Lenovo (new) file:

Lenovo (new) [bof August 31, 2025]: V is now sleeping 2/3 of the hours, and I fear soon she will be doing it 3/3. She cannot recall words not remember much of what she did and she sometimes get daytime and night mixed. She’s been a challenge of my goodness and I find myself petty. I have an anger issue. This is a spiritual matter. I have dealt with physical, mental, and emotional problems, but this is a bit more deeper. It is a test of who I think I am. Am I as helpful as I think I am? What is the limit of my sacrifice? Sad indeed is the slow descent she is in. Once she guided my life, and now I guide her to the commode. I dealt with a superior human being but now it is merely an opaque being qua being. At the substrate things are uncompromising and independent of our capricious description of them. They have an object level logic and existence. Wishing them otherwise is a counterfactual not found in any possible world I have access to, and I will not matter to inert matter. A loss of sorts I am sure, but it is also a gain. Now I respect the universe more. My ideas and descriptions of it are subject to its own definition. I bow to fixedness. I bow to reality. It cannot be modified by language alone. You have been in the mud but now you see it from a lofty height, it reminds you of the flowers in the valley. But they are beginning to wilt. You try to prolong this game hoping it be humanly possible to make it last like the silence after an early morning bird song. The forest is full of such. You will someday see it with all its hidden population.

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Poem about betrayal by Koon Woon

Self-betrayal I am terribly pained by my betrayal of myself, because China is my eternal mother, and because I am ashamed of myself to read the Tao Te Ching in English translation, especially American English. I have forgotten the land of the Panda and bamboo. The gulf of then and now is caused by the rushing waters in a land of barbarians. Yet their vices have intoxicated me forever. I betrayed my grandmother, the mother of my mother, and the earth itself and my intrinsic rigidly-designated self. Now I have no pity for the innocents who perish from injustices. I now want money, your money, because money is the ability to do ten-thousand things, most of which are evil. I am now a rock and I tingle like a jade earing and clatter like a stone chime.

Koon Woon's Chinatown ( AI version )

Lanterns in the Window: Poems of Chinatown Introduction Chinatown is not just a place but a living tapestry of memory and resilience—a neighborhood where “the old country still lives inside the new one”1. Forged in the 19th century by immigrants seeking refuge from exclusion laws and hostile prejudice2, these enclaves became sanctuaries of culture and community, vibrant and proud even in the face of adversity1. It is within this world of bilingual shop signs, steaming tea shops, and crowded tenements that Chinese-American poet Koon Woon finds his inspiration. Based in Seattle’s Chinatown-International District, Woon has devoted his craft to illuminating the everyday lives of those on society’s margins. His poems aren’t lofty or highbrow—they are deeply rooted in lived experiences of poverty, working-class immigrant life, and life on the margins. Through plainspoken yet poignant verse, he captures the hopes and sorrows of diaspora: the feeling of being scattered to the four corners of the globe while searching for connection and belonging3. Praised as “Li Po in modern drag, the voice of New America”4, Koon Woon gives voice to the voiceless. His work has been likened to poems carved on Angel Island’s barrack walls by early immigrants—a testament to marginalized immigrants, laborers, and refugees whose voices are rarely heard5. Stylistically, Koon Woon’s poetry bridges Eastern and Western traditions, often blending vivid imagery with philosophic reflection. In one moment, he might channel the spirit of a T’ang Dynasty master like Du Fu3—writing of desolate Chinatown mornings or moonlit nights with a classical sense of clarity—and in the next, evoke the modernist sensibilities of T.S. Eliot or Wallace Stevens3. The result is a voice at once timeless and contemporary: sometimes wry and humorous, other times stark and transcendent. Woon’s poetic persona is often a solitary witness in Chinatown’s landscape—a “spectral and lone figure” donning a waiter’s yellow jacket that has been worn for generations5, or a down-and-out philosopher finding solace in a small rented room. He writes of welfare hotels and back-alley kitchens, of roast ducks hanging in shop windows and old men playing chess in Hing Hay Park. There is a “stark zen pathos” in his lines, an unsentimental honesty that strips away illusion5. Yet there is also empathy and quiet beauty—what Woon himself calls the pursuit of justice and beauty in poetry3. True to his background in math and physics, he imagines each cramped room, each corner of Chinatown, as “a world unto itself”3. In his poems, these little worlds of grocery stores, parks, and single-room apartments all pulse with life, memory, and meaning. Lanterns in the Window: Poems of Chinatown is a chapbook inspired by the spirit of Koon Woon’s work and the rich milieu he portrays. In this collection, each poem explores a different facet of Chinatown’s cultural, historical, and emotional landscape, striving to capture its essence through vivid imagery and heartfelt reflection. Like Woon’s writing, the poems here find the extraordinary in ordinary moments: an early dawn walk to a congee shop, an afternoon game of ping-pong under a pagoda roof, the solitude of a tiny room lit by neon glow. A variety of poetic forms and styles are employed—from free-verse narratives to brief lyrical vignettes—echoing the multifaceted nature of Chinatown itself. Throughout, a deep sense of place is paramount: the bustle of markets and the hush of temple courtyards, the iron of history and the warm glow of tradition, all come alive on the page. In these poems, voices of the past converse with the present; personal memories intertwine with collective history. The goal is to honor the legacy of Koon Woon’s vision while crafting an original tribute to Chinatown—a place of “many universes” in small rooms and narrow streets, each with its own story, all bound together by heritage and hope. Through lantern-lit nights and sunlit mornings, the chapbook invites readers to step into Chinatown’s world and see it with fresh eyes: with reverence, wonder, and an open heart. Before the Porridge Shop Opens In the gray-bellied dawn, a solitary voice… Desolate in the first light of Chinatown morning, I walk along damp pavement as neon signs flicker off. The street cleaners have just passed, washing away yesterday’s debris6, but the smell of steamed rice and garbage still mingles in the air. My breath hangs briefly in the cold. Across the street, metal shutters rattle as a tired baker lifts them, revealing trays of fresh bao. In the quiet, I hear only my own footsteps and a distant clack—maybe a cook chopping vegetables in an alley kitchen. I am on my way to the porridge shop before it opens, drawn by memory and hunger. Outside the locked door, I pause. In the window, a faded red sign with gold characters promises congee, noodle soup, joy. I see my reflection superimposed on it: a lone figure with hands in pockets, waiting. The city is immense around me, skyscrapers looming beyond the gate at the end of the block, but here this little shop is a world of its own. I recall how, as a child newly arrived, I tasted jook and felt warmth spread through me. In that bowl of rice porridge was a comfort beyond language—a taste of home in a foreign land. Now, decades later, I still seek that comfort. Diaspora means carrying pieces of home in your belly, a nourishment of the heart. In this early hour, Chinatown belongs to its own: the elders doing tai chi in the park, the chef hauling produce, the poet wandering sleepless. We nod to each other as familiars. The rest of the city still sleeps, unaware of these moments. The lock clicks; the porridge shop opens. I exchange a silent smile with the owner as he swings the door wide. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of ginger and boiling broth. I order a simple bowl of congee—just rice, water, a pinch of scallion—and cradle it in my cold hands. For a moment, the solitude lifts. Rising steam fogs my glasses as I take the first spoonful. The warmth fills my chest. Here, in this humble breakfast, lies the quiet poetry of survival: one bowl to start the day, one connection to everything I’ve lost and found. When I step back outside, light rain has begun to fall. The city beyond is waking up, but in my heart I carry a small sunrise. I turn and offer a nod of gratitude to the shopkeep (my only companion this morning), then continue down King Street with renewed strength, no longer entirely alone. Hing Hay Park at Noon Under the pagoda pavilion, life unfolds… At the heart of Chinatown, Hing Hay Park is alive by midday. Beneath the ornate red pavilion with its sweeping eaves, two elderly men slap mahjong tiles onto a stone table, the sharp crack marking each move. Nearby, a trio of old friends huddle over a chessboard, bent in concentration; their laughter erupts like sudden firecrackers when a clever move is made. A child in a yellow jacket chases pigeons across the paving stones, her giggles mixing with the cooing birds and the rhythmic pong of a ping-pong game in the corner3. The air here is rich with the scent of oolong tea from the bakery across the street, where someone has propped the door open, letting out warm aromas of baked custard tarts and roast pork buns. In one shady corner, under a young maple tree, a grandmother does gentle stretches. Her silvery hair is pulled into a neat bun. She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply—perhaps picturing the village hills of her youth as she practices tai chi motions. On a bench nearby, grocery bags at his feet, an old man picks up a battered erhu and begins to play a quavering melody. The melancholic notes float through the park like an echo of distant provinces, drawing nods and faint smiles from passersby. A teen in headphones pauses to listen, momentarily pulled from his modern world into the old man’s song. Under the midday sun, past and present coexist in easy harmony. A group of office workers from downtown wanders in with their lunch containers, curious and hungry. They find food-truck fare and benches, eating under the red lanterns that still hang from last month’s festival. A mural on the brick wall—bright dragons and peonies—watches over all of us. I sit on a bench by the stone gong (silent now at noon) and observe this tapestry of lives. Here is community: multigenerational and unhurried, a small oasis where languages mix (Cantonese greetings, English punchlines, Vietnamese between shopkeepers). In the park, we are all neighbors, sharing the gentle warmth of the sun. A ping-pong ball skitters past my feet; I stoop to retrieve it and return it to the grateful youngsters playing. In that simple exchange—a smile, a nod—I feel a kinship. Hing Hay means “pleasure and joy” in Chinese, and today the park lives up to its name. Amid the concrete towers of the city, this little square of green and red is our common room, our courtyard. As I rise to leave, I take one last look: the grandma now teaching the child a slow stretch, the men swapping stories as the chess game ends. Time moves gently here, measured not by clocks but by the steeping of tea and the length of a game. Carrying this peace with me, I step back into the bustling street, my heart a bit lighter from the simple joy of belonging. The Herbalist’s Shop Dust motes in sunbeams, the scent of centuries… In a narrow shop on Jackson Street, tucked between a bakery and an import store, stands the herbalist’s apothecary. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with brown glass jars and red-labeled drawers. The air is pungent with ancient odors: dried ginseng, chrysanthemum blossoms, star anise, and bitter roots whose names I do not know. A faded poster of a white crane and pine tree hangs above the counter, watching over the quiet transactions. Behind the counter, the herbalist moves slowly, a slight elderly man with wise eyes and steady hands. His long fingers pluck ingredients with the care of a calligrapher crafting characters. A young mother enters, bell tinkling behind her. In halting Mandarin mixed with English, she explains her baby’s sleepless nights. The herbalist nods patiently. From various drawers he produces a handful of dried jujube dates, some chamomile flowers, a twist of fleeceflower root. He wraps them in brown paper, embossed with the shop’s logo: a dragon encircling a mortar and pestle. “Boil these in water,” he says softly, “make a tea.” The mother bows in thanks, relief in her eyes as if hope itself were packaged in that crinkled paper. After she leaves, a hush returns. A single shaft of afternoon sun falls through the high window, illuminating particles of dust that dance above porcelain urns. The herbalist pours himself a cup of bitter tea from a small clay pot. He stands for a moment, sipping and gazing at the street outside where life rushes by. In here, time seems slower. I step forward with a question about the dried seahorses I see in a jar. He smiles and explains in a soft voice: “For kidney health, but not everyone’s taste.” I end up buying a pouch of oolong and a bundle of mugwort for good sleep, mostly for the comfort of the ritual. As I exit, the bell chimes again. The city’s noises flood back—car horns, footsteps—but I carry with me a fragment of the shop’s tranquility. In the middle of urban hustle, this tiny herbalist’s shop persists like a shrine of traditional wisdom. Every jar on its shelf holds a story: of grandmothers and remedies passed down, of faith in the healing power of the earth. And presiding over it all, the quiet herbalist, brewing ancient cures for modern ailments, keeps alive a small flame of heritage in Chinatown’s ever-turning world. The Yellow Jacket Endless shift under neon signs… I stand at the back of the Canton Grill, wearing the mustard-yellow jacket that all waiters here wear. Frayed at the cuffs and a size too big, it has been passed down through three owners of this restaurant. When I put it on, I imagine I feel the weight of those who wore it before—uncles, cousins, strangers—each with their own American dream deferred until the end of the dinner rush. Now it’s mine until close, my second skin as I navigate through clattering dishes and sizzling woks. It’s evening and the place is full. Families from the suburbs fill round tables, spinning lazy Susans loaded with dim sum and chow mein. Tourists snap photos of the faded dragon murals on our walls, delighted by the “authentic” decor. I balance a tray of steaming dishes: Mapo tofu, salt-and-pepper squid, sweet and sour pork. The aromas of garlic and ginger trail behind me as I weave between tables. “Hot plate, careful please,” I warn as I set each dish down with practiced grace. I smile—a polite, almost reflexive smile that I’ve perfected over years. You like our food, we like your money, I think wryly, echoing an old joke in my head, but I only say “Enjoy your meal” aloud3. At a corner table, Mrs. Lee from the Chinatown Association gives me a knowing nod; she’s seen me here since I was a busboy at 16. By the aquarium, a group of young men laugh loudly, toasting with Tsingtao beers. I fetch extra napkins, refill water, always moving. My feet ache, but there’s an odd comfort in the rhythm of work. In the kitchen doorway, I catch a glimpse of the chef—my father’s friend—flinging chili peppers into a hot wok, flames leaping. The order bell rings; another table’s food is up. There is always another table. Between clearing plates and taking orders, I steal a moment by the soda machine. Inside the pocket of my jacket, a small paperback peeks out: a secondhand copy of Nietzsche’s essays I found at a thrift store. During lulls I read a page or two, ideas of destiny and struggle swirling in my mind even as I stand here smelling like sesame oil. One of my regulars, Sam, a retired professor, often asks me what I’m studying these days. “Have you solved any big problems?” he teases3. Not yet, Sam, I laugh in reply, just figuring out life, one bowl of soup at a time. By 10 pm the rush has subsided. I wipe down the last table, pocket a few crumpled dollar bills of tips. My back is stiff, ears ringing from hours of chatter and clatter. Hanging up the yellow jacket in the supply closet, I feel lighter—both from taking it off and from pride that I earned another day’s wage. Outside, the air is cool and the streets nearly empty. I lock the restaurant door behind me. In the quiet, I finally exhale. Above, the neon sign buzzes, casting a red glow on the pavement that reads “open” though we are closed. I think of the tomorrow that awaits: the same jacket, the same smile, the same dream deferred. But tonight, walking home past darkened shops, I allow myself a different dream. In it, I’m writing—that book of poems I’ve long imagined—turning the long hours and the thousands of steps into lines of verse. My footsteps echo in the alley, and I whisper a few words to myself, a poem forming in the night air. The neon hums like an applause from ghosts of this Chinatown, encouraging me on. I head home, tired but not defeated, the song of the wok and the wisdom of old philosophers carried together in my thoughts. In a Rented Room Four thin walls hold an entire world… Up four flights of creaking wooden stairs, at the end of a dim hallway, is the room I call home. Room 315: the number painted in peeling black on the scarred brown door. Inside, it’s barely larger than a single mattress laid corner to corner. The ceiling bulb casts a weak yellow light, just enough to see the essentials—a narrow cot, a small table pressed against the one grimy window, a hot plate perched on a crate, a sink in the corner that drips. This is one of Chinatown’s old single-room occupancies, a relic from the days when immigrant laborers filled these halls. Now it’s mostly seniors on fixed incomes, the unlucky and the lonely. And me. I close the door and slide the metal bolt. Immediately, the sounds of the city dull to a muffled murmur. In here I hear only the low buzz of the fluorescent tube and my own breathing. A cockroach skitters along the baseboard; I sigh and let it be. At the window, I prop up a piece of cardboard to block the neon glare from the pawn shop sign outside that pours in every night. For a moment, I watch the world from that small pane: below, cars and people hurry by, their lives large and unknowable. Up here, I feel invisible. It’s oddly comforting—like being a ghost observing the living, unseen. On the table lies my open notebook and a dog-eared copy of Li Bai’s poems (in translation, since my Chinese is only so-so). All afternoon I had been reading and writing notes for a correspondence course on autobiographical literature. Outside, the city was alive; I was lost in other times. There’s a half-eaten mooncake by the book, too sweet on my tongue but I keep nibbling to chase away hunger until I can afford a proper meal. I left the room earlier only to use the shared toilet down the hall, counting steps to keep my mind focused: one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two… up to thirty and done. It’s a strange habit, but I find comfort in numbers when thoughts become too unruly7. Evening settles. I flick off the light and sit by the window in the dark. The cardboard doesn’t cover everything; a sliver of neon blue outlines the shape of the sill. By that glow, I see my few possessions: a framed photograph of my family in Canton (before I left them so many years ago), a stack of letters I’ve been meaning to answer, a jar of Tiger Balm, a threadbare quilt my mother made. Each item, a whole story. In this cramped room, memories crowd the shadows—failures, hopes, the people I’ve loved and lost. Some nights, the loneliness presses on my chest like the weight of all Chinatown’s brick buildings. Yet, within these tight walls, I have also found a strange freedom. Here, I can be the philosopher lost in thought, the young man dreaming of revolution, or the boy missing his grandmother’s voice. No one intrudes. The world outside might dismiss me as another poor soul in a dingy hotel, but in my mind, I contain multitudes. As I lie on the cot, springs sighing beneath me, I feel the building sway gently with my breathing. Through the window slit, a lone star is visible above the skyline, or perhaps it’s a plane blinking. I whisper a line of poetry to that distant light—something I read: “the moon tonight follows me home”. My voice sounds foreign in the silence. A siren wails far off; then silence again. In this rented room, I remain—a small figure in a small box, adrift among dreams. Tomorrow’s struggles (the rent due, the job search, the pills for my nerves) can wait until morning. For now, I embrace the solitude like an old friend. I close my eyes and let the darkness speak. And in that hush, I swear I hear it: the pulse of Chinatown itself, alive in the building’s pipes and in my own heartbeat, keeping me company through the long night. Paper Son For my father, whose name I carry and do not carry… Dear Father, tonight in Chinatown I walk down paved streets that you never saw, yet I feel you with me at every step. Under the glow of a streetlamp, I unfold a fragile letter—your letter from decades ago, sent from Guangdong to America—and trace the faded characters with my fingertip. Your words speak of hope and hardship, written in a language I can read only with effort and a dictionary at hand. You wrote them to a false name, an official fiction: to the “son” whose papers you bought so you could claim a place in this country4. That son became you; that name became ours. Woon is not the name of our ancestors, yet it is the name under which I live and write. I carry this dual identity like two halves of a broken coin—one side for the world to see, one side holding the truth. I imagine you as a young man, standing on the deck of a ship bound for Gum San, Gold Mountain, clutching those precious papers. The salt wind in your hair, the unknown ahead. Did you whisper your borrowed name over and over to yourself, until it felt real on your tongue? Locke Kau (the village name) was left behind with your family history. You stepped ashore as someone new, among strangers, with only a paper tie to any family. In those days, Chinatown must have been equal parts sanctuary and prison. You once told me how you worked in a lumber mill by day and washed dishes by night, saving coins in a coffee tin to send back home. You spoke of a cramped boarding house where dozens of “paper brothers” shared bunks and stories—men who, like you, assumed identities of others to outrun a cruel law. The Chinese Exclusion Act barred you as a person, but a piece of paper let you slip through by a trick1. I exist because of that trick, that lie, that act of courage. Here in Seattle’s Chinatown, I pass by the old pagoda arch on King Street. The shops are closing; the sidewalks nearly empty. In a storefront window, an old photograph is on display: Chinese men from a century ago, lined up in Western suits, queue braids coiled on their heads. I stop and stare at their eyes. Any one of them could have been you or Grandpa—faces solemn with determination. They endured so much to carve a space here. They built railroads and cooked in diners, laundered clothes and swept streets, so that one day someone like me could walk freely in this city2. I press my hand to the glass, a quiet salute to those paper sons and real sons and daughters. Father, you rarely spoke of feelings, but I remember the night of the Moon Festival when I was eight. We stood on the rooftop amid glowing lanterns, and you pointed out the full moon to me. That same moon shines on your grandmother in China, you said. I knew then that your heart bridged two worlds. Now I look at the round moon above Chinatown and think: it shines on our ancestral village too, where I have never been but long to go. I wonder if I would feel home there, or if this American city of jade tiles and brick alleys is my only home now. I carry our true family name, Lok, hidden in my heart, while wearing “Woon” as armor in official life. Sometimes I feel split, like a tree grafted with two branches. But I also feel whole: I am the living reunion of those sundered identities. In the quiet of the Kong Yick Building courtyard, I fold your letter back carefully. I light a stick of incense from my pocket and plant it in a nearby planter’s soil as a makeshift altar. Smoke curls upward, carrying my prayers. I speak to the night in Toishanese: a language I use only in memory now. Ngoh oi ne—I love you. I hope you hear it, wherever your spirit wanders. The documents may have called you someone else, but to me you will always be Father. By whatever name, you gave me life and a chance in this land. The incense burns low as a breeze comes through. I close my eyes and picture our ancestral home: grandmother’s tiny courtyard, the smell of woodsmoke and sweet rice. In my veins runs the blood of that place, even as my feet stand on American ground. I am a paper son’s son—born of two truths, two fates intertwined. As the last wisp of incense fades, I whisper into the darkness a promise: I will remember. I will tell our true story in my own words, so that future generations know what lies beneath the paper. The alley is empty save for me and the moonlight. Folding the letter against my heart, I walk on, feeling the presence of all our ancestors at my side, guiding me home. Firecracker Night Red and gold confetti in the air, the boom of a thousand memories… The Lunar New Year has come, and Chinatown transforms into a festival of light and sound. By dusk, hordes of people fill the streets beneath strings of glowing red lanterns. The main thoroughfare is closed to traffic; instead, a dragon dance winds its way down the block. I stand on tiptoe at the curb to see the great serpent-like form undulating above the crowd—emerald scales and gilded fins catching the streetlights. Beneath the dragon costume, a dozen young dancers move in uncanny synchrony, their laughter audible whenever the drummers pause. The drums! They are the heartbeat of the night: a deep, thunderous rhythm that I feel in my chest. Each crack of the drum is answered by staccato claps of cymbals. Children perch on parents’ shoulders, eyes wide at the spectacle. A little boy beside me covers his ears as the first string of firecrackers is lit. Bang! Pop-pop-POP! The explosions reverberate off brick walls, releasing gunpowder smoke into the chilly air. In that instant, time blurs: I imagine similar sounds ages ago in some village square in Guangdong—the same ritual, continents away. Ancient spirits seem to awaken in the noise and flicker. As red paper scraps rain down like strange snow, I catch the scent of sulphur mixed with incense. Indeed, near the gateway, volunteers tend an altar to the ancestors: fruit, candies, and incense sticks set out to honor those who came before. The smoke swirls upwards, momentarily illuminated by a camera flash, then vanishing into the dark sky. Vendors weave through the crowd selling paper fans, candied hawthorn sticks, hot sweet buns. I buy a skewer of tanghulu, the sugar-glazed fruits shining like rubies, and bite into the crackling sweetness. The taste takes me back to childhood New Years—grandma pressing a red envelope into my hand and the joyful chaos of cousins underfoot. Here and now, strangers smile at each other with that shared excitement. An elderly couple stands arm in arm, nodding in time with the drums. A group of teenagers—of many backgrounds—take turns trying to speak “Gong Hei Fat Choy!” with giggles and earnestness. The air tingles with goodwill and the promise of renewal. This is Chinatown’s proudest night, when its culture bursts forth and welcomes all. As the lion dancers emerge—two lions of bright orange and white, bobbing and blinking their long-lashed eyes—the crowd surges forward. The lions approach storefronts to pay respects, bowing and “licking” lettuce leaves hung above doorways, then spitting them back out to scattered laughter and applause. I find myself grinning, cheering like a child when one lion dances playfully close to the audience. The night grows loud and joyous; even the stars above seem to pulse. When the big finale comes, it’s breathtaking: a final barrage of fireworks, launched from the end of the street, painting the sky in chrysanthemums of green, gold, red. Each boom echoes in my ribcage. In those bright seconds of falling light, I glimpse faces uplifted in wonder—faces of all ages, of all ethnicities, lit by the same glow. In that communal gaze, barriers dissolve. We are all wishing, all celebrating, all hopeful for good fortune ahead. The fireworks fade, but their echo remains in our ears. Slowly, the crowd begins to disperse, families heading home, friends off to late dinners. The streets are carpeted in red shreds of spent firecrackers, like a battlefield of celebration. I stoop to pick up a particularly large piece of red paper—on it is a gold character for fu, luck. I tuck it in my coat pocket as a keepsake. The lanterns above sway gently as a night breeze blows through. Somewhere a firetruck siren whoops in the distance, but here people are still exchanging New Year greetings, reluctant to let the moment end. I find a quiet spot at the edge of the sidewalk by an old lamppost and close my eyes for a breath. In the silence behind the ringing in my ears, I think I can hear the ancestors applauding. Another year begins, and we are still here. When I open my eyes, I see an elderly man stooping to sweep the firecracker remnants outside his shop, a content smile on his face despite the hour. Across the way, a father lifts his sleepy daughter onto his back, her small hand clutching a toy dragon. The night sky is smoky but serene now. As I walk home through streets that are both familiar and newly christened by celebration, I feel a deep surge of gratitude. Chinatown’s heart beats strong tonight—in the drums, in our laughter, in our unified steps. Whatever hardships the past held, and whatever uncertainties the future brings, tonight we have luck, community, and hope. The new moon hides behind clouds, but I know it’s there, watching over this cherished corner of the world. I head into the gentle darkness, the sound of distant laughter and one last firecracker echoing behind me like a promise: we endure, we rejoice. Neon Alleys at Night Midnight hush, where history lingers… Midnight in Chinatown. The festival revelers are gone, the restaurants shuttered, the clamor of the day receded into an intimate quiet. I wander through a narrow alley lit only by neon reflections and the moon’s pale glow. Overhead, a flickering sign in Mandarin characters buzzes like an electric cicada, casting a ruby halo on wet pavement below. The alley smells of yesterday’s cooking oil and a whiff of incense from a temple around the corner. As I walk, my footsteps sound loud against the old brick walls which are covered in peeling posters and faint graffiti tags. Here, away from the main streets, Chinatown reveals a more secret face. The huddled doorways once provided beds for those with nowhere to sleep; I notice a few blankets still tucked in a corner, though no one lies there now. In the silence, I imagine generations of souls who have passed through this very alley. Perhaps this is where, long ago, men gathered for midnight gambling in backrooms, or where guards kept watch during the era of tong wars. Perhaps lovers met in secret here, between family obligations and the tug of new American freedoms. I close my eyes and almost hear it: the faint echoes of Cantonese opera from an upstairs window, the clink of mahjong tiles in a nearby parlor, the soft weeping of a homesick newcomer. The past lives in these cracks and cobbles, if you know how to listen. A cat emerges from behind a dumpster—startling me briefly—then slinks away, silent as a phantom. I follow the alley as it doglegs left and right, a labyrinth known by heart. This shortcut leads toward the old Hing Hay Park, but at this hour it’s deserted. The streetlamps there are shaped like lotus flowers; they cast patterned shadows on the ground, petals of light and dark. I take a seat on a wooden bench at the alley’s end, beneath a mural of a laughing Buddha that is half-hidden in night’s shade. Across the narrow lane, the upper floors of a brick tenement show one lit window. Through a torn curtain, I see an elderly silhouette bent over a table—perhaps writing a letter or, like me, communing with memories. We do not speak, but in that solitary light I feel companionship. Two strangers awake past midnight in Chinatown, each with their thoughts. Above, the sky is a deep navy, the stars washed out by city lights. Yet one can spot the Big Dipper if you stand at just the right angle between the rooftops. I find it now and recall my grandfather saying that those stars point the way to the North, to home. For him, home was across the ocean. For me, perhaps it is right here, in this overlooked alley that holds more comfort than any suburban avenue ever could. The neon sign buzzes off suddenly—the shop it advertises has likely cut power for the night—leaving the alley lit only by moonlight. The half-darkness gives everything a gentle ambiguity. In this light, the worn bricks and fire escapes could be the alleys of Guangzhou a century ago, or of today. I stand up, feeling the cool night air settle on my skin. It’s time to go. Before I leave, I whisper a few words into the stillness—a kind of prayer or poem, I’m not sure which: May these streets remember us, as we remember them. My voice fades, absorbed into the walls. Chinatown sleeps, but it watches too, with the eyes of ancestors in every shadow. I step out of the alley and back onto the faintly lit main road. Behind me, the alley remains, guarding its secrets until dawn. Lanterns in dark windows sway ever so slightly in the breeze, as if nodding goodnight. With steady steps, I head home through the neon-dappled darkness, carrying the alley’s silence within me like a treasured gift. In a few hours, the cycle will begin again—bakers will bake, monks will chant, merchants will open shop. But for now, this moment belongs only to the alley, the moon, and me. References 7 • 1www.pbs.org Chinatown | The Story of Chinatown - PBS • 2www.nbcnews.com How 1800s racism birthed Chinatown, Japantown and other ethnic enclaves • 3www.kuow.org Poet Koon Woon on his verses of solitude and the working-class ... • 4raintaxi.com Son of Paper Son: an interview with Koon Woon - Rain Taxi • 5iexaminer.org Kaya Press reissues selections from Koon Woon’s ‘The Truth in Rented ... • 6www.lanternreview.com Review: Koon Woon’s WATER CHASING WATER – Lantern Review Blog • 7www.fivewillowsliteraryreview.com Five Willows Literary Review: Chinatown Vignettes Quick response K

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Email from a friend

Nagasaki memories Inbox David Mason 5:12 PM (12 minutes ago) to me Dear Koon, This is the 80th anniversary of the dropping of the atom bomb on Nagasaki, August 9, 1945. I spent three years as a Navy dependent in Sasebo, Japan from 1960 to 1963. Nagasaki is about 50 miles from Sasebo. In 1963 when I was age 16 I rode an old slow steam train with hard wooden seats from Sasebo to Nagasaki, munching on a bento lunch. I roamed around Nagasaki, and I eventually visited the site where the bomb was dropped. At that time it was marked by a pillar, as it is now. Not far from it stood a large bronze statue of a seated figure pointing upwards to the sky. I saw the heat twisted steel beams of the former Mitsubishi steel works. I also briefly visited the peace museum where exhibits of fused metal, melted glass and vegetables deformed by radiation preserved in formaldehyde were on display. I walked quickly past the photographs of the devastation. I was taken aback by the young girls working there with severe radiation burns on their faces and decided that I had seen enough. What prevented the city from being completely wiped out was the fact that it is built in narrow valleys. The bomb just destroyed the city in one of the valleys. It left the harbor and ship building works unscathed. So roughly half of the city was largely untouched. For instance I strolled around a small zoo that had been visited by former President Grant on his 1879 world tour. A small monument commemorating his visit was clearly unmarred by the atom blast of 1945. On the other hand, Hiroshima suffered a lot more damage since it sits on a plain. I was in Nagasaki 18 years after the event. I recall an old lady coming up to me on the street and slapping me on the face. Later an English speaking Japanese man befriended me and gave me a little tour. He said that he had lost his family to the bomb; he was out of town when it was dropped. He pointed out to me the ruins of a Catholic Church, which was destroyed by the blast. As we parted he told me then that he was a Christian. Once as part of an organized group of Navy Brats I attempted the Kennedy 50 mile hike from Sasebo to Nagasaki. I only made it to 39.5 miles. I had worn tennis shoes instead of the recommended sturdy leather shoes. We were advised to carry big sticks to scare off barking dogs as we passed through villages. After 30 miles of trekking my feet became painfully sensitive to every pebble. A friend and I sat ourselves on the porch of a country store and drank soda pop, while we waited for the accompanying aid car to pick us up. By that time my feet were reeking with the smell of Wintergreen oil. It took a couple of weeks for my feet and legs to recover. All these memories come back to me at this time of year. Later I learned that the plutonium for the Nagasaki bomb was manufactured in Hanford, Washington, by the Dupont Corporation. I certainly would not have known that in 1963. Sayonara, David

The Chinese Mafia

They are surnamed "Ma." They engaged in rape, murder, plunder, but they offer "protection." Money is their ultimate aim. They may smile and shake hands and pat you on the back, all the while coveting your wallet. Once they stripped you of everything, they offer to lend you money. The next game is activated. While you gamble and whore around, they shark you to death!!!

What makes a poet?

Can you, in a paragraph or two, state what you think are the primary qualifications to be a "poet?" Send email to koonwoon@gmail.com with the subject "Poet." Thank you and we will give you the consensus.

Dispatches from David Gilmour in Iceland

gilliemot@net-venture.com 11:42 AM (10 minutes ago) to me So you put out my short piece on the last day in Faroes and arrival in Reykjavík. I had to use the other email, Apple, from lack of service. It worked OK, but that damned autofill is an auto-pain. It’s exasperating! Two days of wintry rain made tourists colorful in their ponchos and wool hats, staggering along with humped backpacks. Good luck to them in the winds and rain of the countryside. I am staying in a stopping-spot hostel for many adventurers, having brief engagements at breakfast, very good talks actually, not frivolous. Venturing forth, taking alternate roads in the city maze, I wended my way to the underground museum The Punk Museum, like the Louvre in Paris when you go, it said ”CLOSED TODAY.” This is strange since many more people have flooded Reykjavík from Europe’s holiday month, and now they don’t open. Typical counterintuitive punk, kicking against the pricks. It is the cheapest museum in town, set in an funky underground public restroom, down a narrow flight of stairs, garbage littering the way, a couple of posters on the slimed walls. Very seductive in an underground-toilet sort of way. The door was black and shut tight. I banged and kicked at the panels, yelled a few FUCKS! You know, an angry offloading. I thought I heard a scream from inside. Then I beat it to get a fix of an non-alcoholic beer, Viking brand, at a bar down by the government buildings, away from the tourist merch-marts. In the Bar and Grill I was told it was only groups today, but all I needed was a quick, refreshing beer, so the concierge let me sit at the bar on a stool. Finishing a coffee, two Aussies from Denmark, South West Australia, a town of 6000, spoke of leaving their Antarctic winter to vacation in the summer of Iceland, presently in a winter mode. It was 9 degrees Celsius. They felt at home immediately upon arrival. Unfortunately they had a car and Tammy, the wife of Steven, left to add some IsKrona to the parking meter. [N.B. Don’t rent a car in Iceland or the Faroes, if you want to see the life of the city. They are lands of walking haunts and buses are everywhere; free in the Faroes. Passing by, I see more people ganged around cars, looking stressed, discussing how to pay and wondering if they’ll find their car again. Hundreds of autos look alike and some have to find electric plugs, payment there too. Until recent years, Faroes did not permit rental cars.] Back to the Punk Museum, shit! it’s OPEN, a 65-year-old prune-wrinkle-faced man, sporting a luminescent green spiked Mohawk, let me in some swinging doors, that said No Public Shitters here. Inside a very narrow space I paid my fee, and shouted HELLO, YOU’RE FINALLY OPEN. He nodded. Perhaps he had to find a real public shitter. “No Pissing in the Cubicles” ordered a prominent sign; “Watch Your Head” and “Look for Punk History on the Ceilings,” another couple of pieces of advice. Immediately in the black, I banged my head against the first set of headphones dangling from a chain like a torture hook. Some rage was evident in the phones, but I passed on that to make room for other visitors to get in the tight corridor. A video screen screamed with a thrashing band, a bleeding chest of Sid Vicious on a stage of broken beer bottles and silver trash bags. Sex Pistols! Right, right, yer bloody well right! John Louden, the mastermind of the anarchic message, “Don’t you dare shit on me!” Otherwise a fair Rolling Stones narrative history of Icelandic Punk was written and pasted on the walls and ceiling, in 24pt. black Icelandic and below in 24pt. Red Arial. I followed the chronology and listened in on the dangling headphones to early bad Punk and as it proceeded to later years to more mature bad Punk, nothing as polished as Bjork’s screaming jazz riffs, nothing as rock-rhythmic as The Clash’s “London Calling,” or “I’m Lost in a Supermarket.” Eventually the time came for the smash hits of Sugarcubes with Bjork’s vocal artistry and dopey narcissisistic videos, all that writhing on the stage, licking cows udders or something resembling fingers in red rubber dishwashing gloves. The accumulative sound was deafening at times, and new visitors quickly fled past when they saw I was occupying the toilet cubicle, bent down in seated position, reading the lower history cards, room for one only, unless twirking or brushing together was kosher. Young blonde-haired kids with perfect faces, eyes the size of saucers, whisked through the ghost-train carriage, strobe lights blinking red and blue, a screaming, laughing skull with eyes a-popping on a skate board, RKL, Rich Kids on LSD, “Much Love Butter” (or Batter) and a blob of something next to Butter. NO WARS:NO POWERS, PONKSAFN ISLANDS (Punk Museum of Iceland), KILLEMBILLY ROCK N ROLL. SUBHUMANZ, FUCK THE PRETTIES, LOVE THE PRETTY UGLIES, NICK CAVE AND THE BAD SEEDS. After a half-hour of deafening mixes, I thought it best to let others into the cubicles, though many eschewed the history, for poster browsing and video watching. Bjork did signify, was profound and a generous contributor to and leader of the movement, joining various bands to give them a leg up through her influence and fame. Punk history in a defunct funky underground toilet dungeon, how can you go wrong? A tad anarchic, their ethics, but on the hole [sic] right on in a hard left wing ideology. To balance out the afternoon I visited a distinguished high art museum, The House of Collections. There I sat quietly gathering myself together, coming to my senses, watching a 15-minute video of two identical cod fish, silver sheen on their flanks, as still as a still life photograph against black velvet. After a minute one gyrated spasmodically, flexing its jaws, then, as if prompted, the second cod mimicked the gesture, finishing with jaw flexing. They were both out of water, almost out of life, except for a shimmer and an electric spasmodic flick of the tail and flex of the head and mouth. Two American visitors from Grant Woodsian Nebraska breezed through in front of me, they halted and looked left. “A live video in progress,” I advised. They turned to watch, no motion, they motioned onward with a wave, and then the fishes flexed again. They’d missed it. In the children’s creative rooms, since no one was on hand, I sat and created a cut out fish on the “Ocean” floor, and sketched an Ogre on the Folklore floor. (See images if I can send them.) Once again I was alone in an art museum, outside throngs of weather protected tourists packing the merch streets, but at least I was not lost in a supermarket, high on E. (How do you spell Ecstasy?) or Ketamine.—David On 2025-08-03 3:45 am, Koon Woon wrote:

Dispatch from David Gilmour

gilliemot@net-venture.com 7:18 AM (3 hours ago) to me Koon, Without my cardio pills that have been nearly 10 days en route, I am periodically winded and dizzy. My robust strolling gait has been reduced to an amble for fear of overdoing the heart-throbbing affibrillation. Me no worry, me no fear, the reality is here up front and I walk on in a more riverine line of direction, barely able to keep to the lay of the flagstones. It’s an old person’s waddle, for which I find alternate side-streets for safe passage. Early at breakfast, every guest I speak with at the Gasthus has car and some boat passage, a cruise vessel to take them where they go, whether whale or puffin watching. After the break in the Punk Museum (more details on that later), I balanced it out with a tour of the House of Collections, offering an ecological art exhibition of Air, top floor, Land (mid-floor) and Ocean, bottom floor. Famous sculptures, paintings, and electronic art pieces were very high class. Interactive art rooms for children where I spent a 20-minute rest to cut our a fish (see picture in next email). While I rested in a chair to watch a video of shimmering cod fish, which twitched ever so slightly in odd moments, a couple from Grant Woods’s Nebraska strolled through, never stalling for a look-see. even though I mention I was watching a video of still living codfish, they did not wait to see the spasmodic flashing movement as the camera light illuminated the scales. Downstairs in the basement was a series of charcoal sketches, horror folk tales of Ogres and Trolls snatching at young maidens and boys. No whole stories were related on the cards but one picture reminded me of Cyclops Polyphemus grasping at Odysseus in his cave. At the craft table I drew a picture, a 5-minute black pencil sketch. (If I kept a shot I’ll send it.) Not another soul in the place, I looked at the books and bought the exhibition poetry and prose art book. Outside, the streets were thronged with boisterous tourists looking for fish and chip shops, and into the fray I ambled, carefully pacing the steps to the street. I found a bar serving salads, which I chose for my early dinner before returning to my room to crash. My legs, strong as they have been, are wobbly after hills and restless leg syndrome has set in because I have run out of magnesium tablets. My count for meds was off by four days. A cautionary tale for people on meds; take extras just in case. First poem of the Museum book: Long I for a long dream / that enters nature and night and into morning / and another that starts by day and lasts till night / dreams filled with light that melts. (vv. 12-14) Translated by Vala Thorodds from original “Skuggi minna api” “Ape, my shadow,” by Asta Fanney Sigurdardottir. In Goetuhorn, (Crossroads): Skaltextar innblasnir of Islenski myndist. “An Anthology of Art Inspired Writing.” A UNESCO supported project with the National Gallery of Iceland and the city of Reykjavík. (2025)

Email from David Gilmour

David Gilmour 4:26 AM (2 hours ago) to me Iceland again, a more urban vibe: distanced people, fixed faces, more gadget orientated, less verbal noise, more traffic whooshing, fewer bird cries. It rained thunderously, streets running like arroyos (sp?), but a bus brought me from the airport to my Gasthus, a cheap hostel, inhabited by young backpacking folk staying a night before hiking forth. Having slept two hours before my 5:00am flight taxi and early takeoff, I was sleepy-eyed all day and too tired for touring. I walked on in my dreams, two steps backwards, one forward, arduous slogging, moonwalking. The last night of Faroes I ferried to Nolsoy, a tiny village island, a huddle of colored houses, weathered to seaward, where my host has a small home. It is meters above the shoreline, the closest habitation to the harbor water. Very tranquil scene except for bird cries: fulmars, terns, guillemots, razorbills, black-backed gulls, the crows of shorebirds, and grebes of various stripes and colors. In the waving waves a seal’s head bobbed up curiously, further out porpoise backs arched, a whale fin appeared while the eyes gazed unthinking, best to catch sight of when mind not actively watching. The way we remember the forgotten conversational word others crave to Google. Give the doubting mind time and the word comes in from the wings. How calming it is to sit before the scene with a coffee in hand, dazed, as the house floated in relative motion to the sea, birds skooting by mere feet before the window, Pink Floyd’s Echoes droning on the boombox. I caught the last ferry back to Torshavn at 10pm, home by 11:30 for a short sleep before departure from my home away from home. Give a vacation time and spare the rushing to attractions, one can dip into a comfort zone of living there, being here now. The art of slowing down. —David

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