United States

jill of all trades

Message from Writer

Hey. Hey you. You're excellent.

Published Work

The Conduction (Prologue to a Tempest)

    She slipped in the sand, and
the box she was carrying almost tumbled out of
her hands. Digging
her fingers firmly
into the grooves of wooden vines on its cover, she tramped
down the beach
toward the waiting water,
going by ear.
The lapping waves were
oil in
her ears and perfume on
her lips as the wind kissed her
hello. She sat
in the flat sand. Water seeped
into her thin athletic shorts. She rested the box between
her knees and stretched
her legs out before
    This evening was not altogether
in vision. The darkness hummed with starlight, conspicuously lacking
in the alto melody of
the moon like a prima donna late to the concert, but
she knew
she was the one who was entering in the middle of the show. She kissed
her fingers apologetically and
raised them up to the dark moon overhead, then took
a deep, salty breath
and opened the...

0000: four significant figures

fig. 1:
girl in pearls & grey tattered tee. asymmetrical and uncomfortable. behind her, fairy lights begin to tango,
she sees no end to dawns.

fig 2:
girl in oily mattress. she is awake, the lights are on because the sun is unbound, but the rope stretches thin.

fig 3:
girl fingering elbows. hair braided in thrashes, hair brushed in sound photons, the curls breathing.

fig 4:
photo solidifies and thus disappears from present. [whiteout]

flower food

after the shower, i stepped out
with a book in my hand
i glanced down as i toweled droplets from my legs
i saw the droplet on the crack between tiles
like liquid pomegranate seed
and the thought makes me smile
that my uterus, coated in forbidden fruit
is releasing its treasures through the birth of nothing alive
thought makes me smile
that every persephone learns to dance across vibrational planes
once they taste the waves inside them
and once they revel in the heat,
dancing naked as the twang-twang strings drip red.

Open Prompt

Playing to Win: The Message of Crazy Rich Asians

    I wanna preface this by acknowledging that Crazy Rich Asians is not a representation of all Asian ethnicities. Its cast and highlighted culture is majority East Asian — even though it is set in Singapore — and particularly megawealthy Chinese. As an American child of a Chinese immigrant parent, this movie resonated powerfully with me, but it’s worth noting that Crazy Rich Asians is not a universal expression of Pan-Asian culture and should not be reviewed as such.

    Crazy Rich Asiansis a celebration of wealth, culture, and the decision-makers of families. It is a raucous blend of spicy street food, glistening banquets, and homemade dumplings. Its characters are silly, sometimes full-fleshed, and possess faces that are iconic and yet isolated in their Asianness within their respective careers — whether they belong to international film legends, American comedians, YouTube stars, and/or hiphop artists — and are therefore extra powerful when all on screen at once. This film...

On the side of the road

On the side of the road there's a shrine
Little patches of belief make up the fabric of our world
Grannies quilt with guilty needles
Loaded with our humanness
Our human mess
Stains our sky

Clouds like saturated sponges
Light towers, lines of power,
Transcendence isn't organic,
But a paradox of lust

one loop

Time erodes.

Staying Untitled

If I die young, bury me in satin
Lay me down on a bed of roses
Bring me to the river at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song

We joke that our hallways were built by prison architects.
It’s actually true, which makes it funnier when we complain about the evolution-fearing agenda of the Texas Board of Education…

I was born on a fence.
I love my skin, but I don’t understand it. Not bleach, not gold, occasionally green, thanks for the clear labeling, sunlight mom and A4 paper dad.
I chase porcelain girls on the screen the way predators predate
    but I scratch their images with my eyes, sniffing for steel.
I wish my hands would grow as big as my body so I can stop relying on boys to envelop all of me and learn how to do it myself,
not to hide but to take myself in my arms the way...


sunlight daughter

But I see more light in the hollering spirit of my grandfather than in your industrial ceiling panels -- that kind that shades my skin into a grey coat so you can point to it like a good host and ask if you can take it from me.


1) the Balance
2) the ancient Roman pound
the venusian sign is a mirror on one leg
with two lanky arms just long enough to grab you
like an overeager relative you’ve never met before
who never lets go of the sight of your face in her
distorted glass.
but sweetie, she says
i may be echo, but you are hardly narcissus
she says, in your voice, because
there’s only One Person who can repeat
the doctrine back to you
without touching your
elephant ears,
so it can claim that you forgot
what it tells you every time.
look at these legs. i wish these legs
were seamless, i wish
a boy could look at me and see someone as awesome as i tell myself i
look at these hands. these fingers
so long and so capable and so lacking in something to hold
is that their fault or yours?
when i need an answer, the...

This Is What Deflowering Looks Like

Me crushing the orchid in my hair and finger-painting a boulder.

Not you standing by and waiting for me to ripen before digging me up.

Getting me under your nails.

"Washing me away."

You'll be stuck at the sink, till you see a window in your mirror.

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2018


The Asian Girl’s means of communication to a room in which she is the only (Asian Girl)
is her pair of big, expressive eyes.
The eyes that narrow to slits
that invite captivity and derision
because we want them minus
the brain that connects to them.
The kaleidoscope eyes that betray
nothing except careful sex appeal
— sex appeal, as in an opportunity to overpower and grab,
with the exact amount of equal pushback from
being Silent
to keep conquerors from shores
— and behind that, a void.
This is the silent film Asian Girl, opening her eyes in a room without people.
Trapped, because whatever she opens to express herself is:
a purse turning upside down, spilling human, mistaken for a gumball machine. So it goes.
She closes every orifice and makes her fingers dance,
hoping for a way in.
She seals herself up and opens her eyes at her own thoughts,
inward, and
curls infinitely into herself,