I wrote this in a college workshop. Please forgive me. Um, anyway, the assignment was to pick a random postcard from a pile and write something about it. Well, I decided to ignore the parameters of the exercise (oooo, rebel!) and write a poem imagining postcards that reflected specific sentiments. I didn't travel much at the time, the farthest I had been from the Twin Cities was Madison, and besides the flight that brought me and my fam to this country when I was six months old, the first time I flew in a plane was my return trip to Viet Nam - shortly before this poem was written. And it's weird, huh, that all these years after I wrote this poem, I'm flying all over the damn place reading my crapass poems? BONUS: can you nerds find the reference to Edgar Allen Poe? The Postcard Series I: Manhattan Moon The sky is overcast but you sent me a postcard of a moon, gold slash to light my mailbox, telling me that Manhattan intoxicates you, and that you'll be needing to remember me sometime soon. I'm thinking of invisible wounds to the tune of loons and snow monsoons, wondering if you know/does it show that your name was the first thing I thought about/ the only thing I sought out when that square cardboard slip flipped out of my mailbox. I didn't care that you thought Rum on the rocks tasted so much better in Soho, or about your daydreams of stormcrows in dim grey light leaving no black plume as a token of any lies leaving you suprised at your loneliness, unbroken. I was fascinated by your name, black stabbing runes attached to a honey colored moon and it becomes the only sign of heaven that I need. II: Somewhere Sai Gone What the hell are you doing in Sai Gon? You've gone and crammed another city onto the back of another postcard, a snapshot of pretty gals in long blue dresses who possess enough magic not to trip. Coffee at the Q cafe, banana pancakes soaked in chocolate syrup at Kim's, beer with ice cubes on Thi Sach street. You mumble about how being hip can be a curse your Docs squeek when you walk your brain leaks when you talk and it's all you can do to keep the natives from staring. III: The Dreamcard I dreamt that I sent you a homey Lutheran postcard straight out of Minnesota, smelling of wool and cinnamon, glowing like polished wood floors, hands warm with hot drinks on snow filled nights. The back never ran out of space, I kept writing on and on about what it means to love looking out at a vast expanse of snow in black ink, how the light of a candle can thread its way thru a dream's eye. IV: Postcard from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea You've been snorkeling thru your dreams again. The postcard is a square of paper so black that the lights in my room go out just when I think about it. You say that people were lying about the pressure, this is the first place you've been to that you don't feel crushed. The albino crabs, the occassional Russian explorers are much more congenial than the average New Yorker, you say and much more interesting than the typical Minnesotan. If I dream of white seaweed, the ruins of the Titanic and plate techtonics, I could rumble thru your dreams and pass you by in the darkness, laughing in gulps of salty water wishing I knew how to swim. V: The BookCase You've been away to your bookcase and your favorite chair found the experience significant enough to send me a postcard about it. Your best vacation yet. Endless hot chocolate, books smelling of sawdust you've been around the world by tracing the simple paths from chair to bookcase to bed. All the words in the world have decided to connect into a road long enough to circle the earth rivalling the attention given to the Great Wall by all those glass globe-headed astronauts. The front of the postcard is blank, the back is a gift certificate to the Hungry Mind bookstore and you're hoping to get a postcard from me sometime soon. 1996

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