Part I: TROPICAL DEPRESSION

Part II: YOUTH IN ASIA, EUTHANASIA

Part III: MY LOW

All works of poetry are stand-alone yet if read in the given sequence-

A story will unravel.

As usual, all my works are studded with hidden messages.

_________________________

Dear Milo,

Hold my hand, then your God's on the other. We'll walk you out of this storm together.

_________________________

TROPICAL DEPRESSION

1) Anatomy of a Fool

2) Taste

3) In Itaewon

4) Morning Routine

5) Paeng

6) Tropical Depression

7) Heaven to Hell

8) Memory of Mother

9) Multiplication Table

10) Celebrity

11) Take A Sip Of Our Lemonade

12) I land

13) Domestic

14) Nails

15) Psychopathic Psychedelic

16) Methamphetamine Hydrochloride

17) Mountain City

18) Zelenesenki

19) Ama

20) Durante Dos Décadas

21) Worst Gaze

22) Mage

23) Baguio Bouquet

24) Wordless Legacy

Dissect me with your sharp eyes,

please,

across my chest

to let the breeze

that caressed your hair

cool my spine.

Until then, oxygen is an old cripple

crawling in my lungs.

My heart: the beggar on the steps

of your mansion and it wouldn't mind the taste

of your feet.

Crush, I beg of you, crush!

my young bones, oil my joints,

and ignite it with your tongue of fire

or better yet, use the smallest spark as

I weld slow with you

irises

dilating from the dark.

Cut my wings

for your pillow to be plum-

at night, rest on my burning muscles

for warmth.

And when you leave,

Leave breadcrumbs in your direction

and I'll fight the birds circling

above me- for I starve for your

affection.

When I stare at God-

I bloom like an open wound,

A flower of flesh begging for daylight.

Whichever makes a corpse feel special.

I chew the words out of my fingers

on a dying phone- a blue gate of insight.

When I stare at God-

My tongue wags at my mouth walls,

Yet they never licked the air-

They graze every teeth gate

Until the taste of something metal-

Visits every billion buds-

And they bloom,

And they flower,

into words-

Like flowers of flesh begging to be picked and be called...

Beautiful.

Eyes closed,

a sharp breath.

Now in the white shoes of my Korean Teacher-

among the crowds...

in Itaewon.

In scarce weather, trapped in prayer, the Neon and Halogen glow now halos of angels for all soul's day

In Itaewon. Seams and hems of clothes, clashing like dominoes, souls rising from Seoul,

narrowing

throats

and

narrowing

roads,

while heaven widened its gates above Itaewon. Wrists twisting twice, toes stepped on thrice, peeling our skin & breaths thin- with postures pronouncing: splatter!

For the bones were water- and the flesh were waves, and Death was a sailor casting nets & graves & I was screaming with a hook on my mouth: Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! God!

Then I went back south...

In the openness of the mountain city...

Where there was no electricity to blind me...

like the streets in Itaewon.

And I let the wrath of Paeng embrace me,

and lull me back to sleep,

pillow wet with tears-

Sea of red shoes,

In Itaewon.

In scarce weather, trapped in prayer. A sharp breath, eyes closed.

Breakfast: spreading butter on a loaf of bread-

And I remember your sameness on my bed.

Naked afront news forecast of storms,

A burning Bush between your legs where God speaks from.

And I kissed the flame like Judas's betreyal on dread-drenched lips fresh from the agony in the Garden of Gethsemane

In Sorrowful Mystery.

Funny: you remind me of why

they named such temporal disasters

after people.

I sip a cup of  coffee to burn

my tongue-

with a newspaper to burn

my eyes

from bad news:

And I'm reminded of you.

And the winds of Paeng whispered for every tree to fall,

My condominium embraced by pine trees took its toll.

Condensed with electricity-

Saturating for half a century-

Where the news was always old,

45 dead, 18 missing.

My countrymen drowning &

I'm 1/2 writing, 1/2 screaming.

The sea shredding itself like my newspaper- As flood entered the mouth

Of my motherland.

And I wrote: I've had enough! O!

Grey,

green,

and white-

the colors of her dress.

Chaos sewn! Embroidered with death!

As she spins in our rooves and

skipped

On skyscrapers.

In a deadly dance devastating the 'already dead' rested on mudbank graves, the demons in destined hell,

the deaf demolished

from her damp dirge.

Another morning to mourn...

Another night of fright...

The little lass left laughter for family-contained cars floating upside

-down as brown waters rushes through the lungs of children like a first breath. And I screamed:

"I've had enough! O!"

And on her watchful eye, akin to a father.

The world beneath was craven to make a sound, akin to a mother.

He, a dangerous calmness, she of unsettling stasis,

Only happens if the world is between the screams of God and Satan.