Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé

Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé Poems

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Ars Poetica: At Every Turn Today

I am not Proust and his literary machine.

Am I partial as objects, as impulses that make me burst open Stevens?
Am I eros that resonates like an oboe?

The oboe is getting clinical yet pedestrian; it is listening for sounds in my chest
that point to lovers and quiet hope, and forever forgiveness.

Do you hear its waiting like an ear to the wall, like notes slipped into cracks?
How we stonewall the cracks, the poems we first loved to hear.

Can they not see the sadness of forgetfulness?

If not, haven’t their hearts ever braced themselves for loss? ...

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Meeting Old Friends

Da-Ren has met Dada for tea and now has to join the other table.
“Toss them down the stairs, ” Dada tells Da-Ren, “and see
where the sticks land.” Playing pick-up sticks online
is nervous energy especially with that plasma screen replaying
last season’s bad soccer. Someone forgot the hops
in this batch of microbrews that now pass off for babycham.
Dada has stopped star jumping and begun spinning saucers
on sticks. “He always liked the circus, the circuitous, in notions.”
The producer whi

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