In case you haven’t noticed, I have been posting a poem a day. I am not sure if you have seen the pattern, but I have been reading quite a bit of poetry books. In addition to posting my favorite poems, I post rap lyrics with poetry qualities. My blog has become my database and documentation that may have no interests to anyone else but me.

Without comments and analytics, I don’t know who reads my blog; therefore, I have no target audience in mind. I just write whatever on my mind at the moment. I feel like screaming into the void. Then again, I wouldn’t hear anything until I write something controversial. After blogging for over 20 years, I should have learned to control my own emotions. If I don’t fuck up on my blog, I will fuck up in real life. I am screwed either way.

Nowadays, my focus is primarily on this blog. I haven’t tweeted in a while. I haven’t shared anything on LinkedIn. I am also pulling back from Facebook after posting quite a bit about our ski-snowboard trips. When I left Twitter, I had almost 600 followers. On LinkedIn, I had a bit over 300 connections. Although I had about 250 friends on Facebook, I only interacted with a handful. According to Cloudflare, I have, on the average, 1,000 unique visitors a day. That’s all I know. Still, the traffic here is much more than all my social media combined. Why should I spend my energy elsewhere?

When I left Twitter, I also removed Twitter Cards from all of my sites. I don’t care if my sites have no image on Twitter when someone links to them. I used to promote my works on social media, but I just do it here. When I redesigned this site and the logo, I didn’t share it anywhere else. Everything is back to this personal blog of mine.

Among the killings. Among the permits. Among the dull transparency.
Among the hunger. Among the family beyond my reach. Among the
labor pool. Among that type of bread. Among the registered voters,
among the paperless statements. Among the eye of the beholder. I’m
lost among your ethics. Among New World glossaries. Among the
pages of windows. I’m lost inside your mesosphere on what’s toxic
and what’s not — in America. I am certainly lost at the political match.
Among recurring wars no one dares to injure on the ride home.
Among the ink tracking, MY GOD, new moods helping to reimagine
a world beyond the sunrise. Among the maps they used to leave in our
hair. “Celia got away, bad hip and all.” Among electronic billboards
jammed with the Black faces of runaways, don’t call this toll-free
number if you see her armed and dangerous, healing from the law.
Among marijuana fields owned by the same old same old. Against the
embargo of time.

Nikki Wallschlaeger

I have been listening to this album on and off since December of last year. I couldn’t get through it in one listen. Lamar packs so much information into these tracks. His lyricism is so dense that I couldn’t unpack everything he revealed. After many listens, I just have to read his lyrics. Like poetry, reading his rhymes line-by-line gives me a better understanding of the issues he’s dealing with, including racism, transgender, fatherhood, relationship, violence, and sex addictions. In addition to his exceptional lyrical content, his infectious flow and superb choices of productions make this an influential album.

I had to read this collection three times to understand some of the poems. The first time I completely missed that his parents were divorced. The reason for the divorce was that his dad came out gay. In addition, Lam has many theories including God and smoking, but I can relate to him about drinking in “Anchor.” It’s a good collection from a Vietnamese-American fellow.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

Thank you for being my lifelong partner
Thank you for being my strong anchor
Thank you for all your love and support
Thank you for picking me up when I fall short
Thank you for all your sacrifices
Thank you for all your sound advices
Thank you for everything you do for our family
Thank you for your bottomless generosity
Thank you for always keeping it real with me

Donny Trương

Unprepossessing girl in the café recognized me as the author of two books

before this and asked for my advice, I said

each line has been an accident, staring at the texture

of the plaster on the wall behind her, rivulets cords tendons the lines may stand

if I remove myself, my will ruins it I might not have said that and

recalling exactly what I said would help, I wait for it though waiting

can be a mistake that generates willfulness, I struggled to put this into words

as strong as my conviction, so what advice could I give you I said

Jana Prikryl

I just found the tutorials I have been looking for to snowboard down the steep slopes. Snowboard Dojo Wiz has done an excellent job of explaining and demonstrating the techniques. I am going to work on these in my basement and hopefully I will be able to execute them when I hit the slopes next time.

In his second collection, Best Barbarian, Roger Reeves delves into serious topics including violence, death, racism, police brutality, and fatherhood. His lyricism can be transpired from musicians including Alice Coltrane, John Coltrane, and Outkast. A stunning read even if I didn’t understand everything. More revisits are needed.

How kind of you
to turn it down
to crickets, the possible is here
in every judgment I try on
against myself, if you enjoy
a more original surmise
then too I grow
acquainted with regret

Jana Prikryl