for my chingus in Korea

A thought on this radical accumulation of bright-shining-multicolored myriad circus clowns and beauty queens, without whom I may have managed to float above the soju waves instead of drown myself in them.

all it takes is a moment

a flicker in time
a spec of dust on the blinking satellite radar machine of your existence.
that interesting point when time seems to double back on itself
or become tied up in knots.

one second, the blink of an eye, a half second, an instant

like turning the page of a book-- out of sight, out of mind.

but this book, it seems, you're not able to reread

except for the inside unfolding paintbrush of dreams.

a wrinkle in the fabric used to make out the contours of being alive

perhaps like a small tear in one of your favorite t shirts

intersecting lines with their points juxtaposed

a wedge in the sunflower patch we've tried to make grow.

its a quick sting,
a cold bucket of water thrown right on your face

a shock of electricity setting you in place

or sent down from the heavens to remove you from space

and to endear you to a rubbery, elasticized and malleable race.

ending the act, changing the scene, finishing the chapter.

a period, or a "full stop" as some may say. a question mark?

an exclamation point!!! of sorts??

a solid brick wall excellently placed 

for this vortex of mega-inertia...

catastrophe of the cosmic plans and intentions, 

these are the measuring sticks for our lives, 

atomic bomb collision into a reinforced steel bomb shelter, 

and you've got nothing else to do but live it.

so you gotta live it man and keep going on

through this multicolor circus with kaleidoscope arms,

carefully you slink through these overcrowded lines,

building bridges over waters that will break in short time,

and left to make hopeful promises for future bright days

when you'll rebuild the bridges to relive your old ways.

inertia of the past-- the unstoppable force.

reality of time-- an immovable object.

Frank O'Hara shoutout

Frank O'Hara

Mayakovsky

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.