December 3, 2010

kimchee omelet

Oh ex-lover,
she won’t treat me anything anymore.
Oh jelly-thing, sweet-bean,
I’m mixing monikers,
tangling terms of.
Don’t blame it on alcohol,
but my sobered self-imposing
of self-absorbed sobriety.
I’m too sober, thinking.
I can’t hear what I’m writing.

I hear the flapping
of a paper tomato taped
to a wall in front of a fan.
I see her blanket in its red skin.
Her name rhymes with its stem: green.
Tomato, oregano,
origami, tatami.
Tokyo isn’t far from her Seoul.

Cities across ocean.
There’s a shark under my bed.
Cities across nation.
The egg came from the chicken, 
I read—in my New York Times.
Carl Sagan said
that making breakfast “from scratch,
you have to begin with the universe.”
A crack from Long Island to Tillamook Head.
Two people making breakfast on opposite ends.

I can’t cook eggs alone anymore.
I need her help to make a cheesy omelet.
Please tell her, I still love
her macaroni cheesiness.
And there’s koh-pee in my mug.
Inside joke, like “what’s kim-chee?”

It’s in my head, what Socrates said.
“The hottest love has the coldest end.”
If my heart is the omelet,
then she is kim-chee.
Spicy enough, I hope,
to stay warm a little longer.

I’ll sit at the table,
sipping water in my mug.
Kim-chee, Mianhamnida,
Mahal kita, Kamsahamnida.



  1. Love is a myth.
    Like the glow of a glow worm.
    Neither ignites to fire
    nor warms up.
    There is only infatuation
    the hottest of love
    and ends with sex.


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