Waiting

by Genny Lim

Waiting
for Lawrence Ferlinghetti & Jack Hirschman

I am waiting for the war of the worlds to be over
and for the proclaimed virtues of Capitalism to
expand eligibility to all tiers beyond the ten percent
I am waiting for this pandemic of violence to surrender hatred
to death and for the first cherry blossoms of spring to amass its
beauty
and banish the sinister hands that chopped off its beloved
branches
I am waiting for Ferlinghetti and the rest of my white brother and
sister beats, Ginsberg, Corso and Kerouac, Whalen, Kaufman
Di Prima and Hirschman to howl in unison from wherever streets
they happen to be inhabiting in the six realms or North Beach
where poets spring out of cafes like Dungeness crabs from dark
nets
at the bay waters of Bohemia where I was born next door to the
old
Intersection of the Arts on Union six blocks from City Lights
where
I spent childhood days reading Zen and learning insurrection
from
poetry that rescued me from the banality of conformity and
nationalism
I am waiting to be inspired by the living and not the dead but
the dead seem more alive than the living these days
I am waiting for the eight immortals like Lu Dongbin and Cao
Guojiu
to awaken me from the stupor of quarantine so that I may search
the elixir of truth at whatever cost
I am waiting for the day when the sun will burn the consciences
of ordinary minds and ignite the flame of love in their hearts as
the ultimate act of patriotism
I am waiting for Chinatown to rise from its shadow of shattered
windows and rusted woks to savor my first bowl of jo wonton
mein
like a phoenix rising out of the comic strip pages of Old Master Q
and Lou Fu Zhi to set the world right and stomp on the corpse of
ignorance with my dragon thunderbolt and lasso of fire
I am waiting for the day I stop being invisible
and start being seen for who I am
I am waiting for all the gung–gungs, pau–paus, brothers and sisters
to stop being murdered and attacked by random xenophobia but
I can’t find the strength because a breaking heart makes no sound
I am waiting to catch my breath because English words keep
slipping
and spitting racial epithets behind my back in broad daylight as if
I couldn’t hear, as if the dust blowing from
the brutal wheels of life could crush time