2013
Angry Asian Man published one of my poems, 8 (9), about murdered Hmong teenager Fong Lee. Thanks a million to Angry Asian Man and Cara Van Le for providing this space, I hope it raises some awareness of his life and the injustice he and his family suffer. Thanks also to the Fong Lee family for the permission to (re)print this poem online.
Poem here.
Peace and be safe.
2011
more on:
Angry Asian Man, Animated shorts, Antonio Rosario, Ash Hsie, Asian American artists, Asian American Literary Review, Asian American Spoken Word, video, Vietnamese American spoken word
Hello friends, Ash Hsie did an incredible animated short to go with audio of one of my new poems for the newest AALR. Angry Asian Man also posted it today. Check it.
Also, big ups to Antonio Rosario for the audio recording.
2011
Cover art by Binh Danh
→ Designed, published and available for purchase via Coffee House Press.
A rhapsodic exploration of immigration, race, and class by Vietnamese American phenom and National Poetry Slam star Bao Phi.
Dynamic and eye-opening, this debut by a National Poetry Slam finalist critiques an America sleepwalking through its days and explores the contradictions of race and class in America.
When it feels like no one
lets you live
at your own volume
You sing.
2011
more on:
A sestina is an Italian poetic form consisting of six stanzas with six lines each plus a three line envoi at the end. The last word of each sentence, the teleutons, are repeated in a specific order, and the envoi contains all six teleutons in a specific order. The format is abcdef, faebdc, cfdabe, ecbfad, deacfb, bdfeca, envoi: be dc fa. In other words, sestinas are a pain in the ass.
I wrote my first sestinas in college and hoped I would never have to write another one again. But Doug challenged me to write one from the perspective of Godzilla, and here it is. You should read his (from the perspective of King Kong), it’s dope. Anyway, I thought I would focus on how Godzilla was originally created by the Japanese as a horrific symbol of nuclear holocaust. Hence the references to Fat Man, Little Boy, the Enola Gay, etc. My teleutons for the poem are: a – create b – tail/tale/tell/told c – here/hear d – fireballs e – listen/listen f- drop
Under the ocean where I was created
in a womb of dancing atoms, a tectonic tale
is breaking the skin of sea floor. Dreams burn here:
lava flows underwater like bleeding fireballs,
sunless sleep disturbed as they listened
for the sound of the nightmares they dropped.
Fat Man and the Little Boy drop,
like two suns tumbling, sent to destroy creation,
no one will be left alive to listen
for the lessons we need to learn from this tale,
just a skyline made of a blossoming fireball
and a symphony of silenced screams horrible beyond hearing.
So I’m born, a radiating thunder lizard, here
to crush American Dreams as my footfalls drop
like apocalypse, and from my lips a chorus of fireballs
razes all that you have created
like runaway rays of sun, my tail
too large to fit in your streets, listen
to see if your superheroes will sing if no one listens,
their words so tired that no one hears,
flag colored costumes useless in this tale.
Look at the sky for God, for an answer, to see if black rain drops,
to see this towering monster created
by the heat of a million rabid fireballs
unleashed on a people turned to ash by the fire, balled
fists and screams evaporated while history listens.
I loom, people scramble in my jagged eclipse, the penumbra I created
is shaped like the ghost of the Enola Gay flying across the moon. Here,
I will illuminate your whispered crimes as the indigo of night drops
before your story is fully told.
Children will sleep trembling under my tail,
the threat of my story like a guillotine of fireballs,
a sharp string of ghastly stars waiting to drop
because even before this lesson, they should have listened,
before we came to this, they should have heard,
they should have known what would be created.
I speak english in this tale, but they don’t listen,
so I speak in fireballs, the language they hear,
the nightmare they dropped, the monster they created.
2011
more on:
2011
more on:
by Douglas Kearney and Bao Phi (listen and download here)
| DK | BOTH | BP |
|---|---|---|
| We meet at the crossroads of convenience stores in a galaxy of bulletproof glass, chanting a battle hymn of broken English. |
||
| We remix | dynamite | |
| and bullwhips. Pull sips from tears in the crow’s feet scratching black eyes. |
||
| I said: we remix |
||
| dynamite | ||
| and bullwhips | ||
| into poetry tattooed on bamboo splinters and the walls of Angel Island. |
||
| Tattooed on tattered bandanas and black skies. |
||
| We are flaring signatures of arms and legs names flying over Chinatown gutters. Urban hurricanes sweeping streets like Jet Li to a chophop beat. Scissor kick heaven and called craps cuz we cipher in the parking lots of 7-11s. |
||
| We are | ||
| Shaolin dancers | hi-yaahhing | |
| to breakbeats | to find the Dao of Hip Hop, | |
| no poo | and motherfuck you if you see me as a destination. |
|
| Steel spine of America massaged by yellow fingers in the west. The iron backbone stroked by black hands in the east. |
||
| Call | and response | |
| of hammers | and sparks. | |
| The breakbeats of broken backs bent under the glinting eyes of lamb-skinned jackals extracting silk and cotton from our bowels with pitchforks— replacing them with opium and crack. But we drank the pot liquor of stewing rage, quickened with the ginseng stored in the hearts of ancestors, and carved poems into the forehead of your masks. We carved poems into your clubs embossed on our skulls. We carved poems into the throats of your children. |
||
| We carved poems into the margins of your history book. Carved poems into our own eyes so we could see ourselves without you. We carved ourselves homunculi cuz for too long you sold Kung Fu-grip, big-lipped representations of big dick rapists and dickless yellow peril, sterile, sexless castrations. |
||
| We meet at the crossroads of convenience stores in a galaxy of bulletproof glass, chanting a battle hymn of broken English. |
||
| We meet as Afro/Oriental as fools flap they dentals but lack fundamentals. We knock out occidentals cuz we re/call the call of hums |
||
| and ancient names | shouted and sung | |
| over indigo | and sugarcane. | |
| We flying first class in boom boxes jostling for space on white train dreamscapes. |
||
| We paint wildstyles | on rice paddies | |
| and Caddy chassis. Hurl our tongues like meteors. Intersect at Kung Fu and Boom Bap. We jungle babies in eagle talons pop-locking free. And at night, we reach for black hair and love our people with every ounce of venom we can pour into our pens. |
||
| We be the bumpin bibimbob b-boy Buddhists be-bopping butterscotched colored hip hop; best believe I don’t need weed cuz I was born chinky eyed. |
||
| Get it? | We are the veins on subway trains. | |
| The new urban version of the transcontinental. | East or west? Fuck that, we center our tongues, |
|
| empty full lungs. | We the Bruce Lee, | |
| the Muhammad Ali | of the Boxer Rebellion | |
| of the Black Panthers | holding scripts inside fists and knocking fits of fury, our throats coated by exploitation and our feet are calloused by stories. We are taking back the beat. We are taking back the tattoos. We are taking back our dicks. We are tuning out the hype by turning up the breath of ancestors and turning back pages of yesteryears. |
|
| We meet at the crossroads of convenience stores in a galaxy of bulletproof glass, chanting a battle hymn of broken English. |
||
| I believed the megaphones. I called with bullets and bricks. |
I believed the telecasts radiating storefront stick-ups and illiteracy. |
|
| My hatred strafing through palm fronds and storefronts. |
My hatred cutting like ice with cold stares and misdirected fists |
|
| burning “justice” from yellow husks like huts. | Burning love from the pale remains of honorary whiteness. Pale fires of Lost Angels, yellow black browns paint red while the guards in blue stand watch by the whites. The resolution will not be televised, the resolution will not be televised. Who will be left alive |
|
| to cut the bodies from the tree limbs, free them from the rubble, raise them from police backseats, release them from beneath the wheels of jeeps. Who will bring them back with voodoo and reincarnation? |
||
| Bring back for get-back? | ||
| Bring back for get-back. | Never forget that. | |
| Do we need to get martyred | before we start this? Do we need |
|
| to get martyred | before we start this? | |
| Do we need to get martyred before we start this? |
||
| Do we need to get martyred before we start this? |
||
| Do we need to get martyred before we start this? |
2011
with thanks to Christopher Chinn
Cutty as in crazy gook bitch will cut you,
cracking gum in the shadows of hi-rise ghetto-in-the-sky
before newspapers were spread on shag carpet
for that evening’s curry dinner
in the dark are her fingernails
shiny enough to be mistaken for blades?
Cutty as in Cutie, China Doll taking up
too much space at the Oriental Food market
stacking boxes of inter-ethnic ramen
stealing cans of Mr. Coffee during 15 minute break
ignores the stares from white men with rings
on their fingers-
and in the parking lot,
I fought for your people in the war, bitch, you owe me.
Cutty as in Cuttlefish, or more accurately squid,
moc her daddy would heat up for her on the greased plug-in grill
that would blow fuses in the house if the microwave
was used at the same time, that stink the neighbors
complained about, along with the perfume of
fish sauce, the pre-crunk of Viet new wave,
that smell and sound, the gooks have come,
watch out for your pets,
American tragedy turned bestseller
between the covers of a book.
Cutty as in cu chi, traitor in a tunnel
rising snake-like
from a hole you never expected in the earth,
innocent dirt you could turn your back to
suddenly now the slant-eyed succubus
stabbing you with a chopstick she took from the bun
in her hair
Cutty as in never quietly, but seldom heard, as in, Cutty as in who gives
a fuck what you think anyway, Cutty as in everything I need to be, as in, Cutty is not my name and it should be obvious but you never asked.
2011
to the white girl who saw a bunch of us little Southeast Asian kids watch her brother play a video game in the Asian grocery and said “these gooks are surrounding us.”
Did we douse you in chemicals that twisted your future generations
to flesh pretzels
stripmine your resources
then fusion fuck your family dinner
Did we light garlands of fire
onto your sacred mountains,
push your people to tiny fingers of dry land
explore what was already found
then name your beautiful landmarks
after ourselves
Did we push your people into jobs
where toxic fumes turned your lungs to scorched wings
your nails breaking on our skin
to paint ours pretty
Did we spin your history to smoke
Hook you on snorting the ashes
Did we convince the entire world your men
have cocks small as minnows
scar barbed wire borders using plastic surgery
break your legs to
make you taller
Did we gentrify your love life
Did we convince your people
that we taught them the word love
and what it means to be free
Did we redefine torture
for our own benefit
Did we measure ourselves in fathoms
then force you to swim in us
until you drown?
these gooks are surrounding us
if only
that were true.
2010
In memory of Fong Lee
And for the Lee family, and the Justice for Fong Lee committee
In 2006, Minneapolis Police Officer Jason Andersen shot and killed Fong Lee, a 19-year old Hmong American. Andersen was awarded a Medal of Valor, though the Lee family and community members allege that Fong Lee was unarmed and the gun found on the scene was planted by police. During a foot chase in North Minneapolis, Andersen shot at Lee 9 times, 1 bullet missing, the other 8 hitting Fong Lee as he ran and as he lay dying on the ground.
1.
Community members point out that accusations about Fong Lee’s history and character, specifically allegations that he was in a gang, were allowed in court and written about in the press. But Officer Andersen’s alleged dislike of Asians and history of derogatory remarks against Asians was neither allowed in court nor written about in the press.
One of the devil’s greatest powers
Is to force you to take a deal
That he himself would never take.
2.
Fong Lee was 19 (gang member). I can imagine him (gang member) and his (gang member) family. They are eating (gang member) something that steams and it does not steam like food from this (gang member) country, the smell lingers (gang member) like home. It is Minnesota so (gang member) the lights inside no matter how dim somehow makes (gang member) all indoor rooms feel warm. Now its summer and he’s fishing with his (gang member) friends. They (gang member) get on bikes and their (gang member) legs drape low, (gang member), arms lazy crosses on the handlebars. Their heads lean as they debate the Minnesota Vikings (gang member) and the Minnesota Twins, slapping absently at the logos (gang member) on their caps and (gang member) shirts.
3.
Officer Jason Andersen (hero) shot Hmong American teenager Fong Lee eight times (to serve and protect). A bullet wound in Fong Lee’s hand suggests the teenager may have held his hands up in surrender (decorated officer) as Officer Andersen (white) shot (Medal of Valor) him. Andersen was also charged with domestic assault (peace officer) by his girlfriend though charges were later dropped (officer of the law). Officer Andersen (police officer) was also accused of kicking (hero) an African American teenager who was on the ground in handcuffs in 2008.
4.
An all-white jury found Officer Anderson not guilty of using excessive force.
Put a blindfold on me
Tell me who you fear
And I will tell you
Your skin.
5.
I’m wondering when people will care.
If we made your story into a movie about killing dolphins, perhaps.
6.
I’m 18 and the brutal cold holsters my hands into the warm solace of my jacket pockets. The police officer snaps his hand to his gun. My pockets are empty. My hands open. Still. My story would have ended in smoke and red snow. If my body lay there, perforated, would I bleed through holes in his story?
7.
Lost, you turn the car around and see trees stretching up like greenbrown fencing up to the blue skies. For a moment you think that woods stretch forever, somewhere close a bubbling stream whispers white kisses across worn rocks, a deer leans its neck down to drink, the velvet moss of a hushed secret world here in your city. But just beyond the neck of scrub trees is the hint of chain-link, the distant ghost silhouette of strip mall, just one step past the shadows of those leaves are railroad tracks running like stitches over broken glass and gravel.
Minnesota Nice: this city hides its scars so well.
8.
All our lives, men with guns.
Chased, in the womb, in the arms
Of our parents.
Our parents
Chased, all our lives,
By men with guns.
In the womb, in our parent’s arms
We’ve run
Chased by men with guns.
(9).
Michael Cho. Cau Thi Bich Tran. John T. Williams.
Tycel Nelson. Oscar Grant. Fong Lee.
May your names be the hymn
wind that sways
police bullets to miss.
2008
Written and performed by Bao Phi, recorded by Rush Merchant III
Currently only available for digital download.