Poetry
as
howling
blocks
built
to
heaven,
into
the
sharp
pinnacle
of
cry.
Mason
I
am,
the
tower
leaning,
building
toward
the membrane
of
sky.
Perfect
verse
punctures,
rains
angels
down.

"Sometimes I lie awake at night and ask "Where have I
gone wrong?"
Then a voice says to me "This is going to take more
than one night."

I never imagined
That my climb up the mountain
Would bring me to the feet
of good ol' Charlie Brown
but Lo!, there he is, a little bald lotus:
"Dread one day at a time" he says
"And all else follows" I add. He nods.

"Replace one worry with another" he says but I
disagree.
"Abiding with the original worry is good for one
lifetime" I say.
He nods, offering me a seat.

You can be awake
And live your dreams, but asleep,
You miss your chances.

sitting cross-legged in the foothills
listening to the bluegrass grow
from banjo's, fiddles, six-strings
watching unshaven men in denims
light cigarettes freshly rolled
that make thin smoke in ribbons blue
like these ridged mountains
where we are all squinting at the sun
shine on tambourines and old gold teeth
everyone smiling at no one thing in particular

Time has let me
forget your lovely face,
through the passage of a decade,
I've learned to fill the empty space.

Time has let me
heal my wounded heart,
cease the crawling of my skin,
congeal my ever bleeding art.

When we set out the door,
our smiles filled the night with light.
How could I ever know
you'd slip forever from my sight?

Time has let me
turn my life's next page,
handed me the perfect road
to process all my guilt and rage.

Time has let me
remember giggles of joy,
grasp that we all die sometime,
even my little girl and little boy.

When I slide into my mind,
if I want to scream another rhyme,
I dig my way up to the sun,
plot a new poem in which love can run.

Time has let me
live with endless pain,
absorb its stormy lesson,
enjoy its warm and gentle rain.

Time has let me
hug my family more,
sing and dance at weddings,
laugh until I fall upon the floor.

At fifteen I placed tong-clutched ice cubes into Mr. Toyota's glass.
Scotch and water allowed Japanese business men
to speed on America's highways
without hangover's lag.
Mr. Toyota thought I looked too young to be a hostess at Club Asuka.
But I was adept at changing subjects
and encouraged him to channel
Elvis or Bing Crosby
for a rendition of "White Christmas."
In broken English Sally said,
"You no sing 'New York State of Mind,'
it too difficult for me to play on piano."
I wondered what her real name was;
was Sally a translation?

Soon I was requested by Mr. Toyota regularly.
(I was a good height for him,
knew when it was time to summon Chu to remove the ashtray
and learned to sing songs in Japanese.)
We'd duet, then aspire to the dance floor as he dipped
and discussed his disdain for raising teenagers
in the disrespectful adolescence of America.
I had hoped his children wouldn't turn out like me,
or worse—pouring drinks for white business men
who'd be far less respectful.

I was a ragged hole in the wall
a post to test his new
member on
at the tender age of ten.
I was scared
I was angry
I was accommodating.
Now my breasts
function well to nurse you
only decades out of the womb
my dear boy.
Again.
I feel the stretch
of intimacy
and I imagine it heaven
as death screams naked over my shoulder.

He didn't want to sit at the dining room table,
with its flat even surface,
freshly reupholstered chairs,
but preferred to sit cross-legged on the pine floor,
the board between us,
lit by the afternoon sun streaming in from the West.

He was first to land on Park Place,
Virginia Avenue and Marvin Gardens,
but didn't buy any of them,
delighting only in the changing patterns of the dice.
When his roll brought him to my Broadway,
all developed and loaded with hotels,
he laughed uproariously and lit up another Camel.

When I found myself in jail,
unable to pass go, or collect 200 dollars,
he looked at me with solemn eyes and said,
"You have been in prison long before this game.
The day of the sun has been my strength,
the path of the moon shall be my robe,
a sacred praise I am making.
I have grown weary of this game and its colored money.
Perhaps tomorrow we will play the other Wasichu game you like,
the one called Sorry."

And if my ancestors be rogues
Am I then a rogue as well?
I can no more claim a share in Ancestral nobility,
Than I would accept a like charge of villainy.
My ancestors, stretching however far back, are dead.
I am still here, alive.
And however far back, whoever they are,
My ancestors are themselves,
And I am still me!

Dawn's calligraphy
Outline of leafless trees on
Crumpled paper sky.