I have moved . . .

www.xanga.com/ku_quan is my preference . . . juggling between xanga and blogger, I find the latter more user friendly for my tastes. Plus the interaction more pleasant . . . thus the echo that is sounding in this empty blog.

Asian Poet Musicians (Fatherly Confessions on FLowsik, Chan, and Machi)

My son and I hear the new voices that represent. Possibilities moving in a new direction . . . new myths being created on the go, a rising pantheon of heroes in our subclique? Larger than life figures . . . all for my son to look up and see. Inspire us! Embody confidence! Portray the attitudes that seemed foreign to our faces. Show us that we can as well . . . help us to reclaim.

A new sound of rising revolt . . . images that subvert the quoed status! Illustrate and embody the possibilities of yellow existence! Liberate the nuance! And expose the typecast stereotypes! Reprogram . . . the subtle inferiority and shame etched into the collective code of our folk! Rewire our language . . . give my son a new vocabulary to speak. Or remind him that the vocabulary was always there!

The reasons sung will liberate the madness by discovering thoughtful intentionality behind the middle finger! Help my son articulate the reasons to love himself, and discover confidence that the "others" will be bettered because they have come to know us in our authenticity . . . Just as much as we are bettered by knowing them. Believe what my generation had difficulty in believing. Beyond the one sided character in some third rate novel, liberate the nuance and inspire confidence in the beauty that we represent, stirring up pride that desires to show the beauty of our ways.

Represent us well in the struggle for images and stretch the possibilities of Asian existence!

429 Memories

Freaked out and calling Pops to close up his store and get the hell out! Images of angry mobs and gun shots attacking my wayward imagination.

Factored into the statistics, the one-percenters, profitting at the expense of the 99. "Pawns," they said, "to bring liquor through Koryo folk into the hood." A blind-spot to the real underlying issue . . . in this case, dysfunction begetting dysfunction, two survival mentalities clashing over the piece of enclave. Both part of the same Goddamned mess.

Yet immigrant folk with immigrant tongues, unable to offer an eloquent reply. Perfect scapegoats for the 429 event. Reporters enjoying this angle in their share of the Korean buffet. Until the desert voice, Zen Priestess Oh told those "well meaning" media folk about the blind-spot to the real underlying issue.

Jerking Off and Faking Orgasms

I have heard the metaphor of "drug high" when describing the spiritual ecstasy of the altar. In this light, the weeping and sackcloth at the saw dust trail is not epiphany but rather manufactured experienced. I appreciate the metaphor . . . however I prefer the description of a "faked fuck."

Jerking off, or maybe "sanctified masturbation," may serve the better metaphor for such moments of self deceived piety. It is not only self inflicted pleasure, but the body is fooled into believing it just fucked! And hell . . . like the tears that stained the carpets shit we have a mess in our hands. The only difference between the two comparisons, is the lack of porneia at the altar . . . or perhaps there is! The crucified figure, naked and bleeding, is a fetishized, masochistic image that stirs such strong emotions.

My favorite are the fake orgasms, people who want the glory light so badly they either fake it or believe themselves into it. I gotta confess I have done the same! "Oh shit you were good you horny son of a bitch" in one voice! And "Oh God I can feel you flowing through me, fill my senses! Come and Fill me up! is sung by another. I wonder . . . if people were thinking the same thing I was when singing that song.

Flashback from a Utica and Church Driveby

Hoodwinked and bamboozled by the images of glass at the Wall. The reason why so many FOB took the boat in the first place. Ask my pops, he tossed his die to the winds of fate, trying to cash out at the Wall. The swarmy pictures with that catchy logo: I + the fucking heart + NY, speaking just as loud as the neons on the Strip.

Yet no glassy store on 34th and 5th, instead they gave us a box on Church and Utica. Turn it into a business! "You can now walk with your head up in dignity! Sit at the table with your children and feel proud for the bread you provided your tribe." They wonder why we give them that quizzical "are you serious" look.

Can you blame the knee jerk reaction to get out of the shit zone? The stench and the experience of the antithesis, the flipside of the swarmy image, NYC unadulterated.