Home Poetry a Kaiju comes to the Pacific Rim

a Kaiju comes to the Pacific Rim

A battle between a orange-toupee'd Kaiju Moloch, a gigantic Jewish-American woman, and the Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning rages amongst the islands in the South China Sea.


so this is the
Taiwan Strait
one foot
on a Chinese aircraft carrier
my head
flung backwards in the spray,
hair, seaweed trailing off a plank
into the sea
the jets taking off
and landing
over the sacred burial islands
of my eyes

rises from the pacific horizon
like the robotic kaiju asshole
he is, where Ginsberg last
vomited him
over the side of a Navy skipper’s thigh
pistons for cocks, eighteen miles high
and growing as he arrives, wifi towers
oven eyes, Chinese tinsel planes
crushed like Kabuki Kamikazes
into his blazing steel mouth

I’m reaching out my foot for a hold on the Ryukyus
I’m reaching out my hands straight to the Okinawa beach

I’m praying the body into a
pontoon bridge
I’m praying the body into the last
escape route

I’m turning my huge head
to that nasty robot face
I’m turning my sacred eye
to that nasty robot toupee

Moloch’s got Taiwan sun bears in its black acid stomach
Moloch’s got Taroko Gorge tripping up the cogs of its intestines
Moloch’s lost Tainan due to indigestion
Moloch’s just eaten Hong Kong Macau Taipei and Hualien
now Moloch’s got Seoul in its tiny left hand
now Moloch wants my cunt in its paw-like right

my cunt in this water must become a mountain
my cunt in this water must become a monument
my cunt in this water must become the only bridge


Artists Statement

My husband and I sold all of our belongings in Oakland, CA and moved to Taiwan on December first – the day Trump and Tsai Ing-Wen made nicey-nice on the telephone. We woke up from jet-lag to a country scratching its way towards an explosive future. I will never get used to fighter jets executing drills over my head, or the odd magnetism of China’s Liaoning aircraft carrier as it drifts offshore – you can’t see it, but you somehow feel it’s looming shadow. I have a similar phantom sensation for Trump’s hands grabbing pussy, like there are a million invisible limbs reaching out from his tower, across oceans, across continents. In need of strength, I wrote this poem.


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