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Showing posts from February, 2010
Big Scream is out.


I sank into a florescent
pink-green margarita. A stubborn,

modern artist scribbled the colors
into my mouth, throat, stomach… Prickly

grains of salt
on the rim and a crescent-green

lime abused
my lips and tongue.

I drain half a gallon of colors into
a toilet. While a stranger rubbed my back, I saw

Dove soap, my mother’s smell.
She was in a lemon nightgown when I left.

She held me, radiating
a heavenly aura of motherhood

like saints in religious art carry
a halo of holy light.

A scab remained
on the harsh outline of my drunken face.

I picked and flicked it away with my long nails.
I wished I could be the scab.

Something White Project Update
Customized Thank-You Wedding Postcard
(Designed by Naoko Fujimoto)
Our wedding ceremony is this coming Saturday.
Writing Carrier
How I am Going to Teach Japanese Writing

I had a job interview at a Japanese public school in Chicago-land. My position has not been finalized yet; however, I am likely going to teach Japanese composition classes to Japanese high school students.

There are about 600 Japanese students (from kindergarteners to high school students) learning at the school. Most of their parents work for Japanese companies in Illinois; therefore, the students are pretty much depending on their parents’ work schedules. If their parents decide to go back to Japan, the students have to be ready to transfer to another public school in Japan immediately.

I am going to teach high school students, whose parents are probably staying in America longer than they had expected, so the students go to regular American schools on the weekdays and receive a Japanese style of education of language and math at this school on the weekends.

I have already received a question from a reader of why I have to teach…
"An Improvisation" is accepted in "Bayou Magazine" and I forgot to post the poem on January 4th.


My fingers tap the ivory. Scimitar
nails tick triplet beats. My high heels trample

down the earth. Crescendo
notes leap

at the maestro whose pomaded
mustache pulsates. He sneezes. I fire

silvery trills that vibrate his crimson
bow tie. While I turn a page, the bass clef

howls and my hair rises against gravity. I am shocked.
An electric execution. When smoke

whirls around my head, my fingers
flash like needles on the black keys. My hips leave

the chair and I fly over amber
hills like a swallow

cutting the mist with its face;
its wings in the chilly autumn morning.

The maestro taps his pencil on a desk.
My fingers freeze.

A feather falls into the mud.