John Yau

A blue and green city, with the sun rising behind it, just not swiftly enough Don’t worry about being perfect. Just make sure you have some juice left in the pump I have many other remedies on hand, not just history’s bags of sumptuous soot Hello, I am beauty’s representative; I work in the self-improvement sector Don’t worry about being perfect. Just make sure you have some juice left in the pump How do you see yourself on the material plane of observed 
phenomena Hello, I am beauty’s representative; I work in the self-improvement sector Have you ever been sideswiped by a bad investment in love How do you see yourself on the material plane of observed 
phenomena You might need a reevaluation, an estimate, or an era to expire Have you ever been sideswiped by a bad investment in love Before you decide that you are nothing more than a clump or splatter You might need a reevaluation, an estimate, or an era to expire Have you learned how to remove yourself from every mirror you pass Before you decide that you are nothing more than a clump or splatter Let me tell you about the palm trees on the horizon of your future Have you learned how to remove yourself from every mirror you pass A blue and green city, with the sun rising behind it, just not swiftly enough Let me tell you about the palm trees on the horizon of your future I have many other remedies on hand, not just history’s bags of sumptuous soot

There are rooftops made of cloud remnants gathered by a trader dabbling in car parts and burlap At night, I dive onto the breeze fermenting above the dirt and dream that I am a crocodile a tin of shoe polish, an audience of two In the morning, before the smallest yawn becomes a noodle, I am offered a ribbon of yellow smoke I opt for fuzzy rocks and clawed water and, of course, the perishable window I am one of the last computer chain errors to be illuminated I tell you there are rooftops on which the moon stops being a cold jewel And one by one the mountains begin their descent from the chambers of a lost book

Or is it a poor trait I am a parasite I lift off the wings of others

It does not do you like it Imperfect copy's forgery Posts its vermillion decree These anointed mistakes Neither robust nor

It had to be from someone whose grandparents were born in Shanghai not the city’s greatest citizens, but certainly among the sober ones to make their small now eroded mark It had to be from a distant or dissolute descendant (yes,moi) who can sing praises unworthy of even a flicker of your attention Doesn’t this sound like it might turn into a love poem or a prayer Well, you are wrong, because a man of the people, which I am not nor will I ever be, doesn’t single out one above all others as this is a hierarchical construction and therefore undemocratic and antihumanist It had to be from someone whose virtues do not include stubbornness, patience, gentleness, loyalty, or truthfulness It had to be from someone who could take my place after I left the room never to return It had to be from someone who didn’t exist before this poem began writing itself down

Come live with me And we will sit Upon the rocks By shallow rivers Come live with me And we will plant acorns In each other's mouth It would be our way Of greeting the earth Before it shoves us Back into the snow Our interior cavities Brimming with Disagreeable substances Come live with me Before winter stops To use the only pillow The sky ever sleeps on Our interior cavities Brimming with snow Come live with me Before spring Swallows the air And birds sing

They are dying out and I want to reach them before they are gone Not that I know what I would say to them when I get there Their songs rippling beneath temporary sky As I approach, as I am doing now Even though I am nowhere near wherever they are Swirling in blossoming dust and dreaming they are not They are dying out and I want to reach them before they are gone Just as I want to reach myself before I too am gone Another blossom sliding into slime What notes do I hear drenched in fiery sky Are these ghosts rising up before me Or gasps of dust near a lake covered by algae They are dying out and I want to reach them before their names vanish Before they become ghosts dying in pink algae and ruined vowels Not that I know what their songs say Telling sting of monstrous human torrent Wheeling above burning story of lost lives Tapering branches of smoke, red and yellow leaves falling They are dying out and I want to reach them Before my name joins theirs in plastic matrimony Before a blue-eyed undertaker powders my nose Or I turn to powder in squirt gun of unprofitable insects Secrets folded away never rinsed in scum corner History erasing traces of its nothing new

As you may have inferred, Ka Pow is not a spicy chicken dish Meanwhile, you are an accident waiting to repurpose yourself Who are you to mix up languages? This is not a smorgasbord You have to remember that you are a cylinder, a form of fodder Meanwhile, you are an accident waiting to repurpose yourself Why do you need an expensive phone? It won’t help you in the future You have to remember that you are a cylinder, a form of fodder Our company motto: other than you, no waste shall go to waste Why do you need an expensive phone? It won’t help you in the future Have you ever thought of joining the circus? You might find a home there Our company motto: other than you, no waste shall go to waste Choosing suitable punishments is an unavoidable necessity Have you ever thought of joining the circus? You might find a home there. If you are speaking about my place in the universe, that’s not right Choosing suitable punishments is an unavoidable necessity Hasn’t the sky repeatedly proven to be the most excellent manager If you are speaking about my place in the universe, that’s not right Memories are iridescent insects infiltrating your dreams Hasn’t the sky repeatedly proven to be the most excellent manager Little sphinxes, I have instructed you to the best of my ability Memories are iridescent insects infiltrating your dreams As you may have inferred, Ka Pow is not a spicy chicken dish Little sphinxes, I have instructed you to the best of my ability Who are you to mix up languages? This is not a smorgasbord

I used to be a plastic bottle I used to be scads of masticated wattle I used to be epic spittle, aka septic piddle I used to be a pleasant colleague I used to be a radiant ingredient I used to be a purple polyethylene pony I used to be a phony upload project I used to be a stony blue inhalant I used to be a family-size turquoise bottle I used to be a domesticated pink bubble I used to be a pleasant red colleague I used to be a beaming cobalt emollient I used to be a convenient chartreuse antidepressant

The world weeps. There are no tears To be found. It is deemed a miracle. The president appears on screens In villages and towns, in cities in jungles And jungles still affectionately called cities. He appears on screens and reads a story. Whose story is he reading and why? What lessons are to be learned from this story About a time that has not arrived, will not arrive, is here? Time of fire and images of fire climbing toward the sun Time of precious and semi-precious liquids Time of a man and a woman doused in ink Rolling across streams and down valleys Trying to leave some string of words behind.