Pathological
You weave a web everywhere you go– who are you, spider girl but your one-and-only Facebook photo– a silver heart pendant a fake hometown a false alma mater Nothing I do is good enough for you— not even the sweat of my ink you claim as your own You say you’d be so cool without me– yet I know the truth you’ve flipped upside down Like a damselfly I spread my wings to disentangle myself from your web of lies The Neighbor You walk like a queen with your downgaze dictating my downfall– you'd like to place me in a pillory like a medieval prisoner I’ve committed the most unforgivable crime in your eyes– by being alive when you'd like to squash me like an insect under your sole I have every right to breathe the air you breathe to free myself from your collar of shame I'm no criminal and you're no monarch Remembering an Old Crush I've always wondered if you wrote poetry and if you did what it was about– the shiny new star-shaped rims you got for your tires all the girls you brought to your Downtown LA suite for cups of gourmet cappuccino and one-night stands whom you drove home the next day in your polished gray sports car? Do you need heartbreak to write good poems? Or do you, my prince have depths beyond your frat boy facade to transcribe into verses to touch the heart? Bravo I've longed to hear you say it all my life– only to be told the opposite. You've branded me mediocre, since I was old enough to know the meaning of the word– ordinary, unexceptional. I'd rather be a retard than that. I've had to discover for myself that I'm a genius, etch a star on my own chest, place a crown on my own head. Because to you, I will always be a commoner, a B that never makes it to A, an act that gets no applause. Creative Process My therapist asks me how I write the poems I write. I tell her it’s similar to painting cherry blossoms, like I do in art therapy. The words dab on the page gentle like a kitten’s prints. There are days when the cat becomes a tiger, and the pawsteps become stampedes. Then there are days when the cat falls asleep, and the words don’t come at all except perhaps in dreams– faint silhouettes whose shapes I can hardly decipher. A Poetry Showcase for Jackie Chou New Poems by Jackie Chou
Fevers of the Mind 
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