Sometimes, I only want to eat the skin.
What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.
The kumquat’s sweetness was a disguise, and once it was disrobed in your mouth, the meat inside was sour enough to make your mouth buck, to wring your tongue of its language.
Who would keep the tree living, years after my grandparents have passed?
In a guest laden living room to the side in a corner, / I tried to wear a coat like skin, // And in that moment, that precise moment, / I’m asked, “Are you Tibetan?”
Earlier this year, Penguin released a competing edition of John Okada’s 1957 novel No-No Boy, claiming that it was in the public domain. They didn’t grasp how the history of the novel’s publication is as important as the novel.
when i was six, / i scooped prayer into my palms, sipped / jesus’ sweat out of a soju bottle ten / years after. the prayer screamed / under my skin
the manner / in which the oaks nod to me it’s funny / I swear there are no magnets / lining my boots / maybe just a few nickels
What this deli in Manhattan offers to mostly immigrant taxi drivers is priceless.
This involves modulating my voice and accent so that I sound more Malay. It’s like having to work for my right to eat there.
When they called me spoiled, they meant that I was a rotten fruit, left out to waste in the humidity, sullied by forces beyond their control.
What is the legacy of the People’s Republic of China?
I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.
I reenter my body as a highway, then a Monday, then a demo / of a pop song that never made it to the surface.
As a historian and musician, Julian Saporiti has toured past and present sites of migrant detention. He calls his project No-No Boy.
John Okada deserves credit for framing his book around the character of a resister—but he missed the opportunity to portray the depth and breadth of principled protest by incarcerated Japanese Americans.
In 2019, No-No Boy is bigger than it’s ever been. But the book that was saved was always haunted by the books that were lost.
it was such a big no-no that I had this impression of dialects 方方言言 being like swear words, or haram
We are becoming hardened. I sense a hardness in the so-called liberal circles, artist circles, activist circles.
When they called me spoiled, they meant that I was a rotten fruit, left out to waste in the humidity, sullied by forces beyond their control.
What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.
What is the legacy of the People’s Republic of China?
The kumquat’s sweetness was a disguise, and once it was disrobed in your mouth, the meat inside was sour enough to make your mouth buck, to wring your tongue of its language.
I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.
Who would keep the tree living, years after my grandparents have passed?
I reenter my body as a highway, then a Monday, then a demo / of a pop song that never made it to the surface.
In a guest laden living room to the side in a corner, / I tried to wear a coat like skin, // And in that moment, that precise moment, / I’m asked, “Are you Tibetan?”
As a historian and musician, Julian Saporiti has toured past and present sites of migrant detention. He calls his project No-No Boy.
Earlier this year, Penguin released a competing edition of John Okada’s 1957 novel No-No Boy, claiming that it was in the public domain. They didn’t grasp how the history of the novel’s publication is as important as the novel.
John Okada deserves credit for framing his book around the character of a resister—but he missed the opportunity to portray the depth and breadth of principled protest by incarcerated Japanese Americans.
when i was six, / i scooped prayer into my palms, sipped / jesus’ sweat out of a soju bottle ten / years after. the prayer screamed / under my skin
In 2019, No-No Boy is bigger than it’s ever been. But the book that was saved was always haunted by the books that were lost.
the manner / in which the oaks nod to me it’s funny / I swear there are no magnets / lining my boots / maybe just a few nickels
What this deli in Manhattan offers to mostly immigrant taxi drivers is priceless.
it was such a big no-no that I had this impression of dialects 方方言言 being like swear words, or haram
This involves modulating my voice and accent so that I sound more Malay. It’s like having to work for my right to eat there.
We are becoming hardened. I sense a hardness in the so-called liberal circles, artist circles, activist circles.