Ardor Ain't Strength, But at Least I'm Trying

I just saw a college kid dressed
in a Superman shirt
on Sherman street,
kissing a girl in a yellow skirt.
He swept her –literally— off her feet,
stumbled two steps
holding her waist,
then faltered and fumbled under her weight
and set his Lois on the concrete.
It was so great—
a moment so sweet
and baldly metaphoric— what a waste
that you weren’t there to see it too—
How love has no fear
of love’s own weight—
But I hope you’ll have the grace, my dear,
when it turns out that love has not
turned me into
Superman—
to walk on with me, hand in hand.

A Lament: After the Queen of Sheba Left

Of course, love poetry is vanity--
All vanity, and a chasing after wind,
as if mere exhalation could transcend
the limits of distance's brute inanity.
All my wisdom cannot serve
for even the slightest expression of my love.
What's worse, my mightiest flights of poesy have
no power to conjure the slightest of her curves,
nor can my most exacting incantation
spell an end to our separation.
No spell can hope to raise a djinn so hot,
nor summon any succubus so sweet
as the smallest droplet of her sweat.
All my subtlest lines are paper-flat
before the mystery of her breath
hot on my face, and in her tangled curls
meaning means nothing, words condense to pearls
of perspiration falling on my neck--
Until she's back, I'll dream about
her wet hair, and the air that she breathes out.

The Night We Saw the White Stripes at the Bowery

I meet you at the record store
on my way back from work;
You're trading band-names with the clerk,
some indie girl whom you adore
who's trying to decide if you're a jerk.
"See anything you like?" I ask.
You scan the NEW USED racks.
"Nope, let's go. See ya dork!"
She looks up from her CD stacks
as we walk out: "Sure, whatever bitch."
We walk back to your place to watch
some Star Trek and relax;
Three hours later (first we catch
Next Gen, then DS9) we go
to grab a bite to eat before the show.
We shovel hot fries down the hatch,
chase 'em with a Coke;
"She likes me," you say as you chew,
"And I sort of like her too--
But her taste in music is a joke."

Untitled

It's empty now, the faux-ming vase,
but it still smells faintly of ash.
I ash and stare at its face,
a stylized portrait of a woman,
properly subservient, tiny feet
at her master's heels. Father's ashes
over the Mississippi, but mother's
in the faux ming vase that was their
wedding gift, from her mother in China.
Don't drink, it's stupid and
American. Study, do you want to grow up
to work in Burger Hut, study.
Her hands, yellowing under the nail polish,
buttoning up her shirt. The room is dark,
late afternoon whispering in
between the shades, and her picture
hangs on the wall, stern-lipped
as if it could say with its eyes,
why the fuck did you flush my ashes,
Phuong, this is stupid thing, disrespectful,
American thing to do. And don't smoke,
do you want to grow up to be dead?