Another Face

Savior

He took an excerpt from the ART OF FAILURE, wrote it into

his ART OF SUCCESS, hid it again in the ART OF THE

ANTHROPOCENE, then closed it with a satisfied heart,

feeling like a savior.

Dentist (after Sarah Howe)

Maybe pulling the plug

is just a mutual blessing.

You are shy moonbeam

with a slight blush. I am

the rock in the lava that

tries to coagulate in vain.

The next time we meet

is our first time, please

sans words pull out my

cavities. My eyes will be

willfully out of focus and

I won’t cry again. I promise.

I turned into a gay man who cannot return.

Into a man who cannot, I return.

Turned, who cannot return, I am.

Gay, I turned into who cannot return.

Man, I turned, cannot return into who.

Cannot turn into who I am.

Who, a gay man, I turned.

Into who cannot return, I turned.

Return to who I am, a gay man.

Man who cannot, I turned into.

Who I am, a gay man cannot turn.

Into I turned, cannot return.

Gay man, I cannot return to who.

Cannot return, I turned into a gay man.

I, who turned, cannot return.

Columbus

The last item made in China you

purchased might have been a rainbow

Rotate your square French fag 90 degrees,

it will become the Dutch one, both straight

perfectly. The only thing more crooked is

remember much about its history. The last

time I saw it might have been in the game

Age of Discovery. At 12, for the frst time,

I saw the whole world, in the early morning,

in his room. My small boat lit up different

areas of the map along its winding edges.

Under the cover of night, Columbus climbed

to the peak of the world.

Neutered Cat

When white queers speak of racial equality, it’s hailed as progress; when I do, it’s a jest. Every color of skin glows, in the uniformity of a queer family portrait, captured in a CLICK.

Into the household, the neutered cat strides, endearing and compliant, yet seizing love besides.*

*Cf. In ‘After Eunuchs,’ Howard Chiang suggests that eunuchs sometimes orches�trated the entire court from behind the scenes, with the emperor or empress merely a puppet.

Sex Demons in The Factory (after Kim Hyesoon)

Listen, under the hum of machines, there speak silent words

Now you’ll see souls lurking beneath the workbench’s microscope

You’ll understand how other souls parasitically shriek within your body

You’ll understand the harmonies lost in the so-called free trade industries

You’ll see how your nimble fingers jab into the machinery’s orifices

You’ll see how the discarded sanitary pads, thrown into disarray, express their rage

You’ll see how all women’s fingers unite to jab into the supervisor’s rear

You’ll see your agitation, darting like hedgehogs in a graveyard

You’ll see ghosts turning into ghosts, sprouting ghastly eyes

You’ll see the ghosts in locker rooms, the ghosts in prayer rooms

You’ll see the unjust hounds within you, unleashed to devour yourself

You’ll see each of your pores slashed open and forcibly blooming

You’ll see the tide rising swiftly under the pungent lithium smoke

You’ll see the strong spirits swaying under the factory’s harsh lights

You’ll invite them to narrate a story together, a polyphony beyond all listeners’ endurance

Listen, listen, do not fear

for it’s the night you, as a venomous snake, first feel the night of shedding

for it’s the night you re-smell the rust in your menstrual blood

for it’s the night you are closest to the truth before forcibly donning the shroud

for it’s the night you have been skinned, turned inside out, and re-sewn

for it’s the night you see freedom ceasing to be abstract and becoming action

for it’s the night when girls who’ve forgotten their names turn into bats and bullets

for it’s the night of rats on noses, buttered curtains, sliding fish and flowing dunes

completely alien and transcendent to themselves, seemingly devoid of sexual desire

for it’s the night when all men are dead, and women experience their first true night

every scream turns the clock to nine, the factory to a virgin jungle, and you see a tiger

Look, look closely, look without fear

Procurer

Platform clocks glow during the day,

in the frosted gray reflective surface.

Early spring trees covered in tumors,

three leaves on the lift move with me.

A quarter of an old Amsterdam Gouda

sandwich and a tea bag on the floor,

a purple plastic cup inside a mesh bag.

Thin curly black bangs cover their eyes,

Dirty hard and soft plastic tease each other.

Starbucks cup decorated with disco colors

and sequins, with a mermaid smiling eternally.

Love printed on the cheapest bags and cloths,

cream quickly fades as if a fly had just stayed.

Bad Son (after Chen Chen)

Left home; kissed the wrong lips; tasted salt

from tears not his own; ate from guilt’s bowl; spent

a ten on false courage; escaped through pages

and dreams; misread the signs; welded to shadows;

cried; wiped front to back; packed at dawn’s whisper;

mourned himself to sleep; painted it all

backwards; lingered; reversed the seasons;

crafted a new alibi; called the right wrong;

curled up at memory’s feet; trembled; counted

each penny; petty; denied the treat;

withdrew; faded in; a sore thumb; threads tangled

inherited knots; faked smiles; donned

new masks, new names; then vanished.