part of town in the Valley comprised of broken families and poor immigrants My mother would pack our lunches, I couldn’t bear the ridicule She would be upset when I lost my chopsticks, I never told her I threw them away I couldn’t stand being different, it was hard enough being short, small, face flat, eyes slanted On days of rain, my father would drive his big GMC truck and wait for us after school His landscaping job was cut short which put him in an unusual good mood He’d pick us up and take us to Caeser’s Pizza I was always suspect of him when he acted this way I wasn’t sure if he was faking it, pretending to be nice He was quick with the lash, his voice would soar and crash upon us with fright On days of rain, he would implore to pick any topping we want, he would buy extra breadsticks At home, he would hand us each a hot piping slice and talk to us with with a

I could hear him from the walls He cried for days alone and didn’t leave the room My mother asked me to to bring him rice porridge on a tray I knocked, he opened the door and he gave me a gentle nod I never seen my father so broken My grandfather had died the previous week and my father did not attend his funeral He would later tell me that he couldn’t He said that had he left to Korea, he feared that he would lose his business and he would endanger our livelihood At age 12, I didn’t believe him I could tell he was scared to face it He didn’t want to accept the death of his father When I was four, I remember my grandparents visited us and lived in our cramped apartment in East LA My grandfather would burn incense and chant his Buddhist mantras He would invite me in and have me sit on his lap and he gently swayed me to sleep My grandfather was kind When he died, I knew that something changed inside my father He became colder, he became easily agitated He was quick to reprimand There was something unsp

She was tall, white and hip Her name was Ms. Swanson and she would arrive to my house on a weekly basis to teach me the Bible She had me memorize all the names from Genesis to Malachi to Matthew to Revelations She taught me how to pronounce my words correctly in English She introduced me to pumpkin pie I was seven years old. She would drive stick in her Honda Prelude and whisk me away to the local park She would feed me alfalfa sprout sandwiches and homemade iced tea She introduced me to Orson Welles and The Beatles She once took me to Bullocks and bought me a clean linen shirt, a neck tie, a pair of pants and a set of penny loafers I was suited up and ready to preach On weekend mornings, I would walk ahead of her and knock on stranger’s doors and recite scripture She instructed me on how to stand while speaking, chin up, chest forward. This was my childhood, preacher boy in training. And my teacher Ms. Swanson: tall, white and hip; did her part and taught me well.

We will never be friends These words were muttered from my father He sat stone faced back towards me I was 9 years old. A frail scared boy holding in my bated breath My father was a man of contradiction He was a natural charmer He knew how to tell jokes He knew how to command a room I would observe from afar in wonder Attempting to understand this man and in turn myself Who was he Why was he so capable of showing his humanity to others but not to his own kin He was quiet at home Stern and serious I knew he was wounded but refused to heal I am no longer a boy. I am a man. I am still his son. And I wish I could tell him that I’ve been his friend all along.

Oh Great Mountain How high you tower over us Your trails rocky, dry, and scorched For whom does the bell toll that I may endure such anguish Why must my trek be so harsh For what sin must I abandon to disallow this pain What is it that you wish to gain The Sun beats down My legs give way And yet, I trudge forward I come before you to find an answer I come before you because I have no where else to go I come before you to leave my past behind Once I reach your peak You embrace me with the wind I scurry down lush green and muddy rock The moon greets me and says hello The city looks bejeweled from twilight I am no longer sad I am no longer defeated I am cleansed I am neat I am

I sat on this metal garden chair when I lived in Tokyo. It was a chair where I sat and regaled tales of my past. It was a chair where I sat looking into the eyes of the woman I once loved. It was a chair where I enjoyed my morning coffee and cigarettes. I cried on this chair. I laughed on this chair. I felt utter bliss and joy on this chair. I sat in the cold of fall hearing crickets far and near. I sat in the humid summer, my legs exposed, mosquitoes galore. I felt the sun shine on me while sitting on this chair. Some days, I would stand outside and just stare at it. One day I was compelled to take this photo of this chair, not knowing it would be the last time I would see it. I wish this chair good tidings. May it fill the next person with love and joy. May it never rust and survive the seasons to come. Goodbye Old Friend. Goodbye.