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Chen-ou Liu, CA
 

 

 

Free Verse

 

That Night
 

a night of Haitian ruins

the silence grows teeth
grinding noises

pierce my throat
my hand
ends the sentence

 

 

Haiku Sequence

 

Ten Thousand Things
For the people of Japan

Sendai earthquake...
the darkness pierced
only by flashlights

Fukushima plant

the vending machines
still glowing

Ishinomaki:
a baby found alive
in wood and mud

a dog rescued
from drifting ocean debris --
the sun rising

radioactive scare
this a world of dew
and yet...

 

 

Senryu

 

I kneel
before the stone cross; a fly
wringing its hands

 

 

again, he waits
in line to buy Super 7...
new moon

 

 

guests long gone…
debating over the price
of the gift

 

 

subway station...
all ears are covered
with headphone sets

 

 

her thigh prints
on the waiting room sofa
two watermelons

 

 

Buffet King at dusk
enough on your plate
yes, divorced and broke

 

 

an eagle's
shadow circles me...
chicken dinner?

 

 

catwalk models...
rows of middle-aged men
sit quietly

 

 

rewriting poems all day
a voice sounds like my own
yelling, Enough!

 

 

from hymn to hymn
the Sunday sermon takes
the shape of her face

 

 

Easter morning:
sunlight reflected
from the wine glass

 

 

deep tissue massage
what happens between
the poet and words?

 

 

Fine Art Gallery
full of still life paintings
her bouncing breasts

 

 

immortal through cloning…
he wonders what to do
on a Sunday

 

 

Tanka

 

between my hands
there is a physical urge
unruly
inside my heart
the shadow curls up crying

 

 

the shadow claimed
I was the sun and will be
again
for I am not going away
I've lived underground since

 

 

they cut out
half of his inside
filling him
with the chemicals, the pain...

she pounds the table, I want...

 

 

I wake
from the Taiwanese song
mother hummed
decades ago

autumn rains on the roof

 

 

moonlight
spills over her body
once again
my fingers follow
her curve into dawn

 

 

Ozymandias…
in wind-blown sand
I write my poem
where it's read, revised
and then erased

 

 

you are a verb
transitive, on the move
I am an adverb
wondering where to go...
what shall our subject be?

 

 

blinded
by blazing winter sun
I hide
behind closed eyes, reading
the weight of each passing face

 

 

Marry me
today and every day
Mary...

he flies a blimp
over a rooming house

 

 

its lone face
stares out from behind glass
steamed
from panting...
are we kin to each other?

 

 

my mind
emptied of thoughts
opens
closes
as autumn gusts blow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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