Sam Cha (he/him) hates bios. Not yours, just his. Not his life, just “bio” as genre. He woke up, after a night of troubled dreams, to find himself transformed into an American. Or, at any rate, a permanent resident. He finds it difficult to turn down requests from friends. Also, overshares when you don’t think he will. For instance, once, at a video game tournament, a friend gave him a small amount of off-white, gritty powder and requested that he insufflate, instanter. Whereupon he did, against his better judgment, and proceeded to win two consecutive matches against the second-best North American player of Soul Calibur 3, an Ivy prodigy who’d flown out from California. He could see the scanlines propagating on the CRT. He could identify each move his opponent was about to make by listening to the rhythm of the button presses on his Dual Shock2. Thereafter he became a poet, an unreliable emergency contact, a resolutely closemouthed presence at parties. He is the author of The Yellow Book, and of the only poem (so far) in the index of the Pushcart anthology that has the word “motherfucker” in the title. He met Dawn Gabriel at the Cantab. They live, with their progeny, in Cambridge, MA.