Tony Koji Wallin-Sato: California Poets Part 9, Five Poems

Tony Koji Wallin-Sato

December 22nd, 2025

California Poets: Part IX

Tony Koji Wallin-Sato

Five Poems

Early Morning Run from Cambodia Town to Signal Hill

Running the trail between pumpjacks and lilac lilies, a teenage coyote

struts on the incline. Looking back every few seconds, our eyes meet

while a deep breath fills my chest. For once, the sky is clear; the eastern

downtown skyscrapers reach out like Buddha's Hand and Catalina Island

stretches out like a plank of lopsided cedar. I follow the adolescent around

the bend, Khmer noodle houses and baseball fields below. A few clouds hover

above the peaks of the San Gabriel ranges, another deep breath fills

my chest. I film a quick video to send to my Yurok brother, because we both

know this encounter is a good sign for the day. He is headed to a central

valley prison to teach art, where another brother is waiting to hear a decision

of his release. A light wind gust blows the desert shrubs aligned on each side

of the trail, the coyote’s tail swishes with each step. She stops. I stop, another

deep breath fills my chest. During an exhale, the coyote slowly disappears

between the riparian on the downslope. She is headed towards another brother’s

house, one who lives with his father somewhere between the laundry mat

and Asian market. His teenage son just moved in and they are repairing

a relationship disrupted by 16 years of incarceration. I am alone again

on the hill between nodding donkeys and oil wells. Beneath this beach city

lies a petroleum field. A geological formation of oil and natural gas. The pumpjacks

keep pumping, the wind keeps blowing, and breath continues to fill my chest.

The Closure: Humboldt County, or

(It’s Strange to be Walking in Pants When You’ve Been Wearing Nothing or Sweats for a Year)

Audrey’s Manhattan reflects the lopsided cherry as if the moon were present

our first time back in The Speakeasy since the closure 

the corner L-shaped booth is occupied by three women in black dresses

an older couple in knitted sweaters and fedoras hunch over the mahogany top

I've never seen the inside of the bar without jazz musicians or smoke

the lights are unusually luminescent - the bartender's whole face visible

the bottom half, once shadowed, reveals a nose ring I've never noticed

the parking lot stages multi-instrumentalists with long beards

and a singer dressed like Dolly Parton

they aren’t playing but drinking on the tailgate of a red pickup truck

I shake the melted ice of my ginger-lemon, chew the candied gummy, leave a 5

we walk the alley of murals, elbows locked (when was the last time?)

I'm dressed in chinos, a blue turtleneck, my slides left in front of our sliding glass door

Audrey is vibrant as ever, the closure not affecting her desire to stay normal (or keep her flare)

her low-cut button-up and charcoal cardigan reminds me of a movie we watched recently

(but I couldn’t tell you what, I’ve never watched so many movies as this year)

the temperature drops as we enter The Bayside Waterfront

a Japanese Italian eatery overlooking the boat docks, small waves crashing the pier

Audrey thinks its weird, but it's genius - noodles from opposite origins

(a meal for any party with picky eaters)

I crack open a Sapporo for Audrey and pour myself tea

the teppanyaki grill explodes in light - a child screams in wonder at the flames

while his parents look indifferent to the magic show of ingredients and chemistry

the heat and iron clanking expand throughout the bistro

the man with the metal spatulas looks like my dead uncle

(he didn’t make it through the closure)

the waitresses all look like distant cousins of Audrey

the chefs rolling rice in seaweed look like mine

half the guests are wearing stained sweatpants and tie-dye hoodies

Audrey can’t get over their leisure attire

never eat sushi in your pajamas she says especially out to dinner

the restaurant empties out slowly, Monk’s Ugly Beauty playing over the speakers

and the Taiwanese owner in the corner drinking wine in an elegant purple dress and heels

I slide one last inari in wasabi, she dips one last cut of Hamachi

Reflections on Ten Years Clean Off Heroin: Autumn in Sacramento

I miss the nod walking downtown Sacramento

in mid-autumn. The trampled streets, unruly,

covered in piles of leaves and bare oak limbs

clogging the gutters. I too reaching for

a point I was only told about but never

explained. The myth of one’s becoming

is a difficult transition when unclear. I know

I'm not supposed to say things like I miss the nod

but I would be lying if I said otherwise. We bury

the truth. Why? To make other people more

comfortable? That seems deceptive, like

walking across a wobbly bridge full of holes

and telling the person behind you the walkway

is stable. There is nothing stable. If my father

told me his sobriety was easy I wouldn't believe him.

He goes in and out of such states that it keeps me

from mimicking the same patterns. Maybe it's because

he has never known stability, his sobriety no exception.

Maybe it's because my mother raised me and I felt the burden

of rejection. Rejection not so much as abandoned but chosen

second, third, fourth…or last. Angulimala was a murderer

before he met the Buddha. The Buddha saved Angulimala’s

mother from dying at her son's hands. Her son was forever

changed and led the life of a disciple. I don’t see how he never

thought of his old murderous ways while helping others.

Milarepa killed his family by using Tibetan black magic.

His family enslaved him and his mother when his father

died. Black magic was his response. His remorse grew

until he found a cave that led him on the path. I think

of all the black magic I would boil and inject. An appropriate

response at the time doesn’t make it an appropriate response

always. When I walk along the rivers, split between the city,

I am taken to the place of shadows. In the autumn darkness,

the river reaches the levees. I am swallowed by those past

hauntings I thought I drowned, but darkness always surfaces

the memories within the tunnels of manzanita and pine. When I roll over

the mattress and hear the pitter-patter of rain, I am lost in the days of nod.

One Hot Summer in Lock Up: Observations on a California Correctional Facility Yard

old men strike handballs at high noon

            faded near-deflated blue balls bouncing

                        off sun warped green splintered walls

                                    and uneven half-dirt concrete courts

The cars plod in circles, corner to corner

            half draped garb dangles loose waistband

                        hands clenched tight limbs relaxed hanging signs

                                    red tailed hawk feathers pinched around bends

tattered bibles stacked forearm height

            monkey bar cracked palms clutched leather

wingspan dipped plank posture knees hover

                                    circled groups counting limitless angled taunts

skoal chew spit explodes 30 feet high

            sniper straps swing shoulder to shoulder

                        corso-faced new meat stabbed broken fence line

                                    high cliff monastery bell echoes bullet fire red dust

fingers laced behind sweat filled nape

            faces buried nose pressed hard soil

                        black suit geared army marches combative

                                    scarlet cardinal feathers leak gut holed gape wound

                        stretcher carries soft-boiled clump of clay

                                    another state-issued statue laid to rest

Kicking Dope on the 7th or 8^th Floor Lock Up in Either Sacramento or San Francisco

toxicity is extracted from my bones

I am nothing but poison and tears      

my face smashed against the cold cement floor

and my hands bend backwards towards my neck                  

I am cracking at every axis

my brittle particles float in space                  

hallucinations start to set in after 24 hours                

sleep never comes

the walls begin to close                                  

a voice appears

then another

then another

until the realization

the voice is mine

from another time

Author Bio:

Tony Koji Wallin-Sato is a justice-impacted scholar and multi-cultural Nisei writer. He is a co-facilitator for the Zen In Prisons (ZIP) group, an in-prison teaching artist with the William James Association, a lecturer in the CRGS department at Cal Poly Humboldt, and a current PhD student in the communication department at the University of Washington, Seattle. He holds an MFA from California State University, Long Beach, a BA in journalism with a minor in Religious Studies from Humboldt State (now Cal Poly Humboldt), and an AA in Journalism with a minor in Photography from Sacramento City College. His chapbook, Hyouhakusha: Desolate Travels of a Junkie on the Road, was published through Cold River Press. His first book of poems, Bamboo on the Tracks (Finishing Line Press), was selected by John Yau for the 2022 Robert Creeley Award and his second book of poems, Okaerinasai (Wet Cement Press), was a finalist for the 2024 Big Other Reader's Choice Award. His forthcoming book will be published through Kaya Press. He has been featured in various national and international anthologies, journals, and magazines.