POEMS===DEATH

English is The Universal Language

Pauline Hsia

Sniveling immigrants that snatch
American jobs, destined to
Scrub toilets with your tongue, to scrape
mold with your teeth.
BabySit those brats, service them with
your existence.

If breath escapes your mother, if

Your father’s eyes are vacant, have your

Children scrounging

For scraps since coldness is
In theory and reality equals a

Pleasant slap.

Gangs are but a phase, cancer is

Karma, and AIDS becomes Harry Potter

Flying on his broomstick.
Myths, lies, and manipulation are

Tools sharpened to perfection.

Hungry?

Strip and Kneel.
We have extra change.

Impoverished? Ha!

Preposterous!

The government has no ears,

No sight, no words. Your
Pitiful father can't say a damned thing.
The society creates you, we

Create the society.
We create,

We own,

You

And you

And you

And you.

To be an American,

Erect and proud, with the stars and stripes

Flapping eagerly.

You can't, can’t be
a red-blooded American. Insert the

Needle to withdraw black

And green plasma, humanity

Belongs to those born

Upon U.S. soil.

For no American worships
Allah! Buddha! Ishvara! Guan Yu!
Amaterasu! Confucius! The sun and the moon!
For no American has those chinky eyes
or that kind of a tan.
For no American eats pig intestines or
fish eyes or skewered guinea pigs
or raw dead duck eggs.
No fucking American.

Racism interlocks with

Sexism, threats of deportation

Lead to exploitation,

Degradation and demonization is

An excuse for utilization and

Civilization.

Dare not call it

Nationalism when it’s

Bullshit at its best.

The Surface is But a Stroke Away

Pauline Hsia

The surface is but a stroke away, light

Playing off the pool’s

Edges,

Though Eternity, sick in the head, grabs on

To drag me

Down to Tartarus.

When I arrive wishing to

Dunk my head in the River Lethe

A thousand cars drunk,

Blind with rage,

Come stampeding upon my soul

Like Mufasa and the

Wildbeasts.

My spirit soars to the skies,

Where the heavenly

Father awaits

And I lounge in the Gate’s lobby

Snacking on cheese and

Eggs

Suddenly feeling my pulse race,

My heart’s aorta bursts just

When Father says I can enter, however seeing my sin of

Gluttony, he

Banishes me to return to

Where the grass is artificially

Green.

Where the young man’s breath mingles

Pleasurably with his lover,

Provoking shudders and tingles,

Implanting what she shall discover.

There I lie, inside her womb,

Limbs pulling together from disarray,

From thence I can resume

Revisiting where I shall stay.

Binghamton provokes me

One my greatest fears is that I will write robotically, where I'm so used to writing that I don't place myself in the situation and feel. I go off logically about the topic and not really think and capture the intensity of what I'm writing.

Digging my own room.

This will be down by tomorrow--EW EW EW EW

I'm embarrassed because the story did not come out the way I wanted it to, but I don't even remember how I wanted it to come out really. The feeling is off and my grammar is off. Bear with it for now.

The Destroyer by Pauline Hsia

He put on his rubber rain coat again, only on Sundays, which has the power to slow passersby down; after all, he was a towering yellow-human-traffic-light. And he prefers to walk down streets as if he was dying. How does a dying man walk? With a confident yet lethargic gait with a slight hesitation at the hip. His usual pattern consisted of two long strides and a hop with the ends of his rain coat flapping. Bystanders, men and women alike, confess that there’s a nervous energy about him, physically drawing them in as if he was some kind of vortex. Though, they say it’s due to charisma, the hesitation at the hip says otherwise.

--- Taken Out----

Can I also say the flow is off because I was writing separate parts and rushed to sew them together. ERGLES!

Third Person Perspective

We always hope in our hearts that we made enough impact on someone that they wouldn't hurt themselves, that somehow they would find some kind of peace and beauty in this world, that they would be resilient enough.

I'm always scared that I'd meet someone who didn't want to live and actually go through with it and that I somehow unconsciously (or maybe even consciously) turned my back to them, making it partially my fault that they didn't care enough to live.

But we are not in charge of the lives of others. We cannot stay and watch over everyone as much as we want to because we have our own lives to live.

Wrestling with Weather

It's a cloudy day. Dayana's sad song list is playing. Milk tea is about to be made. Perfect day to be a-formulating.

My apologies, my thoughts will be used for the story I am tempting to finish weaving. UGH.

My life is like this fucking short story. I can view the scenes and know the exact feel and what takes place in each scene, but there's no order to it.

Where's the effing pattern?!

"Who was I then?"

What's so strange to me is that I can't even force my heart back to that place where I felt that all-consuming passion. That makes me feel distant from myself. Who was I then? Will I ever be able to get back to that place? Reading the letters again made me wonder: Which is the real me? The one who saw the world in that emotionally saturated way, or the me who sees it the way I do now?

From Love Letters

Live Your Life like You Give and Don't Give a Shit

Maybe is the worst answer ever. Memo to self to try not to say that to anyone unless purposely being a bitch.

Mess must be made before Cleanliness & Organization can be Found

One of my favorite and old quotes from Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club

He saw all those private aspects of me--my darker side, my meanness, my pettiness, my self loathing--all the things I kept hidden. So that with him I was completely naked, and when I was feeling the most vulnerable--when the wrong word would have sent me flying out the door forever--he always said exactly the right thing at the right moment. He would grab my hands, look me straight in the eye and tell me something new about why he loved me.

Transition--pffft.

The E.N.D. --Black Eye Peas Didn't Know the Half of It

Returning to a place after two years of absence shows me how much I've matured, how different I think now. Every move I make, I think about the consequences and how they could affect the children.

After working with children again, I can say--somewhat-- that I'm more patient. I speak with the kids with a softer tone because they understand and listen better. Though, I won't sugar-coat the truth that I did yell a lot towards the end, my voice was hoarse like an old engine.

Although I love children, when I work with them, I lose interest occasionally, paying attention to other counselors more. However, this year, it was really about the children. I adore all of them. One of the girls, on the last day--yesterday, had a break down; she became very violent and started to scream hysterically. It scared me and in some ways reminded me of myself when I was younger, so angry at the world because of the lack of effort and harmony at home. Most kids act up because they don't get any attention or get any appropriate attention at home. When she calmed down and she said to me, "I just want my family to be happy." And when she tried to explain her family problems, she started to choke up and bury her head to wipe her tears. Have you ever seen a grown adult choke up? How pitiful it is? Now imagine a little girl gasping for breath because she's trying to find the words.

I hugged her tightly and told her, "Don't worry. Everything is going to be okay." But will it? How many more hardships will she have to face? How scarred will she become? The truth is, most of the kids are in an abusive family situation or in a situation where their family don't give a hoot about them.

Isn't it sad.

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I'm trying to prepare myself for Bing again, mentally at least. This time, I promise to be more efficient--less lazy--and more organized.

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GD came out with his solo album! I like the rhythm in She's Gone, Butterfly, and Heartbreaker, but GD's songs sound more and more Americanized, especially Butterfly.

Watching Beethoven's Virus--the conductor is so my type!

Breathe, one day at a time

Anxiety rather than ambition (aren't they the same?) pushes me into a state of nervousness.