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dirtystylus : poetry   21

“Minor Feelings” and the Possibilities of Asian-American Identity
If you escape the dominant experience of Asian-American marginalization, have you necessarily done so by way of avoidance, or denial, or conformity? What can you do when colonization is embedded in your family’s history, in your genetic background, in your very face? If I feel comforted in a room full of Asian people rather than alarmed at the possibility that my inner racial anxieties have been cloned all around me, is this another effect of the psychic freedom I’ve been granted with double eyelids and an ambiguously Western last name, or does it mark progress in the form of a meaningful generational shift? In the decade that separates me from Hong, the currency of whiteness has lost some of its inflated cultural value; one now sees Asian artists and chefs and skateboarders and dirtbags and novelists on the Internet, in the newspaper, and on TV. Is this freedom, or is it the latest form of assimilation? For Asian-Americans, can the two ever be fully distinct?
books  book:minorfeelings  by:jiatolentino  writing  asianamerica  poetry  cathyparkhong 
12 days ago by dirtystylus
The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On by… | Poetry Magazine
Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of boats:
boats of prisoners, boats cracking under sky-iron, boats making corpses
bloom like algae on the shore. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse
of the bombed mosque. There was the apocalypse of the taxi driver warped
by flame. There was the apocalypse of the leaving, and the having left—
of my mother unsticking herself from her mother’s grave as the plane
barreled down the runway. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse
of planes. There was the apocalypse of pipelines legislating their way
through sacred water, and the apocalypse of the dogs. Before which was
the apocalypse of the dogs and the hoses. Before which, the apocalypse
of dogs and slave catchers whose faces glowed by lantern-light.
Before the apocalypse, the apocalypse of bees. The apocalypse of  buses.
Border fence apocalypse. Coat hanger apocalypse. Apocalypse in
the textbooks’ selective silences. There was the apocalypse of the settlement
and the soda machine; the apocalypse of the settlement and
the jars of scalps; there was the bedlam of the cannery; the radioactive rain;
the chairless martyr demanding a name. I was born from an apocalypse
and have come to tell you what I know—which is that the apocalypse began
when Columbus praised God and lowered his anchor. It began when a continent
was drawn into cutlets. It began when Kublai Khan told Marco, Begin
at the beginning. By the time the apocalypse began, the world had already
ended. It ended every day for a century or two. It ended, and another ending
world spun in its place. It ended, and we woke up and ordered Greek coffees,
drew the hot liquid through our teeth, as everywhere, the apocalypse rumbled,
the apocalypse remembered, our dear, beloved apocalypse—it drifted
slowly from the trees all around us, so loud we stopped hearing it.
poetry  by:frannychoi  whatnow 
17 days ago by dirtystylus
Gillian Branstetter on Twitter: ""Maybe, you love them more." @megan_falley" / Twitter
I never came out.
I just brought her home.
She had a guitar strapped to her back, I think
she was born with it, her beauty mark.
She sat in my mother’s kitchen and offered up a tune,
my family’s first time saying grace.

I don}t know if they always knew
and so weren’t surprised. My uncle, who talks about Jesus
like he knows him, would call me a lesbian,
but we were never sure
if he was a bigot
or a prophet.

Or maybe my mother was just good.
My partner, working the overnight shift at the homeless
queer youth center, has to tell a child tonight
that there is no room for her there,
just like her parents did when she traded
her football uniform for a prom dress.

I wish there were a background check on breeders.
A contract, a dotted line, a form you must sign.
If your kid pulls their real name out of the sea of unknowing,
or tries on the suit of a new gender, ecstatic
that something finally fits, if your kid has the courage
to love, you love them.
Maybe, you love them more.
poetry  by:meganfalley  lgbtq 
8 weeks ago by dirtystylus
American Poetry Review – Poems
We wake as if surprised the other is still there,
each petting the sheet to be sure.
How have we managed our way
to this bed—beholden to heat like dawn
indebted to light. Though we’re not so self-
important as to think everything
has led to this, everything has led to this.
There’s a name for the animal
love makes of us—named, I think,
like rain, for the sound it makes.
You are the animal after whom other animals
are named. Until there’s none left to laugh,
days will start with the same startle
and end with caterpillars gorged on milkweed.
O, how we entertain the angels
with our brief animation. O,
how I’ll miss you when we’re dead. 
poetry  love 
october 2018 by dirtystylus

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