Dear Logic,

Conflict with conflict.

Opposing forces, dual natures, conflict.

What is opposite of the I?  I? is I the opposite of I?  You would be in my perspective, so You couldn’t possible be the opposite.  It would be under my perspective and therefore not opposite of I?  The thing which opposes is the other self calling itself I, right?

I versus I

I against I

I mirror I



I holds up a mirror.  I mirrors I.  I holds up a mirror mirroring I.  IIII.




to the airwaves,

i wish i could broadcast into the world.  i used to record myself while I drove back and forth from San Diego to Gardena, spilling my guts into my little voice recorder.  I would sing, rant, cry, laugh, tell stories of my childhood, words of advice that i’ve heard over and over again.  the best thing about that was that i imagined that my stories would affect someone other than myself.  the hope that i wasn’t alone.  that i was connected with others that felt my same pain, isolation, feelings, thoughts.  i just wanted to feel apart of something bigger than myself, attached to a network of those who were passionate about similar things.

hi, this is ann “a’misa” chiu, and its almost my bedtime, except we drank coffee with dessert tonight and therefore will be up for the next couple of hours, maybe getting high, or fooling around the house, or surfing facebook waiting for more people to update their statuses at 3am.  i’ve been listening to the radio a lot lately because of my new commute to west LA.  I believe that westwood and santa monica is the asshole of Los Angeles, dirty, mean, and nasty.  The traffic is the worst and my road rage isn’t as intense because i’m beginning to not care about anyone.  I mean, I was in stop and go traffic, mean you, I drive stick, so my left leg is getting quite ‘buff’, and this man is exposing himself on westwood.  Like straight up, pants down, poop butt mooning all the people in traffic.  He seemed a bit crazy–not at least not quite there.  But still, butt naked at 4pm.  It made my drive all that more interesting and I didn’t mind that everyone was cutting me off, right and left, honking and cussing and texting with both hands.  This doesn’t make me feel confident about those driving around me. I sense an accident everyday and pray that it isn’t my car they are careeming into.  Speaking of outrageous accidents, did you hear about the death of the poor baby at the last LA artwalk?  Alex and I were 2 blocks down from the accident, and I guess LA is taking more precaution for traffic safety and crowd control.  It gets pretty crazy for the artwalk, like everyone suddenly becomes a bit maniac and tries to absorb as much art and culture as possible in a span of 2 hours.  People elbowing and throwing jabs to get through the thick swarm of people.  Back to the airwaves, maybe its just rambling that I would do, but I hope to inspire those who would bother to listen. Play some old folk music and read aloud from a random book.  Recite a poem or two, learn to beat box. Maybe its the rebellion and revolution that attracts me. In the last 2 days, I’ve watched two inspiring movies.  The first is Machete, and the second is Pump Up the Volume.  Both deal with the masses standing up and fighting for what they believe in.  Both deal with characters that are a bit legendary in their own rights, that they represent symbols of hope and justice for their respective communities.  I wish to be apart of that hope and justice.  I wish to be a play in this revolution.  I know that my role is intrinsic to the resistance.  That there is too much that wishes to push us down, devalue our time and energy into creating art, tell us that it isn’t worth it, that we need to get a better job, that we shouldn’t waste our lives.  I say, fuck that attitude. Without the makers and players of art, where would the state of your imagination be?  Where would innovation be?  Where would invention come into play?

Audre Lorde says that poetry is a necessity, that is the agency that it takes to write that gives women autonomy.  And with that, god bless.

peace and power to the people, a’misa

Dear Tiff,

I’ve been writing to you for years.  Our giggles wrapped inside of a teatowel, blown into a great big conch shell, tucked into the torned pile of napkin that settles into a comfortable mound on the table of a local denny’s diner.  We had pulled all of our teeth out that night, we needed money the next day.  Was it Disneyland, or camp? Dental floss and a doorknob, just like in the movies. We ripped out about six teeth that night, and were rolling in dollar bills by the weekend.  Our mouths took the sacrifice, as we ached and spoke softly for days to come.  Our remaining molars reveled in the glorious melting sugar crystals of cotton candy and funnel cake at some amusement park somewhere in orange county.

Question:  Do you like roller coasters?  I forget, if I even like roller coasters.  I use to love them.  Screaming, and on the brink of that point where your stomach flip flops.  We once did cherry bombs off the jungle gym.   One girl slammed her face into the sand, I just saw her tonight, this time as a Nisei Week princess.  Royalty as politicians is interesting.

I am praying for you my sister.  Praying that you are safe from harm, and that you are happy.  The air is gettting thicker out here.  I inhale the smoke daily, and smoke in myself.  We might move soon, to be closer to those like you.  Be amongst that which speaks truth.  It’s hard sometimes out here, dark and lonely.  The crows have talons and hop around near my front door.  Write back soon.  [love, a]

To Each Passing Day,

I give you, a hello, and wave past you as I board a bus that travels through more than just downtown LA, but travels and cuts through time.  Bye.  I give you a small little wave, letting my hand cut through the dense humid air of uncirculated breathe. Bye.  I look up and down at the days, giving each person I sit next to a name like Monday, Wednesday, Sunday.  I think about the color of their outfit and how that reminds me of that particular day of the week.  Tuesday is wearing a workout outfit.   Thursday has a beat up briefcase on his lap and is texting someone, probably his mother.  Sunday is wearing a soft pastel colored hat over a head of gorgeous braids and a smart navy suit.  Bye.  As the days of the week get up and deboard, I keep sitting on the bus, hoping that the driver ignores me and starts the route over again.  I see the months begin to line up.  February the redhead, August the hippie surfer, November has a frown on her face.  Bye.

Dear Brother Sun,

I hope that you are happy right now in life.  I see you at family potlucks and at my random appearance at church, and I can’t help be feel that you are sad.  Perhaps this is your stress coming out on your face.  I, too, seem like I’m frowning, when in fact, I am just thinking and lost in those thoughts.  I remember when we use to play with Grandpa’s seashell collection, or create huge couch pillow forts.  Remember those summer days when we would infate the kiddie pool even when we were well into elementary school, swimming under lawn chairs like they were coral reef bridges and underground caverns.  Our imagination ran rampant between June to September, and though we read a lot, our feet would become rough and calloused by mid-July.  Dad would play pickle with us, and you were always the runner, me trying so desperately to tag you out, but you were faster.

The backseat in roadtrips was always the two of us, fighting over the softer, comfier pillow, or our heads banging together as the bumpy carride lulled us to sleep.  You got quiet for years, hiding under your thick bangs and rock music, tucking away your feelings in bounded books of poetry, eating Del Taco for dinner in your room.  We wrote postcards of revolution and racial ideas to each other in college.  Each letter from you was a reminder that there were other people in this world with similar thoughts, and similar hearts, and it kept me sane.  We still rise our fists in the arm from time to time, as a remind that the fight and the struggle for equality and peace isn’t over.  Will it ever be over? Or is it already here?  It’s all a mindset, you would whispher as we blew out the stoner’s smoke.  We stand up for those who can’t stand by themselves.  It’s walking alongside, instead of coddling.  I acknowledged your words.

Years pass and we still walk alongside each other.  Though our partnerships have changed and we invest in our own loved ones now, you still remain one of my confidantes.  That sounding board of saniety and of sage advice.  People always ask if you are my older brother, and I say, we are like twins.  Life is funny, like that.  We live and learn and teach, all at the same time.  Perhaps we were the same idea, split in two, and raised separtately.  We are from the same breeding ground, you and i, with a similar core.  Let us keep approaching each day with an attitude of learning and love, and let us continue to reach for the galaxies. [your sister moon, a’misa]


morning breaks and i’ve been hitting snooze for an hour now.  i can barely pull myself out of bed into a piping hot shower. mom used to call me a red lobster after showering, as i would an all-over pink glow.  i like my showers hot, and my food spicy.  today i used my husband’s head and shoulders shampoo for the tingles. i woke up with two little bug bites on my neck, like a baby vampire nibbled on my flesh while i slept, or i’ve been spending too much time in the garden, and they got me there. been using the excess coffee grounds to feed the soil, today the cucumber got the extra boost in its protein shake.  its because i spied a tiny yellow flower amongst the prickly green leaves.

child quest

the idea that a child could be as hideous as a creature, or that a creature can be as humanly as a child, is seemingly more and more absurd, and that the story continues on its own accord is even more absurbity to add into the pot of crazy.  children, by nature, are innocent beings, and yet the environment, the nurture, the attitude, and the feeding add to its psychological and cultural understanding of the place of its upbringing.  this is the nature of third child.  the fucked up nature of its upbringing, of its parenting (or lack of parenting), of the unability to find security in any food sources, of the unhealthy environment (both in home and in city), and the lack of education on the true nature of the oil refineries that both run and torture the city residents.  the driving force behind child’s intense need to know and find the truth stems from the unability to find truth in anything else.  this quest is as big as it is necessary.