Another Hamlet of the Road (a trilogy)

FEVER
his ego burns on these dark nights. it burns like trash heaps in India on tuesdays. it burns like flags and bibles and bras throughout the history of passionate politics. his ego drips like wax, messy and uneven. it smothers his attempts at un-selfconscious conversation. his waxy ego gathers in pale puddles, tries to harden into resolve, but despite the coldness of his world remains feverish and malleable.

WAITING
his personality has become synthetic. in equal parts pretty and pointless. he wraps himself in yak-wool blankets and sits on his porch at night. thick volumes of literature lie before him, and he turns their pages. no redemption here. maybe in the next chapter. maybe tonight. maybe next week, all will be revealed.

NOT LIKE KEROUAC
he set out to become found to himself. it's been a year. it's been 16 months. and now, more lost than ever, he disintegrates before his own eyes. he tries to catch the sands of what he used to believe in as they trickle, insubstantial, into passing time; happy to be free of him, and of his need for love, which blocks all other progress, and which will not, ever, die.

old men of chiang mai

old men sit bent over wooden tables in chiang mai alley ways. they come from somewhere, not here. but it doesn't matter now. they were white once, no more. the color of the streets, now. the color of the chair, the table, the shadows they find. their bones appear twisted, their necks crooked, like trees beaten by decades of wind. along their quivering laps their fingers dance, playing staccato melodies across their knees. their tongues move in and out of their mouths, like fish gills gasping for water. hidden in chiang mai's alleyways, old men, once young, men gasp for life.

my steering wheel is sticky

My steering wheel is sticky. It has honey on it. And pear. And chocolate. And tears. It has sun screen. And lip balm. And 97 octane super unleaded. It has orange peel. And ink. And a little caramel.

My steering wheel is sticky. But I'm used to it now.

[empty]

My cheeks became so rosy. My lips, too, they were a new red. I saw it in the early mornings when I would wake to the unwelcome truths of the day. My body full of promise. All our plans had come true. Even this one. And then I lay down there on that strange bench. I reached out for Doctor Suphatra's arm, but she barely noticed. When I woke up it was dead, and I wondered what else had died with it.

i, memory

She wanted to hold me. All the time. She wanted to feed me. To dress me. To brush my hair and pet me. She wanted in some part of her she learned from movies and her own mother to be a good influence in my life. To teach me about love and protection. But somehow in a way neither her nor I understood, she became disgusted when I lay in a pool of blood and water between her legs, wrinkled and curled from my nine month gestation, shrieking from the shock of passing through her dark body into a world of light. She became disgusted that day by the way she had been pinned down, her legs held apart, arms grounded, mouth stuffed, eyes left to gape. Her memory had no choice but to reject with primal violence all reflections of that day of her life. But for all its trying, there I was, forcing her to remember. So she had no choice but to reject me, with all the primal violence of her fist and belt and cutting board. I felt that she loved me between welts. But in the end, I was the memory she couldn't kill.

wrinkles wrinkles

Wrinkles, wrinkles.
Such gross manifestations of having lived.
We should sprout flowers for the days that have passed,
not wear time’s stretch marks like scars,
observing our skin’s decay while waiting for life to start.
Lines crawling around eyes trying to shine with youth,
cracking under laughter that makes us hungry for more life.
Wrinkles, grotesque and insincere.
Lies on the surface of our souls.
Cracks in the sweetness of our immortal dreams.

a piece of love

The sea pushes over the rocky shore and makes that sound that she loves. The old man is perched in his usual spot, playing his guitar and singing to himself in Spanish. She pulls her hoodie over her head and asks if she can sit down. He plays a few more songs then says: “Do you like my music?” “Yes, it’s beautiful.” “My wife, she screams at me... 'What is that horrible noise? Stop it, Miguel!’” By the end of his sentence he is strumming the next song. “I come here to get away. I am so hungry for a piece of love.”

home from abroad

It is cramped in here. It is shallow. It is dusty from decades of breathing the same air.
Nothing new grows here. But all that is here remains.
Things die, but they are reborn in the identical form. There is no evolution here.
Words do not travel through space here. They fall into traps that litter the air.
Sometimes a rainbow appears. It is like a mirage, but it is pretty, and we like pretty. No matter it is not real. No matter it will soon disappear.
It is cramped in here. It is shallow.
It is time for dinner. I’m coming, mum. I’m coming.

why i write

I write because the words depend on me to find them. I depend on them to find me, too.

never give up

Walking past a storefront, I see a magnet:
“'Never, never, never give up.’ – Winston Churchill.”
I go inside, pick up the magnet, go to the counter.
I wait.
Three shopkeepers, three people ignoring me.
They walk past me. They talk to each other. They answer the phone. They talk to other people.
I look at the magnet.
“Never, never, never give up.”
Who am I kidding?
I drop the magnet. Pick up my bag. Walk out