One-Way Street.

On the road.

Where are you going?

I was walking on a highway. It was nighttime, though the exact time was lost on me, as my only working watch had fallen off of my wrist earlier in the day on the subway and landed discreetly in the pickpocket's filthy pocket filled with other semi-precious items he'd managed to scour off of the other passengers. Though I do harbor a fault, as I should not have fallen asleep on the subway in the first place. But how I got here, on this stretch of road, I can't seem to recall.

Fog floated over the asphalt, caressing the rough, waxy surface with seductive, wispy fingers. I've walked miles since the last set of headlights passed me, and the silence of the night penetrated my thoughts and reminded me that I was alone. The further I walked, my vision became fuzzy, lost in a blur of black and white. I felt wetness soak my sneakers, and I realized I was walking in snow. Snow that resisted the fog, hugging the asphalt in protection.

A dark shadow appeared in the distance; a shadow curled up in darkness; even the whoreishness of the fog unable to seduce it into movement, the snow unable to reach it in its deep reflection.

I sat down next to her. If I were indifferent, I wouldn't have given her a second glance, and kept walking into the snow-littered distance. Or perhaps my curiosity

"Don't pity me," she spat.

"Too late for that." I pulled out my travel blanket and offered it to her. "You might as well take advantage."

It's a surprise I recognized her at all. Her once smooth face was etched with dark lines. The dark twilight made her skull look as if it sunk in on itself, and the hair that I used to run my hands through were stringy and matted with dirt, failure, and illness.

She reached out to take the blanket, and I saw her bony wrists as her sleeves slipped to her elbow. Her veins protruded from papery skin, and knife scars bulged as her fingers wrapped around the material.

I said nothing. It wasn't my place anymore.

"You okay?"

"What does it look like?"

"You look like you're enjoying yourself." I waited for her glare to turn its attention to the empty stretch of highway. "How'd you get here?"

She didn't answer me. I didn't expect an answer. The question was vague enough that it could've been interpreted any way she'd like. But we both knew which question I was asking.

"You remember when Janet used to cuddle us to sleep?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

How did you end up on the side of the road?

"You remember when she tried to kill us?"

"No," I replied.

"She did, you know."

"She only tried to kill you."

"And she succeeded."

"Only because you let her. Look at you."

"Because you pretend it never happened."

"Only because I was strong enough to forgive her."

Where have you been?

Snow was falling, like an abomination of white flurries. It distracted me for a moment, as I've realized that more shadows were closing in.

"She never loved us."

"That may be true," I breathed, taking out a flashlight, and shining away the reaching pieces of darkness. But I had nothing else to say.

"Unloved," she breathed, lifting her head to meet the kiss of snowflakes that turned to tears on her cheeks. "You stop here."

"Then I suppose it's about time I left."

"Suit yourself." Her face flickered. Her face was melting back into the shadows. "I'll be here."

As I walked down the snowy road, I gazed back at us, but I couldn't see us anymore.

When will you move on?

[Originally posted in joint blogger account in 2012. Edited April 1, 2013.]

Silver Keys.

Drown in the spicy layers of artificial
Hell. Mountainous Syracuse trees and microscopic flecks of nostalgia set fire to your intestines, twisting until it reaches your
brain. Your head is dynamite. With angel-limbed devils, you sing a
death choir—you are the entire trumpet section. Brass rings, flaming wired glasses, shoved down into your spark plugged
engine. It sputters. Stops. Spots. Lace. Face. Stone embrace.

Destruction of the Christmas lights, deconstruction of human life, resonate in the electrical sockets, travel the air vents, and restrain empty Angel statues. Behold whitened mustaches, dancing toothpicks, and pulsing fireflies Fire drinks. Behold crumbling tires of man, inhaling syringes, smoking antibiotics, delusional to blood-blood-bloody quadruple digits in Hell’s corner.

Let God-like Satans, Satan-like Gods, Devil-like Angels, and Devilled Devils swallow elixirs of radiance, obscurity, and shit-covered romance that expel aromas of the heavens; rust-painted roses droop into rotten teabags stuffed of sex, lies, and sin. Grey pipe-cleaners scrub lungs of ancient pigs, and death lurks around the pot-smoking Santa Claus.

Opaque paint remover whirlpool at her ankles, and your obligations for revenge become saturated melancholic moon in a land forlorn; lost, floating in a chamber of dreams, built with ashy hearts and oblique blood. Behold dead skin cells trip and fall over a jade zither, play a melody of the dregs of the world, painting atrocious memories. Hexagon-colors of poetic grasp drown your sins in rum and vodka and guns and knives and butterflies. Behold flickering potions of gorgeous neglect, venomous regret, and love evaporates into insignificant
giggling
hookers.

[Written in early 2012. Posted on joint blogger account on Thursday, May 31, 2012.]

Rose-Colored Lens.

Two pink roses. I would describe them as salmon-pink, but one, it’s too cliché, and two, I don’t think salmon is that shade of pink. Actually, I don’t think salmon is that pink at all. That is, unless you cut it up for sushi, but then, what sort of fish isn’t pink when it’s cut up and stuffed between rice and dried seaweed? I take that back. The sockeye species is a bright pink, like a flamingo. But wouldn’t that shade of pink be considered “flamingo pink” instead?

Roses smell like fresh rain and a good red wine. At least, I think so. It’s got bitterness, mixed in with freshness, and depending on who gives them to you, a tang of sweetness. Who says romance isn’t a mixture of all of those things?

He held them in his hand as if they were going to die on him, and he didn’t know whether or not to clutch it tighter or looser. If he clutched it tighter in his hands, he might squeeze the life out of them. If he held them loosely, what if they slipped away and wilted in his hands?

This was three years ago. Around this time of year, where snow is packed hard on the sidewalks and the passengers silently curse every person who got on and off the bus for letting in the winter wind. Three years ago, in late January—maybe early February, on the Coralville bus. The blue one. I don’t feel like describing the type of blue. Use your imagination. I’ve seen him around the city before. I can’t quite recall where, perhaps Java House, reading a newspaper as he’s waiting for a coffee, or perhaps walking around the Old Capitol Mall with a woman at his side. He had Leo DiCaprio’s 90’s hairstyle, rusty brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. He walked like a young man, confident and with ease, but with age etched into his face in the form of wrinkles that should not be there at his age. Or perhaps he is not young at all, but an older man with vigor and youth in his blood?

If I had to wager a guess, he’d be 32, impoverished, and madly in love with Donna, who is a waitress at the local diner with a pleasant smile, who also took offense when he told her that she was as beautifully plump as a peach. Which would be why he was on the Sky-Blue Bus with two Salmon-Pink Roses in his hands. It’s the type of situation you would see in a romantic comedy, where Jennifer Aniston falls in love with so-and-so man; he offends her in some way, but then makes up for it later with a huge bouquet of flowers and a declaration of everlasting love. As if that wasn't cliche enough. But this story would be different.

Donna wouldn't forgive him. She's sick of his lackluster, empty, and shallow apologies. He learned it all from romance movies. He would apologize, and then return to being lazy, thoughtless, and a breathing lump on her equally lumpy couch, stained with her baby's vomit. Just thinking about him made her nauseous. Even more than shrimp made her sick. He'd arrive at her house with the flowers, and she'd take one look at him through the peephole, roll her eyes, open the door, grab the flowers, throw the flowers and curse words his way, and then slam the door in his face. He'd try several times afterwards. She'd stop answering the door.

Lens shattered. This story is different.

It’s reality. There’s no happy ending. Disappointed?

So am I.

[Written February 14, 2011. Posted on joint blogger site on Saturday, July 7, 2012. Edited March 30, 2013.]

The Edge.

It begins with a sliver of doubt.

Existence—think—an unusual idea. Humans are partial to the overarching design that we live for a purpose, or that there should be one, or that without one, life isn’t worth living. He was one of them. He was going to find the reason even if it killed him.

“Who am I?” Matthew breathed into the air. I watched as his breath became white and floated to the moon.

“You’re Matthew. You drink and drive for fun; you smoke like there’s nothing else in the world; and you love sex.”

He let out a peculiar sound that borders between a laugh, a scoff, and a cough. I ignored it. He kissed me, and everything else slipped into the mist.

Sat on the edge of forever, is what he wrote in the good-bye letter. And it was fucking miserable.

***

When I saw him again five years later, he looked better. Much better, in fact. So much better that he had brought his wife with him when he returned to our small town in Iowa for the holidays.

“I’d like you to meet Dani.” He gave me his infamous crooked smile. “My soulmate.”

“How do you do?” I asked, offering my hand to her, unafraid that they were slippery with sweat.

My mother glanced at me. Her motherly instincts knew I was over-polite when I was unhappy. She pulled me aside when Matthew and Dani sat down by my father by the fireplace.

“Watch yourself, J,” she hissed into my ear. “Don’t ruin this for them.”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

***

It was another five years before I saw him again after that incident at Christmas. He got angry when Dani and I got into a political and moral debate about the death penalty. For the record, I didn’t give a shit either way because it was none of my business what other people did to other people. As long as I don’t fuck up, it doesn’t matter.

I wasn’t particularly in a good mood that second half of the year. My father passed away from pneumonia, even though he was placed in the hospital for a swollen colon. I had a distinct hunch that it was because the hospital was so damn cold all of the time, he decided just to kick the bucket. Regardless, having Matthew knocking at our back door the day before Christmas was not my idea of a Christmas blessing.

He looked like he had been dragged through the mud a couple of times. Maybe even got under the wheels of the car that dragged him. Dani was no longer hanging off his arm like a broken Christmas ornament someone was too lazy to throw away. Instead of Dani, he had a kid in each arm.

“Mrs. P.” He got on his knees, the movement bringing down the coat of snow that he brought in with him, and bowed his head to my mother. “Please help me.”

I swept up the snow as he placed the sleeping kids and two small, overstuffed plastic bags in our spare guestroom. We said nothing as he sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of hot chocolate (my mother’s famous recipe) as my mother was in the basement digging up crap from my childhood—for the new additions in the family.

“So how’re you doing?” he asked me as I opened the back door and swept out the snow. I grabbed the mop and began mopping.

“Great.”

“Graduated?”

“Yup.”

“Working?”

“Yep.”

“Married?”

“Uh-huh.”

He was silent for a while. I finished mopping and placed the mop back in its place by the washing machine. I had to pick up Khloe from school, and then drive her to church to practice her part in the Christmas play. They were doing ‘A Christmas Carol’, like they do every year, but this year, she was playing the part of the Ghost of Christmas Past, and she was excited to be dressed up as a scary ghost for Christmas. My husband and I weren’t Christian, but my mother was, and she insisted that Khloe went with her to church every other Sunday.

Please, she said, for my sake.

“Who’d you marry?” he called after me as I opened the front door.

“None of your business.”

I slammed the door behind me.

***

They lived with us for five years. Probably the best  few years my mother ever had before she passed away. She liked to take care of children. She said it was what she did best. And goddamn if it wasn’t true.

My husband, Eric, wasn’t too happy to hear that Matthew was moving in, but my mother convinced him otherwise. She was that sort of person. That Iowan that made Iowa the damnest nice place everyone praised the Midwest for. My husband loved her for it, and did everything she told him to do. Even if it included taking in my ex.

For her sake, he sighed.

He was the one who cried the most when she died.

Khloe didn’t care for the twins. She spent her time in her room, playing with dinosaurs and reading science fiction novels. She did warn me, at the age of seven, that if the brats touched anything of hers, she would not hesitate to break their fingers. After one twisted finger the twins never touched her belongings again.

The twins were growing up quickly, and they were starting to understand that Daddy was not normal. When the twins stopped wanting to go get ice cream with their father, Matthew bolted upright from the couch and announced that he was going to get a job.

***

Eric was beginning to enjoy living with Matthew.

“He’s all right, J,” he said as I curled up beside him on the couch one night at the local coffeehouse, where the lights were dim and the energy was what the students at the university would call “hipster.” “Maybe I judged him poorly. Poor guy just needed some time.”

I said nothing as he continued to read his book, and I listened in on several conversations around me.

***

“They’re precious, aren’t they?” Matthew asked me as I tucked the boys in for the night.

“Yes.”

“Thanks for taking care of them.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You love them, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

***

They remember their father well. At least the good side of him.

“Boys, can you please smile just once for this photograph?”

“Aw, Mom, this is the billionth picture you’ve taken for graduation. Can’t we just go and eat already?”

“One more. Please.”

“Mom!”

“C’mon, brats.” Khloe placed her arms over each shoulder. “One more. Then you can go make out with your girlfriends.”

At dinner, we met several of the twins’ friends’ families. We sat in a small organic restaurant as the new graduates chatted with each other about video games and visiting each other once they’ve found jobs.

“So,” the couple sitting across from us gave us a smile. “Your sons seem to be doing very well. Our boy talks about them all of the time.”

“We’re glad to hear that.” Eric smiled. He’s aged well, with crow’s feet etched gracefully into his face and streaks of white in his dark hair.

“He tells us that you are not his real parents.”

“No,” I said quietly. “We’re not. But we love them all the same.”

***

Matthew shot himself in the head out in the abandoned boathouse that sat at the edge of the river. His lawyer was at our doorstep that very night with his will. He had money saved up—enough to put the boys through school and then some. We didn’t know where the money came from, but it didn’t matter. Khloe held their hands, just as wide-eyed and frightened as the boys, when I grabbed my coat and keys.

“Mommy will be home very soon,” I whispered as I held each child in my arms. I felt tired, and I didn’t want to identify his body. “Be good for Daddy.”

I sat stiffly next to Matthew’s lawyer, as he was kind enough to offer to drive me there.

“It would be much more comfortable in my car than a police car,” he said.

It didn’t feel any different.

***

There was no suicide note. Just a receipt of his checking account in his shirt pocket, but I couldn’t read the amount. It was soaked in blood.

“Is this him, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

***

We told the boys when they graduated high school. They weren’t surprised, but they didn’t think any less of him. At least I hope not. Geoffrey dropped his pre-med major and became an English major after the first semester at university. He wrote novels and sulked whenever he was home for the holidays, but after four years, and jumping right into his career, he was the one who missed home the most. He went abroad to do some travel writing, but never failed to write a beautiful letter home. Gus went into pre-law, and found an internship at Matthew’s lawyer’s firm. Khloe, dear daughter of mine, went into psychology and offered her services to her brothers when she had time.

When I was going through Matthew’s old possessions, as we were selling the house to move to a warmer climate, I found a copy of his old note to me when we were both eighteen.

It begins with a sliver of doubt. Sat on the edge of forever. And it was fucking miserable.

I lit a lighter I found in one of his drawers, drew the flame to the edge of the paper, and watched it go up in flames.

[Originally written and posted on joint blogger account on Sunday, December 11, 2011]

Where I'm From.

I am from the place of
Christmas sweaters
and hidden diaries,
melting into
the couch cushions.

I am from where you
finish what you start,
where kimchi and spicy beef and
squid is a representation of love.

I am from the deficiency of toys and
girly
things,
where I lack what she gains,
and she never lacks at all.

I am from the reflection of a pair of 80's glasses,
where everything is secret
and do not call him your father.

I am from mismatched clothes and chubby cheeks,
innocence manifested into adulthood, and hatred.
But a Beauty and the Beast birthday cake is available upon request.

I am from grandma's insistence of
my Chinese blood, and my
adolescent denial, and my
mature regret.

I am from a
gun in the
Christmas sweaters, hidden
intents, hidden secrets, hidden
motivations, hidden
bitterness, and visible,
pure, raw
pain.

I am from the manifestation of short stories and memories and books of Chinese philosophy and blood and more blood and silence, impending silence, beating me across the head
until

I am from nowhere. I am from
everywhere.
and it all sinks
deep down
into

the beautiful

                  barren

                               earth.

[Originally written in February 2011. Posted on the joint blogger account on September 8, 2011. Edited March 24, 2013.]

Fragments.

A car that looked like his, parked, indifferent, distant. The driver didn’t pull forward far enough, so the back stuck out arrogantly over the faded white line. The other white car, parked directly behind it, must have cursed.

Cars that come and go.

Patterns of parked cars. None. But white cars tend to park together. 10 cars together. There’s another one. Driving up. Parking right next to another white car.

Sounds of the piano and soprano in the background.

More cars. Last minute paper-writing. Should have done this last week.

Staring out the window. Is it raining? “Set fire to the rain”. Little figures running. It’s raining. The air is wavering. Wavering downwards, upwards. Eyes playing tricks. Little dots coming down. Did I bring an umbrella?

This paper won't write itself. Something about medival literature or African literature. I can't remember which one I need to turn in first.

The car is still there.

That doesn’t look like him. He wouldn’t dress like that. And he wouldn’t be alone. He can’t stand to be alone.

There’s a bloody hole in my index finger from mistreating my crappy umbrella in the rain and wind two days ago. I had to rip the skin off at the restaurant. Red. Dripdrop in the bathroom sink. I asked the waitress for a bandaid. She gave me a sympathetic look and rushed off for a cup of hot water, a cup of iced water, and a bandaid.

He drove away. It wasn’t him. The spot is empty. I should be relieved. But all I feel is lonely.

Like Jon from the day's Garfield comic. He’s dating beautiful vet Liz, and she rejects every pair of pants he tries on. He’s left with an empty closet, a messy bedroom, and no pants. Liz probably decided to stay in and bake Lasagna that’s only going to be swallowed by Garfield. Failure of a night.

And this, this is a failure of a paper.

Another car parked where he originally parked. It’s red. The opposite of white. He took my white and replaced it with red. He doesn’t care.

Two black figures. His new girlfriend is three years younger. She’s petite. Cute. Friendly. Talented. They’re about the right height. The shorter one is shaking her finger at the taller one. I imagine they are arguing, but I know they aren’t. They head under the tree by the river, and the blackness of their coats blend in so they become one figure. They should be close enough now to become one. And they are. I see arms wrapped around her. Hands entwined. Hugs. Kisses. Under the faint sprinkle of rain.

Another white car parks.

“who wants to be right as rain?”

A black car that reminds me of the Batmobile drives cautiously around the corner. Ok, so not the Batmobile. But I can’t concentrate. The driver must be getting a lot of ass for driving that car.

I stare back at my computer screen. Perhaps it's time to take a break.

[Originally written in March 2011. Posted on the joint blogger account on Wednesday, June 22, 2011]

In Light of All Things

The World is

Lost.
Broken.
Hurt.
Typhoons.
Earthquakes.
Wars.

Life is full of
Inconsistencies.
Unavailabilities.
Surprise Endings.
Poverty.
Global Warming.
Death.

This isn't a depressed poem.

Despite those things
there are

friends -
support, love, sleepless nights of laughter, movies, food, and safe-use of alcohol.

hot chocolate - warmth, comfort, chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate, and whipped cream with marshmallows.

lovers -
love, comfort, sleepless nights of distractions, cuddles, spoons, and a dance partner for the nights out when friends and alcohol are main components of the equation.

books -
physicality of ingeniousness (or epic fail), otherworldly, understanding, devotion, even better when cuddled up with friends, a lover, and hot chocolate.

In other words
in light of all things

it's not too bad.

[Originally posted on the joint blogger account on Monday, June 27, 2011]

Introductions.

Allow me to introduce myself.

My name isn't important. Let's forget names matter in the competitive world of literary excellence and exuberance.

My age, my location, my place of birth are all irrelevant. Where I've been, and how I got here, is relevant only to myself. It is important to note, however, that I have two of the most devious muses that exist to torment and inspire, to rip me apart and heal me, to hate, to love, to care, to kill. They tease, mock, comfort, leave me at my darkest, distract me at my most motivated of moments. I hope that you will get to know those two bitches as well as I do through my posts. There is nobody I love more than these two creatures.

This is a place where judgment is passed only when I say they do. A place where my naivety, my views, my inner eye works their wonders, free from restraint, from editing. A place for raw writing that won't go anywhere, but they exist somewhere. Were they to end up somewhere, forgotten on the table of a coffee shop; nestled in the back of an independent bookstore, covered in cat hair; exchanged between friends; acted out on stage; or what have you, that would be most ideal.

Until then, this will be their home.