INTO THE WORDS
It was like going into my office,
That Melbourne Central Mall.
Although I didn’t have my own desk,
Because sometimes other people would have taken it.
But I’d find a spot at the tables,
Plug in the old computer,
And sit down and get to work on the novel.
(usually after blasting Beck’s Fuckin’ with my Head)
I’d mastered the art of nomadic writing,
Anywhere, anytime, anyplace.
I could write more easily than I could sleep,
Which I figured was a good thing.
So I’d get comfortable in my chair,
Make sure my ass cheeks were just right,
And lean down into the keys,
Staring wildly at the screen,
Wondering what would come from it.
In a sick way,
The screen was like an altar I prayed to,
The keys some modern rosary
Which I ran my fingers along,
nervously and happily.
In the words were the answers,
To all the mysteries of this life.
Monday, March 31, 2008
A POEM - TWO FRIENDS
TWO FRIENDS
“It's a good feeling,”
I wrote to him.
“when I wake up in the morning,
on the hard park benches,
to know that you're somewhere out there,
in this fuckin' world,
waking up in some hard place of your own,
swearing and groaning
at the same fuckin' sky.”
“It's a good feeling,”
I wrote to him.
“when I wake up in the morning,
on the hard park benches,
to know that you're somewhere out there,
in this fuckin' world,
waking up in some hard place of your own,
swearing and groaning
at the same fuckin' sky.”
A POEM - THE CUSTOMS OF THE MAD
THE CUSTOMS OF THE MAD
I’d developed this tremendous hunger
That was always with me.
I’d eat and eat and eat,
But nothing filled the gut.
And if it did,
It was only for a matter of minutes.
I’d come across some work the night before,
Slinging drinks at some night club.
I had a pocket full of change from tips,
Which amounted to some real money,
Like eighteen bucks.
Then I was going into this place at midnight,
With my friend Andrew.
I never had a work visa in those days,
But the guy said, “I can’t pay cash in hand,
But I’ll sort you out.”
I figured maybe a check or something.
Hell, a case of beer
Or a few bottles of wine would do just fine.
So I decided to splurge,
And go to the local Subway,
Get my hands on a real sandwich.
I put on my sweatshirt and walked over there.
It was right across the street.
I stood at the counter,
Only one girl ahead of me.
She had just gotten there too,
And was beginning to make her order,
To the woman behind the counter.
“I need, um, something without meat.”
“you could do chicken sandwich?”
“no, no. I don’t want to eat meat. It’s good Friday.”
“oh, oh. But that for Muslim, no?”
“no, for Christians. I can’t eat meat. Only fish,
but I already ate fish today.”
“you do veggie sandwich?”
“yeah, okay. I’ll do that.”
“do you want cheese?”
“no, no animal products on good Friday.”
I wondered what the hell it all meant,
Why people did the things they did.
Why they followed these customs,
These practices, these fool schemes?
What difference was there,
Between one living thing and another?
We’d all live and we’d all die.
You either chose to kill or chose not to kill,
Either way it was all just actions
In an action-based world.
She paid for her sandwich and walked off.
Was she content, happier?
Maybe she was, but who knew?
I ordered my sandwich,
paid and started in on it,
Hoping it would quell my hunger.
I’d developed this tremendous hunger
That was always with me.
I’d eat and eat and eat,
But nothing filled the gut.
And if it did,
It was only for a matter of minutes.
I’d come across some work the night before,
Slinging drinks at some night club.
I had a pocket full of change from tips,
Which amounted to some real money,
Like eighteen bucks.
Then I was going into this place at midnight,
With my friend Andrew.
I never had a work visa in those days,
But the guy said, “I can’t pay cash in hand,
But I’ll sort you out.”
I figured maybe a check or something.
Hell, a case of beer
Or a few bottles of wine would do just fine.
So I decided to splurge,
And go to the local Subway,
Get my hands on a real sandwich.
I put on my sweatshirt and walked over there.
It was right across the street.
I stood at the counter,
Only one girl ahead of me.
She had just gotten there too,
And was beginning to make her order,
To the woman behind the counter.
“I need, um, something without meat.”
“you could do chicken sandwich?”
“no, no. I don’t want to eat meat. It’s good Friday.”
“oh, oh. But that for Muslim, no?”
“no, for Christians. I can’t eat meat. Only fish,
but I already ate fish today.”
“you do veggie sandwich?”
“yeah, okay. I’ll do that.”
“do you want cheese?”
“no, no animal products on good Friday.”
I wondered what the hell it all meant,
Why people did the things they did.
Why they followed these customs,
These practices, these fool schemes?
What difference was there,
Between one living thing and another?
We’d all live and we’d all die.
You either chose to kill or chose not to kill,
Either way it was all just actions
In an action-based world.
She paid for her sandwich and walked off.
Was she content, happier?
Maybe she was, but who knew?
I ordered my sandwich,
paid and started in on it,
Hoping it would quell my hunger.
A POEM - I KNEW THAT I'D MAKE IT, I JUST DIDN'T KNOW HOW
I KNEW THAT I’D MAKE IT, I JUST DIDN’T KNOW HOW
It seemed like out there
On the road,
Just the same as back home,
there was always a chance,
But never a good one.
Single shots in the dark.
Trying to crack a bottle with blanks.
“how the fuck will I make it?”
I often wondered.
“how will I nail this thing?”
But in the end,
It wouldn’t matter how I would,
Just that I would, or if I would.
And even that didn’t matter,
All that much.
I’d had a good goddamn run.
It seemed like out there
On the road,
Just the same as back home,
there was always a chance,
But never a good one.
Single shots in the dark.
Trying to crack a bottle with blanks.
“how the fuck will I make it?”
I often wondered.
“how will I nail this thing?”
But in the end,
It wouldn’t matter how I would,
Just that I would, or if I would.
And even that didn’t matter,
All that much.
I’d had a good goddamn run.
A POEM - A WILD TIME IN A WILD WORLD
A WILD TIME IN THE WILD WORLD
There were certainly some weirdos
out there on the road.
Some who whined when they spoke,
Others who’d lost their minds in car crashes.
It was hard to stay sane,
Those times you’d look around,
And notice that everything was tilted,
you couldn’t stand up straight.
Human beings, the strangest animals,
And probably the only ones
Who could make themselves believe things
That they knew to be untrue.
It was a wild time in wild world.
I didn’t think I’d make it through.
There seemed to be no end to it all.
Many times I just wished I could
start over, start new, start fresh.
But then I’d snort and tell myself,
“naw, you’d just fuckin’ do it all
the same way again, anyway.”
There were certainly some weirdos
out there on the road.
Some who whined when they spoke,
Others who’d lost their minds in car crashes.
It was hard to stay sane,
Those times you’d look around,
And notice that everything was tilted,
you couldn’t stand up straight.
Human beings, the strangest animals,
And probably the only ones
Who could make themselves believe things
That they knew to be untrue.
It was a wild time in wild world.
I didn’t think I’d make it through.
There seemed to be no end to it all.
Many times I just wished I could
start over, start new, start fresh.
But then I’d snort and tell myself,
“naw, you’d just fuckin’ do it all
the same way again, anyway.”
THE FRENCH MAN, OUI OUI!
THE FRENCH MAN, OUI OUI!
The thing about the Frenchie
Wasn’t just that he’d get a phone call
Very early in the morning,
Take the call
and begin blabbering loudly
in his native tongue while the five of us
were just trying to get some sleep before work.
It wasn’t just that he’d prance around
In his underpants,
Or unplug our chargers
From the electrical sockets
to plug in his own.
These were annoyances, certainly.
But what pissed me off about the Frenchie
Was that I knew he did these things
Only because he thought he was better than us.
The thing about the Frenchie
Wasn’t just that he’d get a phone call
Very early in the morning,
Take the call
and begin blabbering loudly
in his native tongue while the five of us
were just trying to get some sleep before work.
It wasn’t just that he’d prance around
In his underpants,
Or unplug our chargers
From the electrical sockets
to plug in his own.
These were annoyances, certainly.
But what pissed me off about the Frenchie
Was that I knew he did these things
Only because he thought he was better than us.
A POEM - THE MAN AT THE BAR
THE MAN AT THE BAR
He was sitting there at the bar,
Drinking drinks and occasionally looking about.
It was clear he was waiting for a person,
Most likely a broad.
Finally a broad came in and sat down,
But not next to him.
He didn’t care.
He chatted her up,
Smiling like a fool,
His face all red and sweaty.
They went through the game,
made the motions, the nods,
Then got up,
The man grinning broadly,
Knowing he’d scored the broad.
“oh, wait,” he said,
Beckoning the unconcerned barman.
“do you have a pen and paper.”
The barman nodded and came back with them.
The man scribbled MARY on the piece of paper,
Then wrote a little note, folded it,
And slipped it to the barman with a wink,
Then he left with the broad he’d met.
The barman unfolded the note and read,
“I had to go. So sorry.
Exhausted from a long day’s work.
Maybe we can set up a time to meet again?
Please give me a call, Jim.”
The barman chuckled, crumpled up the note,
And threw it in the trash.
What the hell did he care?
He was sitting there at the bar,
Drinking drinks and occasionally looking about.
It was clear he was waiting for a person,
Most likely a broad.
Finally a broad came in and sat down,
But not next to him.
He didn’t care.
He chatted her up,
Smiling like a fool,
His face all red and sweaty.
They went through the game,
made the motions, the nods,
Then got up,
The man grinning broadly,
Knowing he’d scored the broad.
“oh, wait,” he said,
Beckoning the unconcerned barman.
“do you have a pen and paper.”
The barman nodded and came back with them.
The man scribbled MARY on the piece of paper,
Then wrote a little note, folded it,
And slipped it to the barman with a wink,
Then he left with the broad he’d met.
The barman unfolded the note and read,
“I had to go. So sorry.
Exhausted from a long day’s work.
Maybe we can set up a time to meet again?
Please give me a call, Jim.”
The barman chuckled, crumpled up the note,
And threw it in the trash.
What the hell did he care?
A POEM - BECOMING THE ME I ALWAYS MEANT TO BECOME
BECOMING THE ME I WAS ALWAYS MEANT TO BECOME
Oh, the way I haunted those hostels.
Stumbling around with near fatal hang overs,
Dripping sweat from my face,
Never having any recollection
Of the havoc I’d raised
Or the hell I’d unleashed the night before.
The people I’d offended
Or the enemies I’d made.
And the people, most of them kids almost,
They’d gawk at me when I passed through,
As I lumbered along, sore feet and wounded leg,
Coughing and spitting and just being
The nasty old fuck I’d always longed to become.
Every now and then I’d stop,
turn and look at them and snarl,
“oh, what the hell?”
Oh, the way I haunted those hostels.
Stumbling around with near fatal hang overs,
Dripping sweat from my face,
Never having any recollection
Of the havoc I’d raised
Or the hell I’d unleashed the night before.
The people I’d offended
Or the enemies I’d made.
And the people, most of them kids almost,
They’d gawk at me when I passed through,
As I lumbered along, sore feet and wounded leg,
Coughing and spitting and just being
The nasty old fuck I’d always longed to become.
Every now and then I’d stop,
turn and look at them and snarl,
“oh, what the hell?”
A POEM - THE OLD CHILEAN WOMAN DIDN'T UNDERSTAND
THE OLD CHILEAN WOMAN DIDN’T UNDERSTAND
I was standing there,
Smoking a cig and talking with an old Chilean woman
Who was standing in the doorway.
Then he came right up to me and said,
“man, I see you staring at me and my girl!
What the fuck is that all about?”
It was the first time I’d seen him
And I hadn’t ever seen his girl.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”
I said to him, going right back to talking
with the old Chilean woman in the doorway.
“man, I see you do it! You just stare!”
He wanted to fight and I was beginning
To want to give it to him,
But the old Chilean woman came in between,
And then the little fucker got pulled back by his friends
to his girl, wherever she was.
“it’s the drugs,” said the Chilean woman.
“it’s the terrible drugs these kids do.”
“I don’t care what it is,” I said,
Now staring back at the guy,
Quietly egging him on as his friends held him back.
“no, no, don’t fight. What use is fighting?”
I turned my gaze to her and said simply,
“because it’s fun.”
She looked at me strangely,
Like she was seeing something she’d never seen before
And hadn’t made up her mind about it.
“and besides,” I said.
“I think I could take the little bastard.
As long as his friends don’t jump in.”
“no, no,” she kept saying. “it’s the drugs.
These kids are lost. They can’t see things as they are.
They see things that are there that aren’t there.”
I looked at her again and chuckled.
What the fuck was I doing there?
In that city, that country, the world.
None of it made any sense at all.
I was standing there,
Smoking a cig and talking with an old Chilean woman
Who was standing in the doorway.
Then he came right up to me and said,
“man, I see you staring at me and my girl!
What the fuck is that all about?”
It was the first time I’d seen him
And I hadn’t ever seen his girl.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”
I said to him, going right back to talking
with the old Chilean woman in the doorway.
“man, I see you do it! You just stare!”
He wanted to fight and I was beginning
To want to give it to him,
But the old Chilean woman came in between,
And then the little fucker got pulled back by his friends
to his girl, wherever she was.
“it’s the drugs,” said the Chilean woman.
“it’s the terrible drugs these kids do.”
“I don’t care what it is,” I said,
Now staring back at the guy,
Quietly egging him on as his friends held him back.
“no, no, don’t fight. What use is fighting?”
I turned my gaze to her and said simply,
“because it’s fun.”
She looked at me strangely,
Like she was seeing something she’d never seen before
And hadn’t made up her mind about it.
“and besides,” I said.
“I think I could take the little bastard.
As long as his friends don’t jump in.”
“no, no,” she kept saying. “it’s the drugs.
These kids are lost. They can’t see things as they are.
They see things that are there that aren’t there.”
I looked at her again and chuckled.
What the fuck was I doing there?
In that city, that country, the world.
None of it made any sense at all.
A POEM - FIRST NIGHT
FIRST NIGHT
I hadn’t slept on the plane the night before.
But I wasn’t tired.
You can’t be tired when you’re excited.
I walked around for two hours,
Trying to find a hostel that wasn’t full.
Some sort of car racing thing was going on.
When I found one I set down my things,
And hit the streets.
To understand a city,
you have to get lost in her streets.
I hadn’t slept on the plane the night before.
But I wasn’t tired.
You can’t be tired when you’re excited.
I walked around for two hours,
Trying to find a hostel that wasn’t full.
Some sort of car racing thing was going on.
When I found one I set down my things,
And hit the streets.
To understand a city,
you have to get lost in her streets.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A POEM - THIS IS NOT A VISA RUN
THIS IS NOT A VISA RUN
Back in SE Asia,
You’d make visa runs.
These were short trips
Out of a country,
Where you’d cross a border,
Buy a beer,
Drink it down,
And be able to come back,
And get another tourist visa,
For another thirty days,
From the country you wanted to stay in.
I’d done a few of those,
But in Australia it was a new thing.
You didn’t leave to cross a border,
But you left to find cash work,
In some other part of the country.
This new thing, ho ho!
You’d call it a Mastercard run!
Back in SE Asia,
You’d make visa runs.
These were short trips
Out of a country,
Where you’d cross a border,
Buy a beer,
Drink it down,
And be able to come back,
And get another tourist visa,
For another thirty days,
From the country you wanted to stay in.
I’d done a few of those,
But in Australia it was a new thing.
You didn’t leave to cross a border,
But you left to find cash work,
In some other part of the country.
This new thing, ho ho!
You’d call it a Mastercard run!
A POEM - NOBODY'S PERFECT
NOBODY’S PERFECT
The old bastard came in
And sat next to me on the subway.
He had on a sharp black velvet suit
And a matching fez.
If he knew the tune,
He’d have been whistling Dixie.
Everything about him was immaculate.
His hat, his trimmed beard,
Not a hair out of place,
Not a piece of lint on his suit.
Then I looked down at his feet.
His razor sharp ironed pants
Pointed towards his toes
Which stuck out of his sandals.
His toes were clean with clipped nails.
“but wait!” I thought,
“he’s only got four toes on that foot!”
It was true.
The second smallest toe on his right foot
Just simply wasn’t there,
Like it had never been there at all,
Just a smooth little spot.
“nice,” I thought. “nobody’s perfect.”
The old bastard came in
And sat next to me on the subway.
He had on a sharp black velvet suit
And a matching fez.
If he knew the tune,
He’d have been whistling Dixie.
Everything about him was immaculate.
His hat, his trimmed beard,
Not a hair out of place,
Not a piece of lint on his suit.
Then I looked down at his feet.
His razor sharp ironed pants
Pointed towards his toes
Which stuck out of his sandals.
His toes were clean with clipped nails.
“but wait!” I thought,
“he’s only got four toes on that foot!”
It was true.
The second smallest toe on his right foot
Just simply wasn’t there,
Like it had never been there at all,
Just a smooth little spot.
“nice,” I thought. “nobody’s perfect.”
Sunday, March 23, 2008
A POEM - PLS ALWAYS REMEMBER ME
PLS ALWAYS REMEMBER ME
I was at the exit border for Indonesia,
Fumbling around through my wallet
To find that Singapore ten spot
Because the bastards at the border
Wanted seven of it.
“there goes another five bucks,”
I grumbled, handing the money over.
Then a little slip of paper fell out
Of my cardboard wallet.
I picked it up and looked at it.
“Marina/April” it said,
With a telephone number and email address.
At the bottom it read,
“pls always remember me.”
I stared at it a moment,
Trying to place the name,
Then crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor.
“oh, I’ll remember you all right.”
I was at the exit border for Indonesia,
Fumbling around through my wallet
To find that Singapore ten spot
Because the bastards at the border
Wanted seven of it.
“there goes another five bucks,”
I grumbled, handing the money over.
Then a little slip of paper fell out
Of my cardboard wallet.
I picked it up and looked at it.
“Marina/April” it said,
With a telephone number and email address.
At the bottom it read,
“pls always remember me.”
I stared at it a moment,
Trying to place the name,
Then crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor.
“oh, I’ll remember you all right.”
A POEM - CLAYTON FROM KANSAS
CLAYTON FROM KANSAS
I was sitting there at the kitchen table,
In Ali’s Homestay,
Trying to write a novel.
Clayton the Kansan came in,
A stupid, lunatic grin on his sweaty face.
“I think Ali’s kinda shady,” he said, smirking.
“I think he’s, like, a shady character.”
I glared at him for a moment,
from over the top of my laptop screen,
then let out a loud hoot and said,
“well, Clayton. I think you’re a fuckin’ nutcase!”
I was sitting there at the kitchen table,
In Ali’s Homestay,
Trying to write a novel.
Clayton the Kansan came in,
A stupid, lunatic grin on his sweaty face.
“I think Ali’s kinda shady,” he said, smirking.
“I think he’s, like, a shady character.”
I glared at him for a moment,
from over the top of my laptop screen,
then let out a loud hoot and said,
“well, Clayton. I think you’re a fuckin’ nutcase!”
A POEM - ONE MORE NIGHT
ONE MORE NIGHT
I’d finally found a pen to nab,
And I nabbed it,
Only to find out the fucker didn’t write!
“oh, JESUS CHRIST!” I shouted,
Angry as hell that even the pens
In Indonesia were too cheap to work.
I took a few deep breaths and said,
“it’s all right. Only one more night.”
I’d finally found a pen to nab,
And I nabbed it,
Only to find out the fucker didn’t write!
“oh, JESUS CHRIST!” I shouted,
Angry as hell that even the pens
In Indonesia were too cheap to work.
I took a few deep breaths and said,
“it’s all right. Only one more night.”
A POEM - THE POOR BASTARD HAD MONEY
THE POOR BASTARD HAD MONEY
He was walking by with a girl,
Just outright begging her for it.
“please!” he said, “please!
Come home with me, please!”
The girl kept on walking
And finally he grabbed her hand
And shouted, “please, come on!
And money’s not an issue!
I have plenty of money!”
She turned and looked at him, disgusted,
And then went on her way.
I was sitting on a dirty curb,
Drinking piss beer and chuckling,
watching the scene play out.
“man,” I thought, shaking my head.
“what a life that must be!
‘money not an issue.’ Aw, man,
What I’d do if money wasn’t an issue.”
The guy watched her walk for a few moments,
Thinking maybe she’d turn around.
I took another swig of beer and smiled,
Thinking, “and still the bastard can’t get laid.”
When she didn’t turn around,
And just kept on going down the dark street,
he wrung his hands up at the dark sky and yelled,
“arrggghhh!! What the fuck?!”
He was walking by with a girl,
Just outright begging her for it.
“please!” he said, “please!
Come home with me, please!”
The girl kept on walking
And finally he grabbed her hand
And shouted, “please, come on!
And money’s not an issue!
I have plenty of money!”
She turned and looked at him, disgusted,
And then went on her way.
I was sitting on a dirty curb,
Drinking piss beer and chuckling,
watching the scene play out.
“man,” I thought, shaking my head.
“what a life that must be!
‘money not an issue.’ Aw, man,
What I’d do if money wasn’t an issue.”
The guy watched her walk for a few moments,
Thinking maybe she’d turn around.
I took another swig of beer and smiled,
Thinking, “and still the bastard can’t get laid.”
When she didn’t turn around,
And just kept on going down the dark street,
he wrung his hands up at the dark sky and yelled,
“arrggghhh!! What the fuck?!”
A POEM - GIMME MY RIGHT TO WRITE
GIMME MY RIGHT TO WRITE
“dear,” I said, looking upon her body,
Just being completely disgusted with her it,
And her face and her grubby feet and her eyes,
But mostly with the fact that she’d knock on my door,
Let herself in, lie down on my bed
and just begin to talk and talk and talk,
about how she had pains in her crotch
and how somebody had caused it with voodoo,
and how in the end god would take care of her,
and give her the fortune of finding true love.
“I’m trying to write a fuckin’ book, here!
You gotta go! Shooo!”
“dear,” I said, looking upon her body,
Just being completely disgusted with her it,
And her face and her grubby feet and her eyes,
But mostly with the fact that she’d knock on my door,
Let herself in, lie down on my bed
and just begin to talk and talk and talk,
about how she had pains in her crotch
and how somebody had caused it with voodoo,
and how in the end god would take care of her,
and give her the fortune of finding true love.
“I’m trying to write a fuckin’ book, here!
You gotta go! Shooo!”
A POEM - IT WAS THE GREATEST THING I'D EVER HEARD
IT WAS THE GREATEST THING I’D EVER HEARD
I was sitting there, at the ‘restoran.’
Drinking my beer and sipping at my tea,
Waiting for my food to come out of the oven.
There was a small crowd in the place,
Some who spoke English and most who didn’t.
Then, over the television
and the faint 80’s American rock,
Between the Bahasa language and the laughter,
I heard an old man’s voice saw through it all.
“hey, I know you. Oh, I fuckin’ know you!” he said.
“Yeah. Twenty years ago! Twenty years ago,”
then he paused, finally continuing,”
“twenty years ago, you stole my bicycle!”
I looked over and saw this little man,
Pointing a little gnarled finger
at another little old man.
I began to chuckle, and then laugh,
And finally I was crying with laughter.
It was the greatest thing I’d ever heard.
I was sitting there, at the ‘restoran.’
Drinking my beer and sipping at my tea,
Waiting for my food to come out of the oven.
There was a small crowd in the place,
Some who spoke English and most who didn’t.
Then, over the television
and the faint 80’s American rock,
Between the Bahasa language and the laughter,
I heard an old man’s voice saw through it all.
“hey, I know you. Oh, I fuckin’ know you!” he said.
“Yeah. Twenty years ago! Twenty years ago,”
then he paused, finally continuing,”
“twenty years ago, you stole my bicycle!”
I looked over and saw this little man,
Pointing a little gnarled finger
at another little old man.
I began to chuckle, and then laugh,
And finally I was crying with laughter.
It was the greatest thing I’d ever heard.
A POEM - JUST DON'T FOLLOW ME HOME
JUST DON’T FOLLOW ME HOME
What it had come down to was this:
I was trying to just pass the days,
Those last days in Jakarta, in southeast Asia.
Maybe it was some wicked joke,
Played on my by some sick god,
With a sicker sense of humor than mine.
I couldn’t leave my rooms.
The whores were everywhere,
And they just annoyed the hell outta me.
They were working at the hotel,
staying at the hotel,
Working in the food stands,
sitting on the curbs.
They’d approach me while I was eating,
And I’d shake my head and they’d disappear,
Back into the shadows, the darkness.
But then I’d been in my room,
Drinking the day away and hiding out.
I needed food, and I needed it bad.
So I went out to a restoran,
Shaking them off along the way,
Their dark, narrow, clutching fingers, ugh!
I made it to my spot and ordered my food.
Indian food, I fuckin’ loved it,
But not as much as I loved the sambal,
The hot national hot sauce.
I nearly just drank the shit.
But I had this thing about me,
This physiological fuckup,
Where when I ate hot food I sweated profusely,
Great rivers coming down my face and neck.
I sweated like some fool about to be fried.
But I loved the hot sauce too much.
So I just kept pouring it over my food,
The rice and the samosas and the chapattis.
I went through napkin after napkin,
Wiping the sweat away.
But it kept pouring out of me as I drank tea and beer,
And the whores kept coming up to talk.
There were thin ones and fat ones,
Boy ones and girl ones, gay and straight.
The ones I’d met the night before gave me new names,
The gay ones tried the straight approach,
The straight ones tried the gay approach,
And all was madness.
All the time there was this little black man,
Nationality unknown,
Who just kept laughing and laughing at me,
Stopping only to light new cigarettes,
And pull at new beers.
“oh my god!” he’d shout, slapping his knees,
“oh my god! She’s his friend! She’s everybody’s friend!”
Distorted through drunkenness and nationalities,
I thought he had a hell of a sense of humor
And I began laughing too.
Laughing and sweating, just pouring sweat.
It dripped from my nose and into my tea.
It ran down my neck and my cheek bones
and soaked my hair.
I told wild lies to the whores,
About my great fears of water and hobbits
And how I was married but had lost my ring,
How I was traveling the world,
Retracing my steps from my first trip,
Trying to find the ring.
I told them I had eight kids at home,
And I couldn’t even remember all their names,
Or how many were girls and how many were boys.
But the whores, they had come backs for everything,
Could create conversation better than used car salesmen,
And I knew I was toast.
Finally I finished my beer and listened to a harangue
By a fat little whore,
the one who’d knocked on my door the night before, telling me she loved me.
She spoke about her husbands and her kids,
About how she’d been attacked by black magic,
And then saved again by white magic,
how she was really just looking for true love,
And that god would grant her true love
If she kept on looking.
I nodded and tried to remember her words,
Because they were so fucked up and shit-filled.
She asked me what I did and in a moment of sobriety,
I told her I was a writer.
“I am too!” she shouted. “I want to write about my life.”
“everybody wants to write about their lives,” I laughed.
“but nobody wants to actually live them! Ahh hahahhaa!”
It was all a big joke to me.
I was in the final stretch, the last hundred meters
Of a long, desperate fuckin’ race.
All their lies were so transparent
That you couldn’t help from laughing in their faces.
In my mind echoed the words from Banch,
The Japanese guy I’d met a few cities south.
“they like keets, man. Keets! I can’t believe it!”
They were like kids.
And like kids, you almost felt compelled to believe them,
If for nothing more than to experience
their childish insanity,
Even if only through their minds and their eyes.
“keets! Man, they like keets! They so full of sheet!”
While the girl was talking
I packed up my stuff into my hat.
My glasses, my cigarettes, my lighter,
And a pen I planned on stealing.
I’d been a penless writer for too long.
“These words had to be written down,” I thought.
“oh, oh! Am I talk to much?” she asked.
I was all laughs like a drunk being tossed back
into the same drunk tank he’d been in the night before.
countless beers on top of already going insane
had really done it to me.
“no, no!” I shouted at her, laughing and laughing.
“no, keep on talking. Talk all night! Ahh ho ho ho!
Stay here and talk all night,
Talk your fuckin’ heart out, dear,
just don’t follow me home! Oh, ho ho ho!”
What it had come down to was this:
I was trying to just pass the days,
Those last days in Jakarta, in southeast Asia.
Maybe it was some wicked joke,
Played on my by some sick god,
With a sicker sense of humor than mine.
I couldn’t leave my rooms.
The whores were everywhere,
And they just annoyed the hell outta me.
They were working at the hotel,
staying at the hotel,
Working in the food stands,
sitting on the curbs.
They’d approach me while I was eating,
And I’d shake my head and they’d disappear,
Back into the shadows, the darkness.
But then I’d been in my room,
Drinking the day away and hiding out.
I needed food, and I needed it bad.
So I went out to a restoran,
Shaking them off along the way,
Their dark, narrow, clutching fingers, ugh!
I made it to my spot and ordered my food.
Indian food, I fuckin’ loved it,
But not as much as I loved the sambal,
The hot national hot sauce.
I nearly just drank the shit.
But I had this thing about me,
This physiological fuckup,
Where when I ate hot food I sweated profusely,
Great rivers coming down my face and neck.
I sweated like some fool about to be fried.
But I loved the hot sauce too much.
So I just kept pouring it over my food,
The rice and the samosas and the chapattis.
I went through napkin after napkin,
Wiping the sweat away.
But it kept pouring out of me as I drank tea and beer,
And the whores kept coming up to talk.
There were thin ones and fat ones,
Boy ones and girl ones, gay and straight.
The ones I’d met the night before gave me new names,
The gay ones tried the straight approach,
The straight ones tried the gay approach,
And all was madness.
All the time there was this little black man,
Nationality unknown,
Who just kept laughing and laughing at me,
Stopping only to light new cigarettes,
And pull at new beers.
“oh my god!” he’d shout, slapping his knees,
“oh my god! She’s his friend! She’s everybody’s friend!”
Distorted through drunkenness and nationalities,
I thought he had a hell of a sense of humor
And I began laughing too.
Laughing and sweating, just pouring sweat.
It dripped from my nose and into my tea.
It ran down my neck and my cheek bones
and soaked my hair.
I told wild lies to the whores,
About my great fears of water and hobbits
And how I was married but had lost my ring,
How I was traveling the world,
Retracing my steps from my first trip,
Trying to find the ring.
I told them I had eight kids at home,
And I couldn’t even remember all their names,
Or how many were girls and how many were boys.
But the whores, they had come backs for everything,
Could create conversation better than used car salesmen,
And I knew I was toast.
Finally I finished my beer and listened to a harangue
By a fat little whore,
the one who’d knocked on my door the night before, telling me she loved me.
She spoke about her husbands and her kids,
About how she’d been attacked by black magic,
And then saved again by white magic,
how she was really just looking for true love,
And that god would grant her true love
If she kept on looking.
I nodded and tried to remember her words,
Because they were so fucked up and shit-filled.
She asked me what I did and in a moment of sobriety,
I told her I was a writer.
“I am too!” she shouted. “I want to write about my life.”
“everybody wants to write about their lives,” I laughed.
“but nobody wants to actually live them! Ahh hahahhaa!”
It was all a big joke to me.
I was in the final stretch, the last hundred meters
Of a long, desperate fuckin’ race.
All their lies were so transparent
That you couldn’t help from laughing in their faces.
In my mind echoed the words from Banch,
The Japanese guy I’d met a few cities south.
“they like keets, man. Keets! I can’t believe it!”
They were like kids.
And like kids, you almost felt compelled to believe them,
If for nothing more than to experience
their childish insanity,
Even if only through their minds and their eyes.
“keets! Man, they like keets! They so full of sheet!”
While the girl was talking
I packed up my stuff into my hat.
My glasses, my cigarettes, my lighter,
And a pen I planned on stealing.
I’d been a penless writer for too long.
“These words had to be written down,” I thought.
“oh, oh! Am I talk to much?” she asked.
I was all laughs like a drunk being tossed back
into the same drunk tank he’d been in the night before.
countless beers on top of already going insane
had really done it to me.
“no, no!” I shouted at her, laughing and laughing.
“no, keep on talking. Talk all night! Ahh ho ho ho!
Stay here and talk all night,
Talk your fuckin’ heart out, dear,
just don’t follow me home! Oh, ho ho ho!”
A POEM - JUST HOW CHEAP HAD I BECOME?
JUST HOW CHEAP HAD I BECOME?
One day, while squatting over a dirty toilet
Which had no seat, I realized how cheap I’d become.
I knew I was cheap before I’d left,
But this new cheapness was madness.
I’d finished up with my shit
And was unrolling toilet paper to wipe my ass.
I was counting the squares, one, two, three...
And at eight or nine I’d stop,
Unpeel the two sides from one another
To make it a thicker mass,
And go on with wiping my ass.
Of course it took a couple wipes,
Because my stomach wasn’t in perfect order,
All that hot sauce to kill the germs in the food,
Never mind the water I was drinking from the tap,
In a city with a population of nearly 10 million,
where only 3% of the households
Were connected to the main sewer system.
But after my third wipe I stopped,
Looked at the roll in my hand,
And considered how it had only cost me 22 cents.
And there I was, perched over my filth,
Counting out sheets which might have cost,
If really breaking it down,
Less than a tenth of a cent each.
“jesus!” I shouted,
My voice booming through the open doorway into my room, then throughout the entire hotel.
“I gotta get the hell outta here!”
One day, while squatting over a dirty toilet
Which had no seat, I realized how cheap I’d become.
I knew I was cheap before I’d left,
But this new cheapness was madness.
I’d finished up with my shit
And was unrolling toilet paper to wipe my ass.
I was counting the squares, one, two, three...
And at eight or nine I’d stop,
Unpeel the two sides from one another
To make it a thicker mass,
And go on with wiping my ass.
Of course it took a couple wipes,
Because my stomach wasn’t in perfect order,
All that hot sauce to kill the germs in the food,
Never mind the water I was drinking from the tap,
In a city with a population of nearly 10 million,
where only 3% of the households
Were connected to the main sewer system.
But after my third wipe I stopped,
Looked at the roll in my hand,
And considered how it had only cost me 22 cents.
And there I was, perched over my filth,
Counting out sheets which might have cost,
If really breaking it down,
Less than a tenth of a cent each.
“jesus!” I shouted,
My voice booming through the open doorway into my room, then throughout the entire hotel.
“I gotta get the hell outta here!”
A POEM - THE BEST DAYS OF MY LIFE
THE BEST DAYS OF MY LIFE
The little money I had left,
It had to be saved,
couldn’t be spent frivolously.
So, many days, many nights,
I’d find myself buying beers
From the convenience stores,
Cigarettes from the street vendors,
And hiding out in my hotel room,
Listening to country music,
The same songs over and over again,
Steadily sipping but not guzzling my beers,
Smoking a cig every now and then,
Staring at the ceiling,
Blinking, thinking, and knowing,
“these will turn out to be
some of the best days of my life.”
The little money I had left,
It had to be saved,
couldn’t be spent frivolously.
So, many days, many nights,
I’d find myself buying beers
From the convenience stores,
Cigarettes from the street vendors,
And hiding out in my hotel room,
Listening to country music,
The same songs over and over again,
Steadily sipping but not guzzling my beers,
Smoking a cig every now and then,
Staring at the ceiling,
Blinking, thinking, and knowing,
“these will turn out to be
some of the best days of my life.”
A POEM - I WAS THE BASTARD THAT WOULD DIE HAVING HAD A GOOD RUN
I WAS THE BASTARD THAT WOULD DIE HAVING HAD A GOOD RUN
Out there in Jakarta the rain drove down,
Making the streets into one sloppy, filthy maze,
With no real way out for miles.
But I was inside, holed up in another dirty room,
No seat on the toilet,
Water that only dripped out of the faucet,
And cigarette burns covering any horizontal surface.
I was paying my dues to the word gods,
Thinking, “well, this is it, old boy.
These are you last few days in SE Asia,
And this is exactly how you should be spending them.”
Onto the next continent for new exploits,
New words about new places and new people.
I was looking forward
to speaking the local language again.
Looking forward to easily understanding time tables,
And not getting scammed or ripped off constantly.
Being able to hitch hike again,
And not asked for money upon getting a ride.
Sure I had my worries,
where to sleep at night in an expensive country,
where to find illegal work, that type of thing.
But I knew it would all work out in the end, finally.
And if it didn’t, then what the hell?
Australia was famous for its remote outback.
I’d just wander off into the woods and give it up.
I’d made it that far,
and maybe that was fuckin’ far enough.
Besides, no matter where I was, I’d die comfortably,
Comfortable in the knowledge that at my funeral,
my buddy would honestly declare, standing over my grave,
“well, that bastard had a good run.
Nobody here can say he didn’t.”
Out there in Jakarta the rain drove down,
Making the streets into one sloppy, filthy maze,
With no real way out for miles.
But I was inside, holed up in another dirty room,
No seat on the toilet,
Water that only dripped out of the faucet,
And cigarette burns covering any horizontal surface.
I was paying my dues to the word gods,
Thinking, “well, this is it, old boy.
These are you last few days in SE Asia,
And this is exactly how you should be spending them.”
Onto the next continent for new exploits,
New words about new places and new people.
I was looking forward
to speaking the local language again.
Looking forward to easily understanding time tables,
And not getting scammed or ripped off constantly.
Being able to hitch hike again,
And not asked for money upon getting a ride.
Sure I had my worries,
where to sleep at night in an expensive country,
where to find illegal work, that type of thing.
But I knew it would all work out in the end, finally.
And if it didn’t, then what the hell?
Australia was famous for its remote outback.
I’d just wander off into the woods and give it up.
I’d made it that far,
and maybe that was fuckin’ far enough.
Besides, no matter where I was, I’d die comfortably,
Comfortable in the knowledge that at my funeral,
my buddy would honestly declare, standing over my grave,
“well, that bastard had a good run.
Nobody here can say he didn’t.”
A POEM - SHE TOLD ME SHE LOVED ME THROUGH A CRACK IN THE DOOR
SHE TOLD ME SHE LOVED ME THROUGH A CRACK IN THE DOOR
I was in my hotel room,
A nice, fancy ten dollar job,
AC and my own bathroom.
The toilet had no seat
And water only trickled out of the showerhead,
But it was only one night and the AC blasted.
I was doing time at the keys,
Just playing with the poems.
Nothing decent was coming of it,
And I’d finished my beer.
“I’ll just listen to a few songs,
Then go down and buy another beer,”
I thought, lying down in my bed,
Exhausted from the buses
And the shared taxis and the trains,
The torrential rains and overflowing sewers,
All of which I was facing on one meal a day.
I had just hit the bed
when there was a knock on my door.
“oh, what the hell?” I wondered,
Then remembered that I’d emailed a friend
I’d met in Yogyakarta, to come by
If he was still in town when he got the email.
“hello?” I asked.
But it was a girl’s voice who said,
“Jack? Can I come in?”
“uh, one minute. Who is it?”
“it’s Morena.”
I tried to place the name,
But thought that never in my life
had I met a single Morena.
“from downstairs. I stay here.”
“oh, right,” I remembered.
I’d met her quickly a few hours ago,
When I’d checked in.
She was this chubby, smiling Indonesian thing,
And I had a feeling she wasn’t
The kind of girl that was out vacationing.
More like she was out whoring.
“uh,” I said dumbly. “I’m really tired.”
“just for five minutes?”
“five minutes and five or ten bucks,”
I chuckled, admiring my wisdom of the southeast.
“naw. I’m really tired. Gonna sleep.”
There was a long pause.
I’d been blasting music
and the lights were on.
“Jack?”
“yeah?” I said, trying to sound sleepy.
“I love you.”
Now what the fuck could I say to that?
I was alone as hell,
In Indonesia,
and some girl was knocking on my door
at half past twelve,
standing there and saying,
“I love you.”
Out of habit, from refusing the touts
And the vendors and the beggars,
I almost said, “no thanks.”
But love wasn’t something you could refuse.
So I said, still trying to sound very tired,
“that’s okay, but I’m going to sleep.”
It was maybe the strangest response I’d ever given.
Id’ responded before with awkward silence, or,
“I love you too,” or
“no you don’t,” or
“bullshit,” and the odd,
“please don’t.”
But never before had I told a girl,
“that’s okay, but I’m going to sleep.”
I smiled, waiting to see about her response,
But she said nothing.
I could see her through the gaping crack in the door,
Standing there, “loving” me.
So I stood up and turned off the light
And began to write this poem.
For many minutes she didn’t go away,
And when she did,
She just went down the hall
to hack up something into the toilet.
I was sleeping in a whorehouse and getting no action.
I lit a cigarette and gave that some thought.
I was in my hotel room,
A nice, fancy ten dollar job,
AC and my own bathroom.
The toilet had no seat
And water only trickled out of the showerhead,
But it was only one night and the AC blasted.
I was doing time at the keys,
Just playing with the poems.
Nothing decent was coming of it,
And I’d finished my beer.
“I’ll just listen to a few songs,
Then go down and buy another beer,”
I thought, lying down in my bed,
Exhausted from the buses
And the shared taxis and the trains,
The torrential rains and overflowing sewers,
All of which I was facing on one meal a day.
I had just hit the bed
when there was a knock on my door.
“oh, what the hell?” I wondered,
Then remembered that I’d emailed a friend
I’d met in Yogyakarta, to come by
If he was still in town when he got the email.
“hello?” I asked.
But it was a girl’s voice who said,
“Jack? Can I come in?”
“uh, one minute. Who is it?”
“it’s Morena.”
I tried to place the name,
But thought that never in my life
had I met a single Morena.
“from downstairs. I stay here.”
“oh, right,” I remembered.
I’d met her quickly a few hours ago,
When I’d checked in.
She was this chubby, smiling Indonesian thing,
And I had a feeling she wasn’t
The kind of girl that was out vacationing.
More like she was out whoring.
“uh,” I said dumbly. “I’m really tired.”
“just for five minutes?”
“five minutes and five or ten bucks,”
I chuckled, admiring my wisdom of the southeast.
“naw. I’m really tired. Gonna sleep.”
There was a long pause.
I’d been blasting music
and the lights were on.
“Jack?”
“yeah?” I said, trying to sound sleepy.
“I love you.”
Now what the fuck could I say to that?
I was alone as hell,
In Indonesia,
and some girl was knocking on my door
at half past twelve,
standing there and saying,
“I love you.”
Out of habit, from refusing the touts
And the vendors and the beggars,
I almost said, “no thanks.”
But love wasn’t something you could refuse.
So I said, still trying to sound very tired,
“that’s okay, but I’m going to sleep.”
It was maybe the strangest response I’d ever given.
Id’ responded before with awkward silence, or,
“I love you too,” or
“no you don’t,” or
“bullshit,” and the odd,
“please don’t.”
But never before had I told a girl,
“that’s okay, but I’m going to sleep.”
I smiled, waiting to see about her response,
But she said nothing.
I could see her through the gaping crack in the door,
Standing there, “loving” me.
So I stood up and turned off the light
And began to write this poem.
For many minutes she didn’t go away,
And when she did,
She just went down the hall
to hack up something into the toilet.
I was sleeping in a whorehouse and getting no action.
I lit a cigarette and gave that some thought.
A POEM - THOSE STRANGE TIMES
THOSE STRANGE TIMES
They were strange times and I was a strange person.
I was a stranger even to myself.
Mixed up with so many cultures,
So many people and so many different beds slept in.
I felt I left a part of me in each one.
A finger here, an elbow there,
And now I was just this phantom,
Wandering around the world,
Invisible, morbid and unfulfilled,
But still having to pick up the pack each morning,
Hoist it up onto my shoulders and hit the road,
Always waking up and hitting the road.
“fuck it,” I’d say, checking to make sure
I hadn’t left anything behind. “I’m outta here.”
They were strange times and I was a strange person.
I was a stranger even to myself.
Mixed up with so many cultures,
So many people and so many different beds slept in.
I felt I left a part of me in each one.
A finger here, an elbow there,
And now I was just this phantom,
Wandering around the world,
Invisible, morbid and unfulfilled,
But still having to pick up the pack each morning,
Hoist it up onto my shoulders and hit the road,
Always waking up and hitting the road.
“fuck it,” I’d say, checking to make sure
I hadn’t left anything behind. “I’m outta here.”
A POEM - WORRIES OF THE BIG RICH MAN
WORRIES OF THE BIG RICH MAN
When I left on my trip,
I brought very little.
I had to have my computer,
The writing had to get done.
But aside from that,
Which I could easily keep with me,
In my side bag at all times,
There wasn’t much in my pack
That I cared about.
I had some clothes,
A cheap sleeping bag
And that was about it.
But towards the end of my jaunt,
In southeast Asia,
I began to buy.
I was headed for Australia
Where things would cost money again.
Real money,
Not just a few bucks here,
A few bucks there.
So I began to go buying crazy,
The closer it came,
To the day I’d fly outta there.
Kimono type bathrobes,
Clothing, sandals, jeans.
I bought more and more,
Finally filling up my massive pack,
Which had been only half full,
My entire trip.
But then I began to worry,
In a way that only people who ‘have,’ worry.
Before I didn’t worry
About my things getting lost or stolen.
Hell, most of my original clothes
Had long ago been stolen.
But now that I had, I worried.
I’d leave my room and spend the day
Out walking about.
But not as before.
Now I was constantly thinking
How terrible it would be
If I got back to my hotel room,
And some thief had made off with my loot.
“aw, this is no good,” I thought.
“maybe I shouldn’t have bought anything.
Maybe I should never buy anything,
Because the more you have,
The more you have to worry about.
Look at the man lying in the gutter.
He’s got some sort of food in his stomach,
And the earth under his body,
The sky over his head,
Things which can’t be stolen.
What does he worry about?
Not nearly as much as me, the fool,
The consumer, the big rich man.
When I left on my trip,
I brought very little.
I had to have my computer,
The writing had to get done.
But aside from that,
Which I could easily keep with me,
In my side bag at all times,
There wasn’t much in my pack
That I cared about.
I had some clothes,
A cheap sleeping bag
And that was about it.
But towards the end of my jaunt,
In southeast Asia,
I began to buy.
I was headed for Australia
Where things would cost money again.
Real money,
Not just a few bucks here,
A few bucks there.
So I began to go buying crazy,
The closer it came,
To the day I’d fly outta there.
Kimono type bathrobes,
Clothing, sandals, jeans.
I bought more and more,
Finally filling up my massive pack,
Which had been only half full,
My entire trip.
But then I began to worry,
In a way that only people who ‘have,’ worry.
Before I didn’t worry
About my things getting lost or stolen.
Hell, most of my original clothes
Had long ago been stolen.
But now that I had, I worried.
I’d leave my room and spend the day
Out walking about.
But not as before.
Now I was constantly thinking
How terrible it would be
If I got back to my hotel room,
And some thief had made off with my loot.
“aw, this is no good,” I thought.
“maybe I shouldn’t have bought anything.
Maybe I should never buy anything,
Because the more you have,
The more you have to worry about.
Look at the man lying in the gutter.
He’s got some sort of food in his stomach,
And the earth under his body,
The sky over his head,
Things which can’t be stolen.
What does he worry about?
Not nearly as much as me, the fool,
The consumer, the big rich man.
A POEM - BANDUN ON A SUNDAY MORNING
BANDUNG ON A SUNDAY MORNING
Tiny children galloping by on horses,
The ram fights,
Swarms of Indonesian tourists,
Buying goods and visiting the zoo,
A man fishing in a river,
Chocolate milk water filled with trash and scum,
The dirtiest storm drain river in the world.
And me, zooming around on foot,
Trying to take it all in
Because I knew I’d never be there again.
Tiny children galloping by on horses,
The ram fights,
Swarms of Indonesian tourists,
Buying goods and visiting the zoo,
A man fishing in a river,
Chocolate milk water filled with trash and scum,
The dirtiest storm drain river in the world.
And me, zooming around on foot,
Trying to take it all in
Because I knew I’d never be there again.
A POEM - A BEAUTIFUL THING TO SEE
A BEAUTIFUL THING TO SEE
After one hour, two shared taxi rides,
Maybe walking four or five kilometers,
Asking directions from seventeen people,
I finally heard the metallic music,
The tin voice of the local word jockey,
And the shouting from a wild crowd.
I’d found the Adu Domba at Babakan Siliwangi.
The ram-butting fights.
There was no fee to enter the arena,
And nobody harassing me because my eyes were round,
Or my skin was golden.
There were just hordes of people,
Men, women and plenty of dirty little children,
Watching the rams charge and head-butt each other.
I snapped pictures and made little movies,
And bought a pack of cigarettes.
An old man in a straw cowboy hat,
Wearing big, brown plastic framed glasses
With lenses half an inch thick,
He looked over and saw me and smiled,
And patted the empty spot next to him
on the wooden bench.
I sat down and he smiled and said, “Adu domba!”
And made his hands into fists and pounded them together.
“yes,” I said, nodding. “adu domba.”
Two by two, the rams were brought out,
wrestled around by barefooted Indonesian rodeo men,
And made to charge one another.
And charge they did!
Bang! Crack! Wham!
Horns smashing against horns,
Making the sickest and purest sounds.
Drums were pounded and whiny music blasted,
And I sat there, taking it all in:
The rams, the rodeo men,
the little boy jumping up and down on a metal bleacher,
Angering a nest of bees.
Bird-sized insects,
buzzing into holes in the wooden posts
which held up the rusty metal roofs.
The crowds cheering at a good match,
Standing up and roaring with glee,
The vendors stomping around,
Hawking food and toys and cigarettes.
The young man frying up eggs and brain
Over a small coal fire.
And above it all,
Above all the madness of animals and man,
The butterflies,
which floated breathlessly in the cool, damp air.
After one hour, two shared taxi rides,
Maybe walking four or five kilometers,
Asking directions from seventeen people,
I finally heard the metallic music,
The tin voice of the local word jockey,
And the shouting from a wild crowd.
I’d found the Adu Domba at Babakan Siliwangi.
The ram-butting fights.
There was no fee to enter the arena,
And nobody harassing me because my eyes were round,
Or my skin was golden.
There were just hordes of people,
Men, women and plenty of dirty little children,
Watching the rams charge and head-butt each other.
I snapped pictures and made little movies,
And bought a pack of cigarettes.
An old man in a straw cowboy hat,
Wearing big, brown plastic framed glasses
With lenses half an inch thick,
He looked over and saw me and smiled,
And patted the empty spot next to him
on the wooden bench.
I sat down and he smiled and said, “Adu domba!”
And made his hands into fists and pounded them together.
“yes,” I said, nodding. “adu domba.”
Two by two, the rams were brought out,
wrestled around by barefooted Indonesian rodeo men,
And made to charge one another.
And charge they did!
Bang! Crack! Wham!
Horns smashing against horns,
Making the sickest and purest sounds.
Drums were pounded and whiny music blasted,
And I sat there, taking it all in:
The rams, the rodeo men,
the little boy jumping up and down on a metal bleacher,
Angering a nest of bees.
Bird-sized insects,
buzzing into holes in the wooden posts
which held up the rusty metal roofs.
The crowds cheering at a good match,
Standing up and roaring with glee,
The vendors stomping around,
Hawking food and toys and cigarettes.
The young man frying up eggs and brain
Over a small coal fire.
And above it all,
Above all the madness of animals and man,
The butterflies,
which floated breathlessly in the cool, damp air.
A POEM - WHAT WAS IT THAT CALLED TO YOU IN THE DARK?
WHAT WAS IT THAT CALLED TO YOU IN THE DARK?
It was easy enough to sit there in the dark,
Nipping at beers,
Smoking cigarettes out of boredom,
Faintly hoping the smoke might keep
The malarial mosquitoes away.
Easy enough to just sit there,
Listening to the final rains of the monsoon,
Tapping on the corrugated metal roof above your head.
It was easy enough,
But it was also goddamned hard.
It was hard to sit there,
Thousands of miles from anyplace you might call home,
Thousands of miles away from anybody
who knew your real name,
because you’d been using fake ones for months.
It was hard knowing the world was outside,
Spinning madly around and around,
That life was out there just passing you by,
Always passing by.
There was something about it that irritated you,
Something that got deeper under your skin,
Than the mosquito bites and the bed bugs.
There was something out there that was calling to you,
Just barely whispering,
But you couldn’t ever figure out what the hell it was.
It was some invisible force consuming your brain,
Bullying your mind into a corner,
Back into the wilderness of thought.
It was easy enough to sit there in the dark,
Nipping at beers,
Smoking cigarettes out of boredom,
Faintly hoping the smoke might keep
The malarial mosquitoes away.
Easy enough to just sit there,
Listening to the final rains of the monsoon,
Tapping on the corrugated metal roof above your head.
It was easy enough,
But it was also goddamned hard.
It was hard to sit there,
Thousands of miles from anyplace you might call home,
Thousands of miles away from anybody
who knew your real name,
because you’d been using fake ones for months.
It was hard knowing the world was outside,
Spinning madly around and around,
That life was out there just passing you by,
Always passing by.
There was something about it that irritated you,
Something that got deeper under your skin,
Than the mosquito bites and the bed bugs.
There was something out there that was calling to you,
Just barely whispering,
But you couldn’t ever figure out what the hell it was.
It was some invisible force consuming your brain,
Bullying your mind into a corner,
Back into the wilderness of thought.
A POEM - DEEP THOUGHTS IN THE DARK
DEEP THOUGHTS IN THE DARK
Alone in the dark with the beer and the keys,
The mangy dogs barking their wretched barks
Outside in the alleyways of Bandung.
Those alleyways where primitive man began to live,
To walk on two feet and fight in the dirt.
“no need fan. Have window,” said the hotelier,
Drawing back a sheet that was stained and ripped,
To reveal a view of rusty barbed wire and dirty roofs.
But the air is stagnant and there is no screen,
So the little mosquitoes with their big bites,
They just float right in and chomp on my knees.
The laughing voices in the other rooms become quiet
As the night dwindles away
and another morning is prepared.
There it is again,
That sadness between night and day,
During those early, holy hours.
The great sadness of life.
The great sadness of life being lived out,
Passing by like an big, invisible stranger.
Where to? What next? Nobody knows,
And few even care.
Alone in the dark with the beer and the keys,
The mangy dogs barking their wretched barks
Outside in the alleyways of Bandung.
Those alleyways where primitive man began to live,
To walk on two feet and fight in the dirt.
“no need fan. Have window,” said the hotelier,
Drawing back a sheet that was stained and ripped,
To reveal a view of rusty barbed wire and dirty roofs.
But the air is stagnant and there is no screen,
So the little mosquitoes with their big bites,
They just float right in and chomp on my knees.
The laughing voices in the other rooms become quiet
As the night dwindles away
and another morning is prepared.
There it is again,
That sadness between night and day,
During those early, holy hours.
The great sadness of life.
The great sadness of life being lived out,
Passing by like an big, invisible stranger.
Where to? What next? Nobody knows,
And few even care.
Friday, March 21, 2008
A POEM - A MATTER OF CENTS
A MATTER OF CENTS
The train would stop in the smaller towns,
And the aisles would be flooded
With people selling all sorts of shit.
Food and plastic balls and noise makers.
The kids outside would jump up and pound on the train,
Yelling at the people to give them money.
I was the only white guy on the train.
They kinda singled me out, the rich white man.
I just ignored the little fuckers.
Then as we began to roll out of the towns,
A couple guys my age, a few seats back,
Would begin to laugh and throw coins,
Making the children run after the train,
Racing each other for the coins,
Whose value was equivalent to pennies.
It was just another display of humorous cruelty,
Customary in those countries.
Kids sprinting down the train tracks,
and girls dancing around poles,
Or opening beers with their cunts.
And all for a matter of cents.
The train would stop in the smaller towns,
And the aisles would be flooded
With people selling all sorts of shit.
Food and plastic balls and noise makers.
The kids outside would jump up and pound on the train,
Yelling at the people to give them money.
I was the only white guy on the train.
They kinda singled me out, the rich white man.
I just ignored the little fuckers.
Then as we began to roll out of the towns,
A couple guys my age, a few seats back,
Would begin to laugh and throw coins,
Making the children run after the train,
Racing each other for the coins,
Whose value was equivalent to pennies.
It was just another display of humorous cruelty,
Customary in those countries.
Kids sprinting down the train tracks,
and girls dancing around poles,
Or opening beers with their cunts.
And all for a matter of cents.
A POEM - SOME BUT NOT OTHERS
SOME BUT NOT OTHERS
“they have dvds and cds and movie,
But they still have just hole in the floor for toilet!”
He had made a good point.
These third world countries
Had adopted some modern habits
But not others.
I mean, squat toilets in fancy shopping malls?
And no toilet paper or spray faucet,
Just a hose slashed at the end,
Laying in the filthy grime of piss and shit.
You could go to the ATM machine
And stick your card in and pull out cash,
But you had to dip a bucket into a tub of water,
And dump it into the squat toilet,
And do this maybe ten times,
To flush your shit down the pipes.
“well,” I said to him. “at least it’s worth a laugh.”
“they have dvds and cds and movie,
But they still have just hole in the floor for toilet!”
He had made a good point.
These third world countries
Had adopted some modern habits
But not others.
I mean, squat toilets in fancy shopping malls?
And no toilet paper or spray faucet,
Just a hose slashed at the end,
Laying in the filthy grime of piss and shit.
You could go to the ATM machine
And stick your card in and pull out cash,
But you had to dip a bucket into a tub of water,
And dump it into the squat toilet,
And do this maybe ten times,
To flush your shit down the pipes.
“well,” I said to him. “at least it’s worth a laugh.”
A POEM - SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE THINGS TURNED BAD
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE THINGS TURNED BAD
I was losing my mind and I knew it.
It was a strange feeling,
Knowing I was losing my mind,
And not really caring to do anything about it.
What could I do?
I was on the road
A pack on my back and no place to call home,
Except the whole fuckin’ world.
I slept on trains and in bus stations,
And roach hotels, always the cheapest.
I wasn’t looking for anything out there,
Because I knew there was nothing to find.
The world was one giant waiting room,
People milling about, living out their lives.
It all seemed so ridiculously hopeless at times,
The human race – a race of bastards and thieves,
Killers and rapists and con artists.
“oh, what the hell,” I’d say,
Gazing out the window of a train.
“what the hell was it that happened
Somewhere along the line?”
I was losing my mind and I knew it.
It was a strange feeling,
Knowing I was losing my mind,
And not really caring to do anything about it.
What could I do?
I was on the road
A pack on my back and no place to call home,
Except the whole fuckin’ world.
I slept on trains and in bus stations,
And roach hotels, always the cheapest.
I wasn’t looking for anything out there,
Because I knew there was nothing to find.
The world was one giant waiting room,
People milling about, living out their lives.
It all seemed so ridiculously hopeless at times,
The human race – a race of bastards and thieves,
Killers and rapists and con artists.
“oh, what the hell,” I’d say,
Gazing out the window of a train.
“what the hell was it that happened
Somewhere along the line?”
A POEM - HOTEL ARIMBI
HOTEL ARIMBI
Was what it said on the mirror,
But that was as classy as it got,
And the mirror must have been
From another age, better days.
Now there was a ripped and stained sheet,
Draped over the window,
And a dead lizard hung from a nail.
Cigarette burns in the bedding,
And blood and probably cum smeared on the wall.
I sat there on the mattress, thinking,
“well, this’ll do just fine for a night or two.”
Was what it said on the mirror,
But that was as classy as it got,
And the mirror must have been
From another age, better days.
Now there was a ripped and stained sheet,
Draped over the window,
And a dead lizard hung from a nail.
Cigarette burns in the bedding,
And blood and probably cum smeared on the wall.
I sat there on the mattress, thinking,
“well, this’ll do just fine for a night or two.”
A POEM - THE TRAIN OF LIFE
THE TRAIN OF LIFE
There was crust in my eyes,
Smoke in my lungs,
Filthy sweat on my face,
And an ache in my head that wouldn’t go away.
All byproducts of the drinking game.
I didn’t give a damn.
I hadn’t changed my underwear in days.
Piss splashed all over my ankles,
Right on the open wounds I’d earned
From scratching at some weird jungle rash.
I hadn’t washed my shorts in months,
They were covered with grime and beer and hot sauce.
The hair on my head couldn’t get clean,
It was always curling and nappy and itchy.
Byproducts of the traveling game.
My packs were torn and falling apart,
Full of holes and loose threads.
My back was always feeling pain,
And I’d bruised the bone on the ball on my right foot.
I was at a point in my life,
Where I hated everyone and everything,
but loved it all, simultaneously.
I’d learned to love the pain and misery.
I knew I finally would.
But none of this mattered at all.
Not in the end.
Because the train I was on,
It kept rolling down those wobbly tracks.
The train of life would always just keep rolling,
Right on down the tracks.
There was crust in my eyes,
Smoke in my lungs,
Filthy sweat on my face,
And an ache in my head that wouldn’t go away.
All byproducts of the drinking game.
I didn’t give a damn.
I hadn’t changed my underwear in days.
Piss splashed all over my ankles,
Right on the open wounds I’d earned
From scratching at some weird jungle rash.
I hadn’t washed my shorts in months,
They were covered with grime and beer and hot sauce.
The hair on my head couldn’t get clean,
It was always curling and nappy and itchy.
Byproducts of the traveling game.
My packs were torn and falling apart,
Full of holes and loose threads.
My back was always feeling pain,
And I’d bruised the bone on the ball on my right foot.
I was at a point in my life,
Where I hated everyone and everything,
but loved it all, simultaneously.
I’d learned to love the pain and misery.
I knew I finally would.
But none of this mattered at all.
Not in the end.
Because the train I was on,
It kept rolling down those wobbly tracks.
The train of life would always just keep rolling,
Right on down the tracks.
A POEM - THE DREAM OF LIFE
THE DREAM OF LIFE
We were on a train in Java.
“don’t you have dreams?” she asked me.
“maybe at night,” I chuckled.
“no, no. About life. For life, your dreams?”
“it’s all just a dream, baby.”
“all just dream? What that means?”
“life. life is just a dream.”
“life a dream?”
I turned towards her,
looked at her smooth face,
her dark eyes.
“life is just a dream,
Sometimes a terrible one,
which you only wake from at death.
That’s what I mean.”
“hmm. I don’t understand.”
“well, consider yourself lucky then,”
I laughed.
Java floated by outside the windows
and the rain came down.
We were on a train in Java.
“don’t you have dreams?” she asked me.
“maybe at night,” I chuckled.
“no, no. About life. For life, your dreams?”
“it’s all just a dream, baby.”
“all just dream? What that means?”
“life. life is just a dream.”
“life a dream?”
I turned towards her,
looked at her smooth face,
her dark eyes.
“life is just a dream,
Sometimes a terrible one,
which you only wake from at death.
That’s what I mean.”
“hmm. I don’t understand.”
“well, consider yourself lucky then,”
I laughed.
Java floated by outside the windows
and the rain came down.
A POEM - GET THE FUCK OUTTA THERE
GET THE FUCK OUTTA THERE
Each time I passed him by,
The owner of the hotel where I was staying,
He’d ask, “you go see Borobudur today?”
I’d shake my head and he’d come back with,
“you go tomorrow?”
I’d shake my head again.
I didn’t bother trying to explain it to him.
I didn’t give a damn about Borobudur.
I didn’t give a damn about any more temples,
Wats, mosques, churches, cathedrals.
I didn’t give a damn about anything.
I’d seen enough.
I wanted nothing but to be left alone.
I wanted to walk down the street alone
And not have anybody tell me they liked my t shirt,
Or ask me where I was from,
Or tell me to go to the Government Arts Center.
I wanted to go to a bar and pay for a beer,
And know that I wasn’t paying extra
Because the golden color of my skin.
I just wanted to get the fuck outta there,
Outta SE Asia.
Each time I passed him by,
The owner of the hotel where I was staying,
He’d ask, “you go see Borobudur today?”
I’d shake my head and he’d come back with,
“you go tomorrow?”
I’d shake my head again.
I didn’t bother trying to explain it to him.
I didn’t give a damn about Borobudur.
I didn’t give a damn about any more temples,
Wats, mosques, churches, cathedrals.
I didn’t give a damn about anything.
I’d seen enough.
I wanted nothing but to be left alone.
I wanted to walk down the street alone
And not have anybody tell me they liked my t shirt,
Or ask me where I was from,
Or tell me to go to the Government Arts Center.
I wanted to go to a bar and pay for a beer,
And know that I wasn’t paying extra
Because the golden color of my skin.
I just wanted to get the fuck outta there,
Outta SE Asia.
A POEM - JAVA BY TRAIN
JAVA BY TRAIN
Java was rolling by outside my window,
And I was slouching back in my seat,
Pecking at the keys.
It was a beautiful office,
A perfect writing den.
I’d look outside now and then,
See the rice paddies and the palms
And the overcast sky and think,
“now this is living. This is life.”
Java was rolling by outside my window,
And I was slouching back in my seat,
Pecking at the keys.
It was a beautiful office,
A perfect writing den.
I’d look outside now and then,
See the rice paddies and the palms
And the overcast sky and think,
“now this is living. This is life.”
A POEM - THINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE MADE SENSE DIDN'T ANYMORE
THINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE MADE SENSE DIDN’T ANYORE
He told me he flew to Denver,
Arrived at night and the hostel was closed.
“there are hostels in America?”
“oh yes, yes. Very good hostels in America.”
It was news to me, but then why would I know?
I stayed with friends or in fields.
I had no use for hostels in my home country.
The thought seemed ridiculous.
“so I have to stand outside for nine hours,
Waiting for the reception to open.”
“you shoulda just banged on the fuckin’ door,”
I said, making banging motions with my fist,
Because back in those days,
Even when speaking with someone fluent in English,
I still did charades out of habit.
“I did, I did. For one hour, I knock. Nothing!”
I loved how his blind little Japanese eyes
Widened and twinkled and blazed when he made a point.
I loved it all, again, for the first time in weeks.
“so in the morning, finally somebody open the door.
I stand- stond- stood there for nine hours! I think,
‘why the fuck the reception not open 24 hours?!’”
“that’s some American hospitality for ya,” I laughed.
And it was.
Things were beyond making sense in America and Europe
And all the other ‘first’ world countries.
They tried to make so much sense
That everything was lost by the wayside.
Everything made so much sense
That one had to stand outside a place all night,
Just to book a room to sleep in.
He told me he flew to Denver,
Arrived at night and the hostel was closed.
“there are hostels in America?”
“oh yes, yes. Very good hostels in America.”
It was news to me, but then why would I know?
I stayed with friends or in fields.
I had no use for hostels in my home country.
The thought seemed ridiculous.
“so I have to stand outside for nine hours,
Waiting for the reception to open.”
“you shoulda just banged on the fuckin’ door,”
I said, making banging motions with my fist,
Because back in those days,
Even when speaking with someone fluent in English,
I still did charades out of habit.
“I did, I did. For one hour, I knock. Nothing!”
I loved how his blind little Japanese eyes
Widened and twinkled and blazed when he made a point.
I loved it all, again, for the first time in weeks.
“so in the morning, finally somebody open the door.
I stand- stond- stood there for nine hours! I think,
‘why the fuck the reception not open 24 hours?!’”
“that’s some American hospitality for ya,” I laughed.
And it was.
Things were beyond making sense in America and Europe
And all the other ‘first’ world countries.
They tried to make so much sense
That everything was lost by the wayside.
Everything made so much sense
That one had to stand outside a place all night,
Just to book a room to sleep in.
A POEM - THE WORLD WAS AT OUR FINGERTIPS
THE WORLD WAS AT OUR FINGERTIPS
We were dumping back Bintangs,
Well, I was, anyway.
He was asking me about mushrooms,
Because he planned on doing some soon,
When he found a safer place
Than Indonesia.
“drugs,” I said with a smile,
“I view ‘em like most other things.
May as well give ‘em a whirl.”
He bent his head
And laughed in his quiet, Japanese way.
The world was at our fingertips,
As we sat there and drank beers,
At some bar in some shit-town in Indo.
The world was at our fingertips,
And we were happy to let it slip away.
We were dumping back Bintangs,
Well, I was, anyway.
He was asking me about mushrooms,
Because he planned on doing some soon,
When he found a safer place
Than Indonesia.
“drugs,” I said with a smile,
“I view ‘em like most other things.
May as well give ‘em a whirl.”
He bent his head
And laughed in his quiet, Japanese way.
The world was at our fingertips,
As we sat there and drank beers,
At some bar in some shit-town in Indo.
The world was at our fingertips,
And we were happy to let it slip away.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
A POEM - WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE
WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE
I was sitting there,
Eating lunch with him.
The tall, sweaty, pimply Canadian,
I’ve spoken about before.
He was telling me how he was planning it,
Getting up to Thailand on fifteen bucks a day,
Traveling by night to save from paying for hotels.
I listened and ate my food.
It seemed no big deal to me,
Living on fifteen bucks a day.
If you really had to,
It was easier than stepping in shit in a cow field.
When he finally paused to take a bite,
I said, “you shouldn’t have any problem with that.”
He was nodding and sweating
And then I remembered something,
How expensive beers were down there in Indonesia,
A couple bucks for a tall beer.
That would put a dent into a fifteen dollar a day budget,
For sure.
I never included drinking in my budget,
Because drinking was just expected, like breathing.
It was something I’d do no matter what,
An unavoidable expense that could never be calculated.
“well, depending on how much you like to drink” I added.
He looked at me, all excited about the answer
He was about to give,
Like he had it prepared or something.
He said to me, sweat dripping down his forehead,
“yeah, I’m spending nothing on booze,
Because it’s not like I’m gonna drink alone, hey?”
I swallowed my food, got up from the table,
Paid for my share of the bill
and walked my ass outta there,
under the scorching midday Balinese sun.
“fuck him,” I muttered.
I was sitting there,
Eating lunch with him.
The tall, sweaty, pimply Canadian,
I’ve spoken about before.
He was telling me how he was planning it,
Getting up to Thailand on fifteen bucks a day,
Traveling by night to save from paying for hotels.
I listened and ate my food.
It seemed no big deal to me,
Living on fifteen bucks a day.
If you really had to,
It was easier than stepping in shit in a cow field.
When he finally paused to take a bite,
I said, “you shouldn’t have any problem with that.”
He was nodding and sweating
And then I remembered something,
How expensive beers were down there in Indonesia,
A couple bucks for a tall beer.
That would put a dent into a fifteen dollar a day budget,
For sure.
I never included drinking in my budget,
Because drinking was just expected, like breathing.
It was something I’d do no matter what,
An unavoidable expense that could never be calculated.
“well, depending on how much you like to drink” I added.
He looked at me, all excited about the answer
He was about to give,
Like he had it prepared or something.
He said to me, sweat dripping down his forehead,
“yeah, I’m spending nothing on booze,
Because it’s not like I’m gonna drink alone, hey?”
I swallowed my food, got up from the table,
Paid for my share of the bill
and walked my ass outta there,
under the scorching midday Balinese sun.
“fuck him,” I muttered.
A POEM - ENOUGH WASN'T ENOUGH, IT WAS TOO MUCH
ENOUGH WASN’T ENOUGH, IT WAS TOO MUCH
I was sitting there by the curbside
At the airport, my ripped and worn bags
Dumped all around me.
He pulled up in his car,
took one long look at me and said,
“well, we all fall upon hard times now and then.
We need somebody to come by and grab us
By the hair on the back of our heads,
And pull our faces from the mud and muck.”
I tossed my bags into the back
and got into the front.
I turned to him and nodded as we drove away,
Then went back to staring out the window.
The whole god-awful world
was passing by in front of me,
And all I wanted to do
was curl up into a ball,
Hide out in the dark
and wait for death to come
And pluck me out of there.
"maybe enough wasn't enough," I said, finally.
"maybe it was too much."
I was sitting there by the curbside
At the airport, my ripped and worn bags
Dumped all around me.
He pulled up in his car,
took one long look at me and said,
“well, we all fall upon hard times now and then.
We need somebody to come by and grab us
By the hair on the back of our heads,
And pull our faces from the mud and muck.”
I tossed my bags into the back
and got into the front.
I turned to him and nodded as we drove away,
Then went back to staring out the window.
The whole god-awful world
was passing by in front of me,
And all I wanted to do
was curl up into a ball,
Hide out in the dark
and wait for death to come
And pluck me out of there.
"maybe enough wasn't enough," I said, finally.
"maybe it was too much."
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
A POEM - THE MORNING AFTER ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE BASTARD HOTEL
THE MORNING AFTER ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE BASTARD HOTEL
There was a scent of lemon
That was far too strong for that hour of the morning.
I jumped out of bed, tore open the door,
My head reeling.
“what’s the meaning of this?”
I shouted into the hallway.
“are you trying to poison me to death?
Don’t you think my head hurts enough already?”
There was a woman, a girl maybe,
Mopping up the hallway where somebody,
probably me, had puked the night before.
“oh,” I said, seeing the pile being smeared around.
I paused a moment, watching her.
“good morning,” I offered.
She nodded and dutifully returned a quiet “goot morning.”
“sleep well?” I asked, not really knowing why,
Just making conversation for no reason at all.
“I tired. joo an jur fren, joo keep us up all night. My whole fam-ly. We all awake because joo an jur fren.”
“yeah?” I asked, amused.
“yes. So, no. I no sleep well.”
The smile fell from my face.
She’d have to mop that up too.
“you!” I roared.
“You think you’re tired because you didn’t sleep well?”
She nodded again, very dutifully,
As though I was some god-man,
Expounding on a verse of some scripture
Which she held most sacred.
“you! think about me! That whole time when you were up,
Trying to sleep, probably getting sleep at times,
I was up drinking! Think about that, smarty pants.
Imagine how my head feels right now.”
I was squinting my eyes through a piercing headache.
“And with that lemon shit there! oh my god!”
I clutched my head and thought it might just fold in.
Then I began to laugh and slammed the door,
Because it was all so fucking ridiculous.
The girl, that place, me, the world.
I fell heavily back into bed,
Mumbling as I did so,
“goddamn it. Just another night in the bastard hotel.”
There was a scent of lemon
That was far too strong for that hour of the morning.
I jumped out of bed, tore open the door,
My head reeling.
“what’s the meaning of this?”
I shouted into the hallway.
“are you trying to poison me to death?
Don’t you think my head hurts enough already?”
There was a woman, a girl maybe,
Mopping up the hallway where somebody,
probably me, had puked the night before.
“oh,” I said, seeing the pile being smeared around.
I paused a moment, watching her.
“good morning,” I offered.
She nodded and dutifully returned a quiet “goot morning.”
“sleep well?” I asked, not really knowing why,
Just making conversation for no reason at all.
“I tired. joo an jur fren, joo keep us up all night. My whole fam-ly. We all awake because joo an jur fren.”
“yeah?” I asked, amused.
“yes. So, no. I no sleep well.”
The smile fell from my face.
She’d have to mop that up too.
“you!” I roared.
“You think you’re tired because you didn’t sleep well?”
She nodded again, very dutifully,
As though I was some god-man,
Expounding on a verse of some scripture
Which she held most sacred.
“you! think about me! That whole time when you were up,
Trying to sleep, probably getting sleep at times,
I was up drinking! Think about that, smarty pants.
Imagine how my head feels right now.”
I was squinting my eyes through a piercing headache.
“And with that lemon shit there! oh my god!”
I clutched my head and thought it might just fold in.
Then I began to laugh and slammed the door,
Because it was all so fucking ridiculous.
The girl, that place, me, the world.
I fell heavily back into bed,
Mumbling as I did so,
“goddamn it. Just another night in the bastard hotel.”
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
A POEM - FUCK IT!
FUCK IT!
I hadn’t slept the night before,
Or eaten well in days,
So it wasn’t hard,
To go out at happy hour,
And get drunk off a few tallboys
And come back home in the early afternoon,
And fall asleep until 11 at night.
But then as I was gonna go out,
I heard somebody playing la guitarra,
So I banged on the door.
“hole on” I heard a guy’s voice say.
I didn’t hold onto anything, but I waited.
I hadn’t had much to hold onto for months.
A little Japanese guy opened the door.
“nice playing,” I said, standing there dumbly.
We got to talking, then we got to drinking.
We both agreed how ridiculous Indonesia was,
How it was a terrible country to be in,
Because people only wanted your money,
And they went about it in such a stupid fashion,
Like primitive scam artists.
“they like keets,” the Japanese guy kept saying.
“just like keets, like, so STUPID, it’s funny.”
And in a way, it was funny. Terribly funny.
A man had tried to sell me a plastic belt buckle,
Claiming, “no, no, it metal!”
It was the most plasticky plastic I’d ever seen.
It was all a big joke.
I hoped that they knew it as well as we did.
And I think they did.
So I’ll give ‘em credit for that.
Life was all a big joke to them, to all of us.
But the Indonesians,
they could knock on the doors of hell,
and say with straight faces, “no, it heaven. HEAVEN!”
One big, fabulous lie. Fuck it!
I hadn’t slept the night before,
Or eaten well in days,
So it wasn’t hard,
To go out at happy hour,
And get drunk off a few tallboys
And come back home in the early afternoon,
And fall asleep until 11 at night.
But then as I was gonna go out,
I heard somebody playing la guitarra,
So I banged on the door.
“hole on” I heard a guy’s voice say.
I didn’t hold onto anything, but I waited.
I hadn’t had much to hold onto for months.
A little Japanese guy opened the door.
“nice playing,” I said, standing there dumbly.
We got to talking, then we got to drinking.
We both agreed how ridiculous Indonesia was,
How it was a terrible country to be in,
Because people only wanted your money,
And they went about it in such a stupid fashion,
Like primitive scam artists.
“they like keets,” the Japanese guy kept saying.
“just like keets, like, so STUPID, it’s funny.”
And in a way, it was funny. Terribly funny.
A man had tried to sell me a plastic belt buckle,
Claiming, “no, no, it metal!”
It was the most plasticky plastic I’d ever seen.
It was all a big joke.
I hoped that they knew it as well as we did.
And I think they did.
So I’ll give ‘em credit for that.
Life was all a big joke to them, to all of us.
But the Indonesians,
they could knock on the doors of hell,
and say with straight faces, “no, it heaven. HEAVEN!”
One big, fabulous lie. Fuck it!
A POEM - STOP EATING AND BE SOMEBODY!
STOP EATING AND BE SOMEBODY
“yeah,” he said, sauntering into the room,
As though we were mid-conversation,
Although my headphones were on,
And I was doing my best not to be near him,
For want of slapping his ugly Kansas face.
“they just eat and eat and eat. I mean,
I used to have no problem with them eating so much,
And all the time...”
He kept his gaze on me,
Waiting for a response.
He pulled a chair from the table at which I was
Doing my daily writing.
Finally I nodded, just to get it over with.
“but the thing is, when they’re not eating,
All they do is talk about eating. Shit!
They even talk about eating while they’re eating!”
I removed my headphones and took a deep breath,
A very deep breath,
The kind that said,
“I don’t like you being here.
Go away and stop bothering me.”
“hey,” I said calmly. “it’s just their culture.
If you plan on sticking around this part of the world,
You better get used to people eating all the time,
And talking about eating all the time, ‘cause as you’ve said, that’s what they do.”
I went to put my headphones back on, but he persisted.
“but man, they ruined my dreams! I used to have dreams, you know?!”
He was shouting much louder than he needed to,
As I was only across the table in a quiet kitchen.
“what the hell are you talking about, ruining dreams?”
The idea sounded pretty funny,
so I thought I’d investigate.
“all their talk about food!
They just eat and talk about eating,
And I stopped being able to think about anything else, too. I started thinking about eating and food,
All the time. That’s all I could do.”
“well, good,” I said, looking him up and down.
“you’re probably better off
With some more meat on your bones.
Hell, you’re almost as skinny as me.”
“no, no! man, you don’t understand.
I used to have dreams. I wanted to be somebody!
I wanted to do things in life!
I was gonna become a techie in Hollywood!
I wanted to start a huge construction company
And make millions of dollars.
I was gonna make it big!
Don’t you understand that?”
Apparently I didn’t.
“so what the fuck do you care about who’s eating,
And what these people are talking about?
How the hell is that stopping you-“ I chuckled,
Rephrasing my question, turning it into a spiteful
Little quip.
“if that’s stopping you from realizing your dreams,
Man, you were never gonna make them happen anyway,”
I said this last line, beginning to laugh harder.
He turned red and puffed out his cheeks,
His Kansas pimples looking about to explode.
I just laughed bigger and louder
until I was keeled over on my chair
slapping my knees and stomping my feet.
“ahhhh hahahaha! Hee heee heeeee! Oh, ho ho ho!”
My eyes began to tear up as they always did
When I had a bout of good laughter.
“ah, ho ho ho! You were gonna be something!
Sure you were! Hee hee hee! I was too!” I screamed.
“we were all gonna be something big, hoo hooo,
until we came out here,
And had to endure all this eating,
And all their talking about eating, ha ha ha!”
He slammed his fist on the table.
“I’m fuckin’ serious, man! Fuck you!”
I rolled off my chair and began pounding the floor,
Crawling around on my hands and knees,
Wondering who this fuckin’ idiot madman was,
And how he’d come to be living in Singapore.
I regained my composure and howled,
“then get the fuck outta here!”
And looking at him sideways, between humongous giggles,
“go back to Kansas and be something, oh ho ho!
Stop eating, and be somebody! Hee hee ha!”
“yeah,” he said, sauntering into the room,
As though we were mid-conversation,
Although my headphones were on,
And I was doing my best not to be near him,
For want of slapping his ugly Kansas face.
“they just eat and eat and eat. I mean,
I used to have no problem with them eating so much,
And all the time...”
He kept his gaze on me,
Waiting for a response.
He pulled a chair from the table at which I was
Doing my daily writing.
Finally I nodded, just to get it over with.
“but the thing is, when they’re not eating,
All they do is talk about eating. Shit!
They even talk about eating while they’re eating!”
I removed my headphones and took a deep breath,
A very deep breath,
The kind that said,
“I don’t like you being here.
Go away and stop bothering me.”
“hey,” I said calmly. “it’s just their culture.
If you plan on sticking around this part of the world,
You better get used to people eating all the time,
And talking about eating all the time, ‘cause as you’ve said, that’s what they do.”
I went to put my headphones back on, but he persisted.
“but man, they ruined my dreams! I used to have dreams, you know?!”
He was shouting much louder than he needed to,
As I was only across the table in a quiet kitchen.
“what the hell are you talking about, ruining dreams?”
The idea sounded pretty funny,
so I thought I’d investigate.
“all their talk about food!
They just eat and talk about eating,
And I stopped being able to think about anything else, too. I started thinking about eating and food,
All the time. That’s all I could do.”
“well, good,” I said, looking him up and down.
“you’re probably better off
With some more meat on your bones.
Hell, you’re almost as skinny as me.”
“no, no! man, you don’t understand.
I used to have dreams. I wanted to be somebody!
I wanted to do things in life!
I was gonna become a techie in Hollywood!
I wanted to start a huge construction company
And make millions of dollars.
I was gonna make it big!
Don’t you understand that?”
Apparently I didn’t.
“so what the fuck do you care about who’s eating,
And what these people are talking about?
How the hell is that stopping you-“ I chuckled,
Rephrasing my question, turning it into a spiteful
Little quip.
“if that’s stopping you from realizing your dreams,
Man, you were never gonna make them happen anyway,”
I said this last line, beginning to laugh harder.
He turned red and puffed out his cheeks,
His Kansas pimples looking about to explode.
I just laughed bigger and louder
until I was keeled over on my chair
slapping my knees and stomping my feet.
“ahhhh hahahaha! Hee heee heeeee! Oh, ho ho ho!”
My eyes began to tear up as they always did
When I had a bout of good laughter.
“ah, ho ho ho! You were gonna be something!
Sure you were! Hee hee hee! I was too!” I screamed.
“we were all gonna be something big, hoo hooo,
until we came out here,
And had to endure all this eating,
And all their talking about eating, ha ha ha!”
He slammed his fist on the table.
“I’m fuckin’ serious, man! Fuck you!”
I rolled off my chair and began pounding the floor,
Crawling around on my hands and knees,
Wondering who this fuckin’ idiot madman was,
And how he’d come to be living in Singapore.
I regained my composure and howled,
“then get the fuck outta here!”
And looking at him sideways, between humongous giggles,
“go back to Kansas and be something, oh ho ho!
Stop eating, and be somebody! Hee hee ha!”
Monday, March 17, 2008
A POEM - THE OVERNIGHT BUS THROUGH JAVA
THE OVERNIGHT BUS THROUGH JAVA
The road was maybe fifteen or sixteen feet across,
Through winding jungley potholed terrain.
We were in one of the big, fancy touring buses,
Tearing along at fifty or sixty miles per,
Sharing the road with lesser buses,
Cattle trucks, fuel trucks, minibuses,
Trucks, cars, motorbikes laden with massive loads,
Pedal bikes and finally the odd pedestrian
Who suddenly popped up in the dark
And then disappeared again, into woods,
Or the road behind us, or under the wheels,
For all I knew.
I’d seen some wild driving in my days,
Between drunk fits of rage by myself and my friends,
And in Mexico, Central America and the rest of SE Asia,
But none compared to this.
This was fucking outstanding.
Somehow I’d lucked into a front seat,
So the windshield was one big movie screen,
Which we were constantly bursting through.
Maybe they put me up front so that I’d be the sucker
Who’d fly through the windshield,
In what must have been the not so odd event
Of a head-on collision.
And the short, chubby, laughing Indonesian girl
Beside me, she was a baby angel,
But probably about my age.
She was constantly munching on food or candy,
When she was awake,
And thrusting around in her sleep,
Kicking at me, then leaning on my shoulder,
Only waking now and then to go, “shahhh.”
The older Indonesian couple across the aisle,
It was maybe their first bus ride,
Because they were stiff as boards,
Eyes wide and scared to death,
Murmuring about each suicidal pass
That the chain-smoking, smirking driver
Made as casually as passing the rice over the table.
He overtook long lines of busses and trucks,
Cutting along and around midnight traffic,
Slamming through the occasional pothole and shouting,
“oashhhh!”
“oh, boy,” I whispered to myself, “this is driving. Oh,
This is some fuckin’ drivin’! maybe the best I’ve seen!”
The road was maybe fifteen or sixteen feet across,
Through winding jungley potholed terrain.
We were in one of the big, fancy touring buses,
Tearing along at fifty or sixty miles per,
Sharing the road with lesser buses,
Cattle trucks, fuel trucks, minibuses,
Trucks, cars, motorbikes laden with massive loads,
Pedal bikes and finally the odd pedestrian
Who suddenly popped up in the dark
And then disappeared again, into woods,
Or the road behind us, or under the wheels,
For all I knew.
I’d seen some wild driving in my days,
Between drunk fits of rage by myself and my friends,
And in Mexico, Central America and the rest of SE Asia,
But none compared to this.
This was fucking outstanding.
Somehow I’d lucked into a front seat,
So the windshield was one big movie screen,
Which we were constantly bursting through.
Maybe they put me up front so that I’d be the sucker
Who’d fly through the windshield,
In what must have been the not so odd event
Of a head-on collision.
And the short, chubby, laughing Indonesian girl
Beside me, she was a baby angel,
But probably about my age.
She was constantly munching on food or candy,
When she was awake,
And thrusting around in her sleep,
Kicking at me, then leaning on my shoulder,
Only waking now and then to go, “shahhh.”
The older Indonesian couple across the aisle,
It was maybe their first bus ride,
Because they were stiff as boards,
Eyes wide and scared to death,
Murmuring about each suicidal pass
That the chain-smoking, smirking driver
Made as casually as passing the rice over the table.
He overtook long lines of busses and trucks,
Cutting along and around midnight traffic,
Slamming through the occasional pothole and shouting,
“oashhhh!”
“oh, boy,” I whispered to myself, “this is driving. Oh,
This is some fuckin’ drivin’! maybe the best I’ve seen!”
A POEM - TRADING KEROUAC FOR KAFKA
TRADING KEROUAC FOR KAFKA
He was sweating profusely
And had a rash on his face.
He was from Calgary
And he said things like, “hey?”
At the end of his sentences.
He’d just begun his travels
And was shotgunning up Indonesia
And through Malaysia to Phuket,
To meet up with some friends in Thailand.
He used the common backpacker excuse
For moving fast and by night.
“that way I won’t have to pay for
A place to stay each night.”
But a place to stay was about 30,000 rupiah,
And his bus had cost him 210,000.
I wondered if there were bastards out there,
Cheaper than me,
Or if it was all just a big lie.
He followed me to a restaurant
And we spoke about stupid things.
But then we stumbled on the subject of books,
And how we both needed new ones,
As we’d finished the ones we had.
In the end I swapped On the Road
For a collection of short stories by Kafka,
Something I’d been looking for since Thailand,
And had never been able to find.
“they’re dark,” he said, thumbing through On the Road.
“you’ll wanna read each one twice,
Because the endings, well, they’re kinda weird.”
“all right,” I said, knowing about weird endings.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then I left him at his place,
Sweating and squinting
in the searing afternoon Balinese sunlight.
“good luck out there,” I said.
He reached out his hand and I shook it,
All wet with sweat.
“yeah, yeah, hey? Have a good trip.”
I walked away, happy to have gotten a new book,
And thinking about the line,
“have a good trip.”
I wished I’d come back with,
“see you next fall,” but I hadn’t.
Not in time, anyway.
He was sweating profusely
And had a rash on his face.
He was from Calgary
And he said things like, “hey?”
At the end of his sentences.
He’d just begun his travels
And was shotgunning up Indonesia
And through Malaysia to Phuket,
To meet up with some friends in Thailand.
He used the common backpacker excuse
For moving fast and by night.
“that way I won’t have to pay for
A place to stay each night.”
But a place to stay was about 30,000 rupiah,
And his bus had cost him 210,000.
I wondered if there were bastards out there,
Cheaper than me,
Or if it was all just a big lie.
He followed me to a restaurant
And we spoke about stupid things.
But then we stumbled on the subject of books,
And how we both needed new ones,
As we’d finished the ones we had.
In the end I swapped On the Road
For a collection of short stories by Kafka,
Something I’d been looking for since Thailand,
And had never been able to find.
“they’re dark,” he said, thumbing through On the Road.
“you’ll wanna read each one twice,
Because the endings, well, they’re kinda weird.”
“all right,” I said, knowing about weird endings.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then I left him at his place,
Sweating and squinting
in the searing afternoon Balinese sunlight.
“good luck out there,” I said.
He reached out his hand and I shook it,
All wet with sweat.
“yeah, yeah, hey? Have a good trip.”
I walked away, happy to have gotten a new book,
And thinking about the line,
“have a good trip.”
I wished I’d come back with,
“see you next fall,” but I hadn’t.
Not in time, anyway.
A POEM - THOSE LONG DAYS
THOSE LONG DAYS
I was the only white man
Staying on that side of Lovina,
Maybe that side of Bali.
But there were hundreds of restaurants,
And hundreds of guesthouses,
And all of them were completely empty.
In the afternoons
I’d go to a place on the beach,
And order my cheese and tomato sandwich,
With fries which I’d smother in hot sauce.
The standard Balinese hot sauce was damn good.
So I’d sit there and look at the black sand beach
And the ocean splashing up onto it.
Usually a few kids would be running around naked,
Chopping at the waves with their wooden swords,
Rolling in the sand and rinsing off again.
The people seemed much more a people of the land,
Unbothered by all the insects and the lizards
And the snakes and sand and sweaty grime.
They’d come from the mud some two million years before,
And hadn’t gone too far from it.
The only shame was the greed they had,
For the white man’s money.
As though they truly believed they needed it,
Despite the fact that their ancestors
had been living there,
on that island,
for centuries and centuries
catching the fish in the sea,
growing the fruits on the vines and in the trees,
raising the animals and planting the rice.
Huts were made from the land,
Food was had from the land,
And life was lived from the land.
Why bother with the unholy dollar?
I was the only white man
Staying on that side of Lovina,
Maybe that side of Bali.
But there were hundreds of restaurants,
And hundreds of guesthouses,
And all of them were completely empty.
In the afternoons
I’d go to a place on the beach,
And order my cheese and tomato sandwich,
With fries which I’d smother in hot sauce.
The standard Balinese hot sauce was damn good.
So I’d sit there and look at the black sand beach
And the ocean splashing up onto it.
Usually a few kids would be running around naked,
Chopping at the waves with their wooden swords,
Rolling in the sand and rinsing off again.
The people seemed much more a people of the land,
Unbothered by all the insects and the lizards
And the snakes and sand and sweaty grime.
They’d come from the mud some two million years before,
And hadn’t gone too far from it.
The only shame was the greed they had,
For the white man’s money.
As though they truly believed they needed it,
Despite the fact that their ancestors
had been living there,
on that island,
for centuries and centuries
catching the fish in the sea,
growing the fruits on the vines and in the trees,
raising the animals and planting the rice.
Huts were made from the land,
Food was had from the land,
And life was lived from the land.
Why bother with the unholy dollar?
Saturday, March 15, 2008
EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL MANUSCRIPT
[We Were Different People and Those Were Different Times]
“No, that’s not true,”
I whispered to the night,
recalling that during my last trip
I’d had the realization
that whatever it was I was after,
it wasn’t to be found out there in the world.
Not in the two dollar rooms in Cambodia
with the two dollar whores,
nor swinging upside down from a rope
over a river in Laos,
and certainly not in the filthy shit-smeared back alleys of Bangkok.
“No, that’s not true,”
I whispered to the night,
recalling that during my last trip
I’d had the realization
that whatever it was I was after,
it wasn’t to be found out there in the world.
Not in the two dollar rooms in Cambodia
with the two dollar whores,
nor swinging upside down from a rope
over a river in Laos,
and certainly not in the filthy shit-smeared back alleys of Bangkok.
A POEM - THE FRENCHIE, OUI OUI!
THE FRENCHIE, OUI OUI!
The thing about the Frenchie
Wasn’t just that he’d get a phone call
Very early in the morning,
Take the call
and begin blabbering loudly
in his native tongue while the five of us
were just trying to get some sleep before work.
It wasn’t just that he’d prance around
In his underpants,
Or unplug our chargers
From the electrical sockets
to plug in his own.
These were annoyances, certainly.
But what pissed me off about the Frenchie
Was that I knew he did these things
Only because he thought he was better than us.
The thing about the Frenchie
Wasn’t just that he’d get a phone call
Very early in the morning,
Take the call
and begin blabbering loudly
in his native tongue while the five of us
were just trying to get some sleep before work.
It wasn’t just that he’d prance around
In his underpants,
Or unplug our chargers
From the electrical sockets
to plug in his own.
These were annoyances, certainly.
But what pissed me off about the Frenchie
Was that I knew he did these things
Only because he thought he was better than us.
A POEM - I'D JUST GO CHEAPIN' IT ALONG
I’D JUST GO ON CHEAPIN’ IT ALONG
I looked at a calendar.
I had another eleven days in Indonesia,
Less than two more weeks in SE Asia.
Then I was off to Australia.
I didn’t know what to expect down there.
I didn’t know how I’d react,
To being back in a first world country,
Where you couldn’t so easily pay off the cops,
Or pick up drugs at a pharmacy,
Or pick up a girl at a club.
I didn’t know what I’d do,
When I had to pay similar prices as in the US,
For a meal or a beer or a place to stay.
“aw, hell,” I thought. “I’ve been cheapin’
It my entire life, even back home in the States.
It’s not like I can’t keep cheapin’ it along down there.”
I already had a friend with whom I could stay,
And if I found a bar gig I’d drink for cheap,
And really, more than a bed to lie down in,
An electrical socket to plug my laptop into,
And a few beers to take the edge off this sharp life,
What else did I really need?
I smiled and ate another cardboard biscuit.
I looked at a calendar.
I had another eleven days in Indonesia,
Less than two more weeks in SE Asia.
Then I was off to Australia.
I didn’t know what to expect down there.
I didn’t know how I’d react,
To being back in a first world country,
Where you couldn’t so easily pay off the cops,
Or pick up drugs at a pharmacy,
Or pick up a girl at a club.
I didn’t know what I’d do,
When I had to pay similar prices as in the US,
For a meal or a beer or a place to stay.
“aw, hell,” I thought. “I’ve been cheapin’
It my entire life, even back home in the States.
It’s not like I can’t keep cheapin’ it along down there.”
I already had a friend with whom I could stay,
And if I found a bar gig I’d drink for cheap,
And really, more than a bed to lie down in,
An electrical socket to plug my laptop into,
And a few beers to take the edge off this sharp life,
What else did I really need?
I smiled and ate another cardboard biscuit.
A POEM - SOME BOMBINGS JUST SEEMED TO MAKE SENSE
SOME BOMBINGS JUST SEEMED TO MAKE SENSE
I was lying in my bed in the Hepi Bunglows,
Thinking back to my nights in Kuta.
I kept picturing this fool,
Some Aussie frat boy or maybe some fool
From Europe or somewhere.
He wasn’t American but he could have been.
He was dancing up on the stage,
Dancing and falling
and licking the stripper pole,
just acting the typical drunk ass fool.
I remembered watching the spectacle,
Along with a few other people,
Who thought nothing of it.
But me, I recalled the memorial just outside,
The one a block down the street,
Dedicated to the people killed in the nightclub bombing
A few years back.
I remembered thinking,
While watching this guy up there on the stage,
While actually seeing him move around,
“jesus, I don’t wonder why they bombed this place.”
It just seemed to make sense, the bombing.
Just like embassies and places like that.
You wonder why anybody would want to destroy
A place like that, killing many people,
But then you actually go to one,
And then you don’t wonder why anymore.
It just seems to make sense.
I was lying in my bed in the Hepi Bunglows,
Thinking back to my nights in Kuta.
I kept picturing this fool,
Some Aussie frat boy or maybe some fool
From Europe or somewhere.
He wasn’t American but he could have been.
He was dancing up on the stage,
Dancing and falling
and licking the stripper pole,
just acting the typical drunk ass fool.
I remembered watching the spectacle,
Along with a few other people,
Who thought nothing of it.
But me, I recalled the memorial just outside,
The one a block down the street,
Dedicated to the people killed in the nightclub bombing
A few years back.
I remembered thinking,
While watching this guy up there on the stage,
While actually seeing him move around,
“jesus, I don’t wonder why they bombed this place.”
It just seemed to make sense, the bombing.
Just like embassies and places like that.
You wonder why anybody would want to destroy
A place like that, killing many people,
But then you actually go to one,
And then you don’t wonder why anymore.
It just seems to make sense.
A POEM - BALI IS FOR LOVERS
BALI IS FOR LOVERS
Bali was another one of those places,
Like Venice or Paris or some of the islands
In the Gulf of Thailand.
It seemed a place that was meant for lovers,
For couples that were still in love.
Me? I was the most lonesome man in the world,
Never mind just on the island of Bali.
I went to bed alone and woke up alone
And ate and drank and walked alone.
It wasn’t all that bad, though.
I was good at being alone,
And in the last few months
I’d had plenty of practice at it.
But as in all the other Asian countries I’d visited,
Most people couldn’t believe it.
“where yo friend? Where yo friends?”
I’d smile and nod, muttering,
“I travel alone. I don’t have any friends.”
But coming home in the evenings,
Back to my bungalow,
It was hard not to wish for a girl.
“If only the skinny, little Indian girl could be here,”
I’d think to myself.
“or Soo-ay. She’d just bitch and moan,
But we’d have a fun time at it.”
But alone I remained, passing the days.
“it’s all right,” I told myself.
“soon enough I’ll be stuck back in some job,
Being around people I don’t like,
Being forced to shoot the shit with them,
Make up things to talk about, earn the money.
Let’s just enjoy this solitude right now.”
Bali was another one of those places,
Like Venice or Paris or some of the islands
In the Gulf of Thailand.
It seemed a place that was meant for lovers,
For couples that were still in love.
Me? I was the most lonesome man in the world,
Never mind just on the island of Bali.
I went to bed alone and woke up alone
And ate and drank and walked alone.
It wasn’t all that bad, though.
I was good at being alone,
And in the last few months
I’d had plenty of practice at it.
But as in all the other Asian countries I’d visited,
Most people couldn’t believe it.
“where yo friend? Where yo friends?”
I’d smile and nod, muttering,
“I travel alone. I don’t have any friends.”
But coming home in the evenings,
Back to my bungalow,
It was hard not to wish for a girl.
“If only the skinny, little Indian girl could be here,”
I’d think to myself.
“or Soo-ay. She’d just bitch and moan,
But we’d have a fun time at it.”
But alone I remained, passing the days.
“it’s all right,” I told myself.
“soon enough I’ll be stuck back in some job,
Being around people I don’t like,
Being forced to shoot the shit with them,
Make up things to talk about, earn the money.
Let’s just enjoy this solitude right now.”
A POEM - A DAY ON THE NORTHERN EDGE OF BALI
A DAY ON THE NORTHERN EDGE OF BALI
I walked out to the main road,
“hell-o!” called all the people.
“you come into my shop?”
“no thanks, I’m all set.”
I used the Asian wave,
Motioning with palm down,
To flag down a bemo.
One pulled up and I hopped in.
“Air panas banjar,” said.
“oh, oh. No,” he said,
And pointed in the other direction.
“oops,” I said, and hopped back out.
I flagged down another one, got in.
“Air panas banjar – hot springs?”
The driver nodded and began driving.
“how much?” I asked.
He pulled the classic nod and smile.
“no, how much? How many rupiah?”
He continued nodding and smiling,
Ignoring me.
I reached out and gave him three thousand.
He motioned that the fare was seven.
“I know it’s three. I was told three.”
“oh, no. I don’t speak English.”
The fuckin’ bastard.
I gave it some thought,
And watched plenty of camo clad men
Ride by in cars and motorbikes.
It was an argument over principle,
As usual, which these people didn’t have.
And it was an argument over forty cents,
Again, which these people didn’t have.
Fuck it, I figured, giving him seven thousand.
I got in the front and two women got in,
Huge baskets of grapes.
They gave the driver some
And he offered some of his to me.
We were friends now, because he’d screwed me.
No, we weren’t friends.
I shook my head because I didn’t want any grapes.
“no problem,” he said, pushing them at me.
“no, I’m not hungry. I don’t want grapes.”
I’d just eaten breakfast and really wasn’t hungry.
At the junction twenty minutes up he let me out.
“transport? Transport, boss?” called the moto drivers.
“nope.” I said, blowing past them.
I walked the rest of the way, maybe two miles.
What were two miles?
A walk through beautiful Bali,
Past vineyards and palms and mountains and rice paddies.
I walked out to the main road,
“hell-o!” called all the people.
“you come into my shop?”
“no thanks, I’m all set.”
I used the Asian wave,
Motioning with palm down,
To flag down a bemo.
One pulled up and I hopped in.
“Air panas banjar,” said.
“oh, oh. No,” he said,
And pointed in the other direction.
“oops,” I said, and hopped back out.
I flagged down another one, got in.
“Air panas banjar – hot springs?”
The driver nodded and began driving.
“how much?” I asked.
He pulled the classic nod and smile.
“no, how much? How many rupiah?”
He continued nodding and smiling,
Ignoring me.
I reached out and gave him three thousand.
He motioned that the fare was seven.
“I know it’s three. I was told three.”
“oh, no. I don’t speak English.”
The fuckin’ bastard.
I gave it some thought,
And watched plenty of camo clad men
Ride by in cars and motorbikes.
It was an argument over principle,
As usual, which these people didn’t have.
And it was an argument over forty cents,
Again, which these people didn’t have.
Fuck it, I figured, giving him seven thousand.
I got in the front and two women got in,
Huge baskets of grapes.
They gave the driver some
And he offered some of his to me.
We were friends now, because he’d screwed me.
No, we weren’t friends.
I shook my head because I didn’t want any grapes.
“no problem,” he said, pushing them at me.
“no, I’m not hungry. I don’t want grapes.”
I’d just eaten breakfast and really wasn’t hungry.
At the junction twenty minutes up he let me out.
“transport? Transport, boss?” called the moto drivers.
“nope.” I said, blowing past them.
I walked the rest of the way, maybe two miles.
What were two miles?
A walk through beautiful Bali,
Past vineyards and palms and mountains and rice paddies.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A POEM - I ADMIRED VAN GOGH'S SENSE OF HUMOR
I ADMIRED VAN GOGH’S SENSE OF HUMOR
On one of the public buses
From slimy tourist ghetto Kuta Beach
To soft, damp, drippy Lovina,
With its lush, green rice paddies
And black sand beaches,
I thought about Vincent Van Gogh
And had to let out a chuckle.
Then later that night,
Lying in bed and playing solitaire,
I let out another wicked cackle,
Thinking again about Van Gogh,
That sick, twisted fuck!
I kept picturing him,
Drunk out of his mind off absinthe,
Probably eating psilocybin of sorts, too,
Standing before a mirror,
Eyes burning wide and crazy,
Knife in hand,
Wretched smirk smeared across his face
And then him just carving off his ear,
All the while laughing like a demon,
Blood spurting out from his head
As he packed that limp, dead ear
Into an envelop, addressed, licked and sealed it,
Then dropped the fucker into a city mail box,
All smiles and giggles.
I bet he was holding his bleeding head
With one hand,
And slapping his knee with the other,
Laughing, laughing, laughing,
As he walked through the early Paris sidewalks,
Passing by young children going to school,
Gawking at the fucking madman,
Who’d cut off his ear and sent it to his old girl.
On one of the public buses
From slimy tourist ghetto Kuta Beach
To soft, damp, drippy Lovina,
With its lush, green rice paddies
And black sand beaches,
I thought about Vincent Van Gogh
And had to let out a chuckle.
Then later that night,
Lying in bed and playing solitaire,
I let out another wicked cackle,
Thinking again about Van Gogh,
That sick, twisted fuck!
I kept picturing him,
Drunk out of his mind off absinthe,
Probably eating psilocybin of sorts, too,
Standing before a mirror,
Eyes burning wide and crazy,
Knife in hand,
Wretched smirk smeared across his face
And then him just carving off his ear,
All the while laughing like a demon,
Blood spurting out from his head
As he packed that limp, dead ear
Into an envelop, addressed, licked and sealed it,
Then dropped the fucker into a city mail box,
All smiles and giggles.
I bet he was holding his bleeding head
With one hand,
And slapping his knee with the other,
Laughing, laughing, laughing,
As he walked through the early Paris sidewalks,
Passing by young children going to school,
Gawking at the fucking madman,
Who’d cut off his ear and sent it to his old girl.
A POEM - OUR SEARCH FOR THE TRUTH
OUR SEARCH FOR THE TRUTH
The only thing
That we’re all after,
Deep, deep down,
Is a truth.
Some sort of truth,
And it’s been
evading us
our entire lives.
The only thing
That we’re all after,
Deep, deep down,
Is a truth.
Some sort of truth,
And it’s been
evading us
our entire lives.
A POEM - NOT TO HATE
NOT TO HATE
Many times,
All over the world,
I found it very hard,
Not to hate.
Not to just sit there,
On a park bench,
Or a street curb,
And just look at the world,
And hate everything about it.
Every person, every sight,
Everything.
At about that point on my trip,
I knew it was time to stop.
Stop moving, stop seeing,
Or I’d just go mad,
If I hadn’t already.
Many times,
All over the world,
I found it very hard,
Not to hate.
Not to just sit there,
On a park bench,
Or a street curb,
And just look at the world,
And hate everything about it.
Every person, every sight,
Everything.
At about that point on my trip,
I knew it was time to stop.
Stop moving, stop seeing,
Or I’d just go mad,
If I hadn’t already.
A POEM - THE BUM AND THE BOTTLE
THE BUM AND THE BOTTLE
I bought a bottle
And sat down on a curb
Outside a bar to work on it.
I’d nearly finished it
When the toothless, dirty bum
Slouching next to me
Eyed the bottle and made great
Gestures for me to send it his way.
If he had asked for cash,
Even a dime,
I’d have shrugged with an easy,
“fuck off.”
But he wanted from me only some beer,
Only what little was left in my bottle.
I felt I couldn’t refuse him that.
My mother had taught me to share,
Especially with the less fortunate.
So I took one last slug and passed the bottle.
“it’s yours” I said,
Knowing fully that he hadn’t any idea
What the words meant, but still understood.
He tipped the bottle and finished it,
And when he’d brought it back down again,
I was long gone.
I bought a bottle
And sat down on a curb
Outside a bar to work on it.
I’d nearly finished it
When the toothless, dirty bum
Slouching next to me
Eyed the bottle and made great
Gestures for me to send it his way.
If he had asked for cash,
Even a dime,
I’d have shrugged with an easy,
“fuck off.”
But he wanted from me only some beer,
Only what little was left in my bottle.
I felt I couldn’t refuse him that.
My mother had taught me to share,
Especially with the less fortunate.
So I took one last slug and passed the bottle.
“it’s yours” I said,
Knowing fully that he hadn’t any idea
What the words meant, but still understood.
He tipped the bottle and finished it,
And when he’d brought it back down again,
I was long gone.
A POEM - CHOOSING ILLITERACY
CHOOSING ILLITERACY
I met him on the bus to somewhere,
He was a Brit and he was seventy four years old.
Every Brit I got to talking to
Was always seventy four years old.
He asked me what I did.
I said, “not much.”
He snorted and then he said,
“no really, I mean, back home.”
I told him I mixed up drinks,
And made stabs at writing.
His eyes blazed and he smiled all big and bright,
And finally, after a few false starts, said,
“I’m proud to say,
not to throw dirt at your chosen profession,
that I haven’t read a book since 1988.”
I thought about this for a moment.
Either he was old and senile,
And maybe meant 1984 by Orwell,
Or he was serious,
And he meant he hadn’t read a book in 20 years.
“I just decided, I’ve read enough. I need to DO!”
That clarified it for me.
The old fucker hadn’t read a book
In twenty years.
Maybe it was something to admire.
I knew nobody else who’d accomplished that feat.
“but I’m thinking of getting back into it.
Maybe I’ll read a book if you write one.”
I gave a little laugh.
“naw, that wouldn’t be good.
Then you’d probably wanna go
another twenty years
Without reading a book again.”
“so you’re that good, huh, that confident?”
“I’m that confident that you wouldn’t dig my style,
How about that?”
“well, now I’m screwed either way.
If I don’t read your book,
I’m narrow-minded and afraid,
And if I do,
I break my non book-reading
Which has lasted since 1988.”
I turned to him and held in a laugh,
Not about the reading thing,
Or anything like that,
But because he looked exactly like Martin Sheen,
And I’d just realized this. I wondered,
“does Martin Sheen read books, and would he read mine?”
“well,” I said to him, “ I guess you’re screwed,
Either way then.”
I met him on the bus to somewhere,
He was a Brit and he was seventy four years old.
Every Brit I got to talking to
Was always seventy four years old.
He asked me what I did.
I said, “not much.”
He snorted and then he said,
“no really, I mean, back home.”
I told him I mixed up drinks,
And made stabs at writing.
His eyes blazed and he smiled all big and bright,
And finally, after a few false starts, said,
“I’m proud to say,
not to throw dirt at your chosen profession,
that I haven’t read a book since 1988.”
I thought about this for a moment.
Either he was old and senile,
And maybe meant 1984 by Orwell,
Or he was serious,
And he meant he hadn’t read a book in 20 years.
“I just decided, I’ve read enough. I need to DO!”
That clarified it for me.
The old fucker hadn’t read a book
In twenty years.
Maybe it was something to admire.
I knew nobody else who’d accomplished that feat.
“but I’m thinking of getting back into it.
Maybe I’ll read a book if you write one.”
I gave a little laugh.
“naw, that wouldn’t be good.
Then you’d probably wanna go
another twenty years
Without reading a book again.”
“so you’re that good, huh, that confident?”
“I’m that confident that you wouldn’t dig my style,
How about that?”
“well, now I’m screwed either way.
If I don’t read your book,
I’m narrow-minded and afraid,
And if I do,
I break my non book-reading
Which has lasted since 1988.”
I turned to him and held in a laugh,
Not about the reading thing,
Or anything like that,
But because he looked exactly like Martin Sheen,
And I’d just realized this. I wondered,
“does Martin Sheen read books, and would he read mine?”
“well,” I said to him, “ I guess you’re screwed,
Either way then.”
A POEM - ALL NIGHT LONG (NOT THE MAN I USED TO BE)
ALL NIGHT LONG (NOT THE MAN I USED TO BE)
I came a long way from Singapore today,
By foot and then subway and then ferry,
Then plane and then motorbike and by foot again.
I booked into my five dollar room,
And found the switch for the fan,
The one to make it stop circulating,
Had been ripped out somewhere along the line.
I realized then I’d come a long way,
From the purely destructive, maniacal bastard
I used to be, back in college,
Back on Belknap Street, back THEN,
When I used to saw televisions in half,
And turn the kitchen into a driving range,
With the use of a wood driver
And a recycling bin full of beer bottles.
No, no. now I was a resourceful,
Fix-anything motherfucker.
So instead of just throwing the fan
Through the window,
I tore into my bag and found some scissors,
And a wine opener,
And jerry-rigged a pair of pliers,
And made it so that fan blew straight on me,All night long, all night long.
I came a long way from Singapore today,
By foot and then subway and then ferry,
Then plane and then motorbike and by foot again.
I booked into my five dollar room,
And found the switch for the fan,
The one to make it stop circulating,
Had been ripped out somewhere along the line.
I realized then I’d come a long way,
From the purely destructive, maniacal bastard
I used to be, back in college,
Back on Belknap Street, back THEN,
When I used to saw televisions in half,
And turn the kitchen into a driving range,
With the use of a wood driver
And a recycling bin full of beer bottles.
No, no. now I was a resourceful,
Fix-anything motherfucker.
So instead of just throwing the fan
Through the window,
I tore into my bag and found some scissors,
And a wine opener,
And jerry-rigged a pair of pliers,
And made it so that fan blew straight on me,All night long, all night long.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A POEM - SHORT AND SWEET
SHORT AND SWEET
Clayton came up to me
And made a sign for me
To take off my headphones.
I had them on,
So that he wouldn’t talk to me,
So that I could avoid his harangues,
And get my writing done.
But this time was simple.
Thankfully.
I turned down the volume and said, “huh?”
“at work today,” he began,
“this guy gave me the phone,
And it was my boss. He said to me,
‘listen. I don’t like you,
And I think you’re a fuckin’ asshole.’
Then the guy took the phone back, haha.”
Clayton sniggered and walked away,
Went back into the common dorm room,
Where we all were staying,
And I decided to write this little poem.
Clayton came up to me
And made a sign for me
To take off my headphones.
I had them on,
So that he wouldn’t talk to me,
So that I could avoid his harangues,
And get my writing done.
But this time was simple.
Thankfully.
I turned down the volume and said, “huh?”
“at work today,” he began,
“this guy gave me the phone,
And it was my boss. He said to me,
‘listen. I don’t like you,
And I think you’re a fuckin’ asshole.’
Then the guy took the phone back, haha.”
Clayton sniggered and walked away,
Went back into the common dorm room,
Where we all were staying,
And I decided to write this little poem.
A POEM - A DAY IN SINGAPORE
A DAY IN SINGAPORE
I walked miles around Singapore.
It was a clean place,
A fancy, modern, clean place.
I didn’t mind.
It was a nice break from the
Filthy Asian capitals I’d been in
Over the last few months.
But the prices were higher,
And the sidewalks emptier,
And people obeyed the traffic signals,
And walked when they were told to walk.
I didn’t know what to think.
I liked it more than people said I would,
And less than I wished I did.
“oh, well,” I figured.
“tomorrow I’ll leave and fly to Indonesia.”
It was just that easy, sometimes,
To make those decisions.
To just have a thought,
Make a choice, and go run after it.
Or go run to it.
I walked miles around Singapore.
It was a clean place,
A fancy, modern, clean place.
I didn’t mind.
It was a nice break from the
Filthy Asian capitals I’d been in
Over the last few months.
But the prices were higher,
And the sidewalks emptier,
And people obeyed the traffic signals,
And walked when they were told to walk.
I didn’t know what to think.
I liked it more than people said I would,
And less than I wished I did.
“oh, well,” I figured.
“tomorrow I’ll leave and fly to Indonesia.”
It was just that easy, sometimes,
To make those decisions.
To just have a thought,
Make a choice, and go run after it.
Or go run to it.
A POEM - ALI'S NEST
ALI’S NEST (for the mentally insane)
It must have been some weird, sick joke.
“I’ll give the old fucker props,”
I mumbled to myself,
While sitting at the kitchen table,
In Ali’s Nest.
“I really didn’t see it coming.”
What had come about was me
Staying in a fucking madhouse!
When I’d arrived in Singapore,
I’d spent about ten minutes
Trying to figure out where I was.
The old man attendant gave me a flyer,
For this place called Ali’s Nest.
The rates were about half the ones
I’d seen advertised elsewhere,
And I was always looking for a deal.
So I went in, got a dorm bed,
And set to getting some errands taken care of.
When I came back Terrance,
Some kid from Kansas
Who was surely off his nutter.
He was just sitting out front,
Sweating and nodding and pouring over
Some papers with words on them.
“man,” he said to me,
His teeth moving even when he wasn’t speaking,
“man, I’ll not only teach ‘em the difference,
Between monosyllabic and multisyllabic words,
I’ll teach ‘em how to count syllables.”
“that’s right,” I said, walking past him,
Thinking he was just retarded,
And had somehow ended up in Ali’s Nest
By luck or chance or fate or whatever.
Then later in the room,
He was there, showing me
This full-body para-jumper suit,
Which he said he wore on his jogs around the city.
In walked Sarah,
Rushing and hustling about,
Showering and coming back in the room,
Rubbing some sort of spray all over herself
While saying, “no, that’s not right,”
To whatever Terrance said.
But then she’d rush right out again,
Like she was on speed or yabba or something,
Like everything had to be done as fast as possible.
“I gotta do some writing,”
I said, and set up shop in the kitchen,
Which was also the common room.
A few of the people who were supposedly Ali’s
Family members came and went,
Not thinking much of me sitting there,
Pecking away.
But then Ali came up and showered,
And making to go to sleep said,
“well, good morning then.”
I thought it was maybe one of Ali’s jokes,
This being his “nest” and all.
But then Terrance came in,
And Terrance always wore these headphones,
Even when he was talking with you.
He came in and started talking about
Anything and everything
From how he was bisexual
To his fights in airports
And how he knew people that sometimes just lost it,
And went around kicking ladies in the face.
He left for a bit,
Then came right back with some food,
And began going on about how he wanted to get a whore,
But he felt weird going about it alone.
“well, I’m not goin’ with you,” I said.
“I got my writing to do.”
He wanted a male midget whore in a bath tub,
Being fucked by another whore,
Who was simultaneously giving him head,
Or something like that.
It was hard to follow Terrance’s train of thought,
Or more like train wreck of thoughts.
So he sat there talking,
About starting a construction company,
And then being a techie for a movie studio,
And I sat there tapping at the keys,
All the while this rat
Was running around the kitchen,
Out of the same hole on one side of the wall,
And into another hole on the other side.
Every now and then a cockroach
The size of a golf ball would wander by,
And I had to keep my feet in the air,
To be able to concentrate at all.
Finally Terrance left me alone,
Saying before he ducked into the dorm room,
“say hi to your uncle for me.”
Other members of Ali’s family
Began to come in and out of the kitchen,
Pouring cups of tea or using the bathroom.
One, a big, pale Chinese guy walked in,
Wearing only his boxers and a frown.
He sat down on the sofa next to the table,
Where I was doing my writing,
And he just stared at me as I wrote.
I looked over at him,
And he stared back.
I turned back to my keys,
And he continued to stare.
“oh, what the hell,” I thought.
He sat there for fifteen minutes
Left, came back and sat back down,
Turning over to me and staring again.
I had the feeling like there was something in the water,
Like acid maybe,
And that everybody was out of their fucking minds.
It got so much so that I wondered about myself,
Or if I’d been poisoned,
And not only just led to a lunie house.
“but the words must be written,”
I kept saying to myself,
Under the watchful eye of the big Chinese man,
My stern task master who spoke no words.
“this isn’t a homestay,” I realized,
“this is a fuckin’ mental house!”
It must have been some weird, sick joke.
“I’ll give the old fucker props,”
I mumbled to myself,
While sitting at the kitchen table,
In Ali’s Nest.
“I really didn’t see it coming.”
What had come about was me
Staying in a fucking madhouse!
When I’d arrived in Singapore,
I’d spent about ten minutes
Trying to figure out where I was.
The old man attendant gave me a flyer,
For this place called Ali’s Nest.
The rates were about half the ones
I’d seen advertised elsewhere,
And I was always looking for a deal.
So I went in, got a dorm bed,
And set to getting some errands taken care of.
When I came back Terrance,
Some kid from Kansas
Who was surely off his nutter.
He was just sitting out front,
Sweating and nodding and pouring over
Some papers with words on them.
“man,” he said to me,
His teeth moving even when he wasn’t speaking,
“man, I’ll not only teach ‘em the difference,
Between monosyllabic and multisyllabic words,
I’ll teach ‘em how to count syllables.”
“that’s right,” I said, walking past him,
Thinking he was just retarded,
And had somehow ended up in Ali’s Nest
By luck or chance or fate or whatever.
Then later in the room,
He was there, showing me
This full-body para-jumper suit,
Which he said he wore on his jogs around the city.
In walked Sarah,
Rushing and hustling about,
Showering and coming back in the room,
Rubbing some sort of spray all over herself
While saying, “no, that’s not right,”
To whatever Terrance said.
But then she’d rush right out again,
Like she was on speed or yabba or something,
Like everything had to be done as fast as possible.
“I gotta do some writing,”
I said, and set up shop in the kitchen,
Which was also the common room.
A few of the people who were supposedly Ali’s
Family members came and went,
Not thinking much of me sitting there,
Pecking away.
But then Ali came up and showered,
And making to go to sleep said,
“well, good morning then.”
I thought it was maybe one of Ali’s jokes,
This being his “nest” and all.
But then Terrance came in,
And Terrance always wore these headphones,
Even when he was talking with you.
He came in and started talking about
Anything and everything
From how he was bisexual
To his fights in airports
And how he knew people that sometimes just lost it,
And went around kicking ladies in the face.
He left for a bit,
Then came right back with some food,
And began going on about how he wanted to get a whore,
But he felt weird going about it alone.
“well, I’m not goin’ with you,” I said.
“I got my writing to do.”
He wanted a male midget whore in a bath tub,
Being fucked by another whore,
Who was simultaneously giving him head,
Or something like that.
It was hard to follow Terrance’s train of thought,
Or more like train wreck of thoughts.
So he sat there talking,
About starting a construction company,
And then being a techie for a movie studio,
And I sat there tapping at the keys,
All the while this rat
Was running around the kitchen,
Out of the same hole on one side of the wall,
And into another hole on the other side.
Every now and then a cockroach
The size of a golf ball would wander by,
And I had to keep my feet in the air,
To be able to concentrate at all.
Finally Terrance left me alone,
Saying before he ducked into the dorm room,
“say hi to your uncle for me.”
Other members of Ali’s family
Began to come in and out of the kitchen,
Pouring cups of tea or using the bathroom.
One, a big, pale Chinese guy walked in,
Wearing only his boxers and a frown.
He sat down on the sofa next to the table,
Where I was doing my writing,
And he just stared at me as I wrote.
I looked over at him,
And he stared back.
I turned back to my keys,
And he continued to stare.
“oh, what the hell,” I thought.
He sat there for fifteen minutes
Left, came back and sat back down,
Turning over to me and staring again.
I had the feeling like there was something in the water,
Like acid maybe,
And that everybody was out of their fucking minds.
It got so much so that I wondered about myself,
Or if I’d been poisoned,
And not only just led to a lunie house.
“but the words must be written,”
I kept saying to myself,
Under the watchful eye of the big Chinese man,
My stern task master who spoke no words.
“this isn’t a homestay,” I realized,
“this is a fuckin’ mental house!”
A POEM - NO TICKET HOME
NO TICKET HOME
I was talking to him on the bus.
He’d been living in China,
Teaching English and doing odd jobs,
Learning Chinese so he could start up some biz,
And get rich and retire young.
That whole dream.
He asked me about my travels,
And I told him where I’d been,
Where I was going.
He looked at me for a long minute,
Then said,
“So, you just, like, have no ticket home?”
I thought about it for a few seconds.
At one point I had one,
But that was months back.
I turned back to him,
The rows of palm trees flying past
Outside the window behind him,
“nope. No ticket home.”
I was talking to him on the bus.
He’d been living in China,
Teaching English and doing odd jobs,
Learning Chinese so he could start up some biz,
And get rich and retire young.
That whole dream.
He asked me about my travels,
And I told him where I’d been,
Where I was going.
He looked at me for a long minute,
Then said,
“So, you just, like, have no ticket home?”
I thought about it for a few seconds.
At one point I had one,
But that was months back.
I turned back to him,
The rows of palm trees flying past
Outside the window behind him,
“nope. No ticket home.”
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A POEM - THE WAGON OR THE WHISKEY TRAIN?
THE WAGON OR THE WHISKEY TRAIN?
But isn’t that how it always is?
A ride on the wagon costs next to nothing,
Which is just fine in my book,
But it can also be very safe and boring,
Which are things I generally avoid.
Whereas a ride on the whiskey train
Can cost you thousands of dollars,
Or even your life,
Even if you do fasten your seatbelt.
People just don’t survive train wrecks,
The way they do a bumpy ride on the wagon.
But, like the cowboy I always wanted to be,
I was finding some enjoyment,
For the first time in seven years,
Jumping through the air from one to another,
Sometimes taking it easy on the wagon,
For more than a day at a time,
But then leaping back on the whiskey train,
Cackling and whooping and loving it all.
But isn’t that how it always is?
A ride on the wagon costs next to nothing,
Which is just fine in my book,
But it can also be very safe and boring,
Which are things I generally avoid.
Whereas a ride on the whiskey train
Can cost you thousands of dollars,
Or even your life,
Even if you do fasten your seatbelt.
People just don’t survive train wrecks,
The way they do a bumpy ride on the wagon.
But, like the cowboy I always wanted to be,
I was finding some enjoyment,
For the first time in seven years,
Jumping through the air from one to another,
Sometimes taking it easy on the wagon,
For more than a day at a time,
But then leaping back on the whiskey train,
Cackling and whooping and loving it all.
A POEM - UP IN THE HIGHLANDS
UP IN THE HIGHLANDS
Up there in the Cameron Highlands,
I had this thought:
“shit, I could stay here a while.”
In the mornings,
I’d go for a hike through the jungle,
Or up and around the tea plantations.
Come back in the afternoon,
Eat a big plate of Indian food
As a late lunch.
Samosas, pakoras, fritters, mint sauce,
Raita, some a kind of sweet fried dough.
Then I’d hit the keys,
On and off,
For hours at a time.
In the evening there would be a movie played
In the comfortable but cold common area,
And then late at night,
I’d go for another plate of Indian food,
And hit the sack.
It was such an easy way to go about it,
And all it cost me was about ten bucks a day.
“so,” I figured, “maybe I will stay here a while.”
Up there in the Cameron Highlands,
I had this thought:
“shit, I could stay here a while.”
In the mornings,
I’d go for a hike through the jungle,
Or up and around the tea plantations.
Come back in the afternoon,
Eat a big plate of Indian food
As a late lunch.
Samosas, pakoras, fritters, mint sauce,
Raita, some a kind of sweet fried dough.
Then I’d hit the keys,
On and off,
For hours at a time.
In the evening there would be a movie played
In the comfortable but cold common area,
And then late at night,
I’d go for another plate of Indian food,
And hit the sack.
It was such an easy way to go about it,
And all it cost me was about ten bucks a day.
“so,” I figured, “maybe I will stay here a while.”
A POEM - OH, THE CHEAP BASTARD HAS DONE IT AGAIN
OH, THE CHEAP BASTARD HAS DONE IT AGAIN
The days were sunny and warm,
Those mountain paradise days.
I’d hike in the morning
And write and lounge in the afternoons.
The evenings were cool, pleasantly so.
But the nights,
They were mean and cold
and whatever I did,
I couldn’t keep the goddamn blankets
From sliding off my nylon sleeping bag.
I’d wake every hour or so,
Shivering and coughing and sniffling,
And look into the darkness of the bunk dorm,
Look around until my eyes adjusted,
And I’d say to myself,
“all right, all right.
Tomorrow night I’ll pay the extra cash
for a room of my own with a little heat.”
But I never did.
Because the days were sunny and warm,
Those mountain paradise days,
And the evenings were only cool,
And pleasantly so.
It wasn’t until I’d get back into my sleeping bag,
Late in the night,
After finishing with my writing,
That I’d say to myself,
“oh, you bastard. You’ve done it again.”
The days were sunny and warm,
Those mountain paradise days.
I’d hike in the morning
And write and lounge in the afternoons.
The evenings were cool, pleasantly so.
But the nights,
They were mean and cold
and whatever I did,
I couldn’t keep the goddamn blankets
From sliding off my nylon sleeping bag.
I’d wake every hour or so,
Shivering and coughing and sniffling,
And look into the darkness of the bunk dorm,
Look around until my eyes adjusted,
And I’d say to myself,
“all right, all right.
Tomorrow night I’ll pay the extra cash
for a room of my own with a little heat.”
But I never did.
Because the days were sunny and warm,
Those mountain paradise days,
And the evenings were only cool,
And pleasantly so.
It wasn’t until I’d get back into my sleeping bag,
Late in the night,
After finishing with my writing,
That I’d say to myself,
“oh, you bastard. You’ve done it again.”
A POEM - THOSE STRANGE TIMES IN SOUTHEAST ASIA
THOSE STRANGE TIMES IN SOUTHEAST ASIA
They were strange times and I was a strange person.
I was a stranger even to myself.
Mixed up with so many cultures,
So many people and so many different beds slept in.
I felt I left a part of me in each one.
A finger here, an elbow there,
And now I was just this phantom,
Wandering around the world,
Invisible, morbid and unfulfilled,
But still having to pick up the pack each morning,
Hoist it up onto my shoulders and hit the road,
Always waking up and hitting the road.
“fuck it,” I’d say, checking to make sure
I hadn’t left anything behind. “I’m outta here.”
They were strange times and I was a strange person.
I was a stranger even to myself.
Mixed up with so many cultures,
So many people and so many different beds slept in.
I felt I left a part of me in each one.
A finger here, an elbow there,
And now I was just this phantom,
Wandering around the world,
Invisible, morbid and unfulfilled,
But still having to pick up the pack each morning,
Hoist it up onto my shoulders and hit the road,
Always waking up and hitting the road.
“fuck it,” I’d say, checking to make sure
I hadn’t left anything behind. “I’m outta here.”
A POEM - DIFFERENT
DIFFERENT
I road five hours through the jungle,
To sit on a rooftop terrace in a capital city,
Get eaten by mosquitoes,
Smoke old, stale cigarettes,
And sneak swigs of rotgut whiskey,
Because THEY were watching me on CCTV.
“Is this what it’s all about?” I wondered.
“why, yes. I think it is! Hee hee!”
I gave it some thought.
I had to, because I was having
Both parts of the conversation,
And they were both in my head, I think.
“hmm. Maybe, for me, it is.”
“how do you mean, ‘for you?’”
“I mean, for me, it’s about exactly this.”
“what is, ‘exactly this?’”
“jesus Christ! It’s about traveling the world,
Not for any reason, but to see it!
Through a bus window,
And a pair of scratched sunglasses.
To sit down each night in a different chair,
At a different table,
With a different view,
And write the same shit that comes out of my head.
To sleep in a different city,
A different bed,
Different sheets and different bed bugs,
Or on the floors of different bus stations.
Go out to different bars,
Meet different people,
See different arrangements of stars,
(when the stars can be seen)
To observe, not really participate.
I don’t care about fitting into every culture.
Shit, I don’t care about fitting into my own culture.
Maybe that’s why I’m not trying anymore.
When you can fit in everywhere,
You really can’t fit in anywhere.
I road five hours through the jungle,
To sit on a rooftop terrace in a capital city,
Get eaten by mosquitoes,
Smoke old, stale cigarettes,
And sneak swigs of rotgut whiskey,
Because THEY were watching me on CCTV.
“Is this what it’s all about?” I wondered.
“why, yes. I think it is! Hee hee!”
I gave it some thought.
I had to, because I was having
Both parts of the conversation,
And they were both in my head, I think.
“hmm. Maybe, for me, it is.”
“how do you mean, ‘for you?’”
“I mean, for me, it’s about exactly this.”
“what is, ‘exactly this?’”
“jesus Christ! It’s about traveling the world,
Not for any reason, but to see it!
Through a bus window,
And a pair of scratched sunglasses.
To sit down each night in a different chair,
At a different table,
With a different view,
And write the same shit that comes out of my head.
To sleep in a different city,
A different bed,
Different sheets and different bed bugs,
Or on the floors of different bus stations.
Go out to different bars,
Meet different people,
See different arrangements of stars,
(when the stars can be seen)
To observe, not really participate.
I don’t care about fitting into every culture.
Shit, I don’t care about fitting into my own culture.
Maybe that’s why I’m not trying anymore.
When you can fit in everywhere,
You really can’t fit in anywhere.
A SHORT STORY - I ONLY WENT INTO THE DELI TO EAT A SANDWICH
I ONLY WENT TO THE DELI TO EAT A SANDWICH
by JACK TOM
I’d woken up without a terrible hang over and that was a nice change. I thought, hell, maybe I’ll get some of those nagging errands done today. After an English muffin and a glass of water I jumped onto my motorcycle and rode from one place to another, getting things done. Exchanging the muzzle I’d bought my dog for a bigger one. Returning a knife that I’d never intended to keep. Buying a little rope crimper at the hardware store, that kinda shit.
And it was fun, too, riding around on my motorcycle on cool, cloudy day, from one place to another, getting things done. So on my way home I thought I’d stop in at this little deli and buy a sandwich. I had this hunger building in my gut and there was no need for me to starve. I worked. I had money. And back at home there were no groceries, only beer and condiments in the fridge.
Right outside the deli there was a free parking space and I whipped in and pulled the key from the ignition and went inside. And there they were, three of my friends. Billy, Mitchells, and the Kid.
“oh, shit,” I said.
They had just gotten back from Boston and they were all laughing and wandering around the deli.
I nodded to them and went to the counter. Billy was eating a sandwich and he just sat there, chewing away. Mitchell was sitting at a different table for some reason, drinking a bottle of mineral water. But the Kid came right up to me and immediately started blabbering away like he always did, about this and that and all sorts of bullshit.
This girl Dee was behind the counter. Blonde, quite plump with a cute round face. We exchanged greetings and I began to order.
“I’ll take a large veggie sub,” I said.
“what do you want on it? er, is there anything you don’t want.”
“yeah, uh, no tomatoes or cucumbers-”
I never liked tomatoes and for some reason at that moment I didn’t care much for cucumbers, either.
“hey, man, so we just got back from Boston,” interrupted the Kid.
I turned to him, “oh yeah? nice.”
Then back to Dee who was waiting to continue.
“what kinda cheese do you want on it?”
“I’ll take swiss and provolone, please.”
“facials, pedicures, manicures,” slobbered the Kid. “two nights in the Four Seasons won’t be cheap, either,” he sniggered.
I ignored his buzzing in my ear and Dee said to me, “do you want any dressing or mayo or mustard?”
“and then a night in the Raddison...”
“I’ll take mustard, please.”
“that’ll probably run me about a grand,” the Kid laughed, “the way we left that place.”
“what kinda mustard?”
“uh, French’s, or whatever. Yellow.”
“then I took these guys to Saks Fifth Ave. and I got us all fitted for suits,”
“hey!” I snapped at him. “can you shut up for a minute?”
The Kid turned and walked off, this awkward skip, bouncing around like he had a hot poker up his ass. In fact, everything about him looked ridiculous. These big Gucci sunglasses and these pointy, designer leather shoes, some expensive jeans, the kind you buy new with holes and stains on them, and then some stupid bright pink button-up shirt.
He looked like some fool who’d lucked himself into a relationship with one of those young Hollywood whores. He had this look about him like he’d never done a hard day’s work in his life.
“and could I get salt and pepper on that, too,” I said to Dee who was behind the counter, building my sandwich.
She smiled and said, “sure.”
The Kid did took a quick walk around the deli and then came back and continued bantering on.
“that was, like, a four thousand dollar weekend, man.”
“on daddy’s credit card, huh?”
“I gotta sell my jeep,” he smiled sheepishly.
“If I were him I’d kick yer fuckin’ ass,” I said, shaking my head. “right out the fuckin’ front door.”
A few minutes later Dee handed me my sandwich and rang me up. I grabbed a Dr. Pepper out of the drink cooler and said, “and this, too.”
Then I sat down and began to eat. The Kid sat down in the same booth and opened his phone and began to flip through pictures he had taken over the weekend.
“hey,” he shouted right in my face. “look at these pictures. Here, look at these.”
He pushed the phone towards my face and I batted his hand away.
“no.”
“come on, look at these.”
“get outta here.”
“why, they’re pictures. Look at ‘em.”
“I don’t wanna look at ‘em.”
“why not?”
“because I didn’t come here to look at pictures of your weekend. I don’t give a damn about your weekend. I came here to eat a fuckin’ sandwich.”
by JACK TOM
I’d woken up without a terrible hang over and that was a nice change. I thought, hell, maybe I’ll get some of those nagging errands done today. After an English muffin and a glass of water I jumped onto my motorcycle and rode from one place to another, getting things done. Exchanging the muzzle I’d bought my dog for a bigger one. Returning a knife that I’d never intended to keep. Buying a little rope crimper at the hardware store, that kinda shit.
And it was fun, too, riding around on my motorcycle on cool, cloudy day, from one place to another, getting things done. So on my way home I thought I’d stop in at this little deli and buy a sandwich. I had this hunger building in my gut and there was no need for me to starve. I worked. I had money. And back at home there were no groceries, only beer and condiments in the fridge.
Right outside the deli there was a free parking space and I whipped in and pulled the key from the ignition and went inside. And there they were, three of my friends. Billy, Mitchells, and the Kid.
“oh, shit,” I said.
They had just gotten back from Boston and they were all laughing and wandering around the deli.
I nodded to them and went to the counter. Billy was eating a sandwich and he just sat there, chewing away. Mitchell was sitting at a different table for some reason, drinking a bottle of mineral water. But the Kid came right up to me and immediately started blabbering away like he always did, about this and that and all sorts of bullshit.
This girl Dee was behind the counter. Blonde, quite plump with a cute round face. We exchanged greetings and I began to order.
“I’ll take a large veggie sub,” I said.
“what do you want on it? er, is there anything you don’t want.”
“yeah, uh, no tomatoes or cucumbers-”
I never liked tomatoes and for some reason at that moment I didn’t care much for cucumbers, either.
“hey, man, so we just got back from Boston,” interrupted the Kid.
I turned to him, “oh yeah? nice.”
Then back to Dee who was waiting to continue.
“what kinda cheese do you want on it?”
“I’ll take swiss and provolone, please.”
“facials, pedicures, manicures,” slobbered the Kid. “two nights in the Four Seasons won’t be cheap, either,” he sniggered.
I ignored his buzzing in my ear and Dee said to me, “do you want any dressing or mayo or mustard?”
“and then a night in the Raddison...”
“I’ll take mustard, please.”
“that’ll probably run me about a grand,” the Kid laughed, “the way we left that place.”
“what kinda mustard?”
“uh, French’s, or whatever. Yellow.”
“then I took these guys to Saks Fifth Ave. and I got us all fitted for suits,”
“hey!” I snapped at him. “can you shut up for a minute?”
The Kid turned and walked off, this awkward skip, bouncing around like he had a hot poker up his ass. In fact, everything about him looked ridiculous. These big Gucci sunglasses and these pointy, designer leather shoes, some expensive jeans, the kind you buy new with holes and stains on them, and then some stupid bright pink button-up shirt.
He looked like some fool who’d lucked himself into a relationship with one of those young Hollywood whores. He had this look about him like he’d never done a hard day’s work in his life.
“and could I get salt and pepper on that, too,” I said to Dee who was behind the counter, building my sandwich.
She smiled and said, “sure.”
The Kid did took a quick walk around the deli and then came back and continued bantering on.
“that was, like, a four thousand dollar weekend, man.”
“on daddy’s credit card, huh?”
“I gotta sell my jeep,” he smiled sheepishly.
“If I were him I’d kick yer fuckin’ ass,” I said, shaking my head. “right out the fuckin’ front door.”
A few minutes later Dee handed me my sandwich and rang me up. I grabbed a Dr. Pepper out of the drink cooler and said, “and this, too.”
Then I sat down and began to eat. The Kid sat down in the same booth and opened his phone and began to flip through pictures he had taken over the weekend.
“hey,” he shouted right in my face. “look at these pictures. Here, look at these.”
He pushed the phone towards my face and I batted his hand away.
“no.”
“come on, look at these.”
“get outta here.”
“why, they’re pictures. Look at ‘em.”
“I don’t wanna look at ‘em.”
“why not?”
“because I didn’t come here to look at pictures of your weekend. I don’t give a damn about your weekend. I came here to eat a fuckin’ sandwich.”
A POEM - SLEEPING IN THE BEDS I MADE FOR MYSELF
SLEEPING IN THE BEDS I MADE FOR MYSELF
Back then, after me and my girl had broken up,
I’d make my rounds to my favorite bars.
Eventually I’d end up at the one I worked at,
This sporty type of bistro
That nobody ever went to.
Towards the evening I’d tell the bartender,
“hey, I’m gonna go upstairs and sleep for a while.”
He’d nod and say, “sure,”
and I’d open the door and walk to the upstairs bar
that was only open on certain nights of the week.
I’d go over to the pool table and pass right out.
Later in the night, at closing time,
the manager who’d come in would wake me up and say,
“hey, kid. you want a ride home?”
I’d look around, figure out where I was and mutter,
“if you’re headed that way, sure.”
I could sleep anywhere during that time and I did.
pool tables, hardwood floors, couches, lawns, sidewalks.
Some mornings I’d wake up on a bench in a laundromat,
The washers and dryers whirring away.
I’d have the thought,
lying in some dirty grass in the afternoon sun,
“when you’re tired of life, you can just sleep anywhere.”
Back then, after me and my girl had broken up,
I’d make my rounds to my favorite bars.
Eventually I’d end up at the one I worked at,
This sporty type of bistro
That nobody ever went to.
Towards the evening I’d tell the bartender,
“hey, I’m gonna go upstairs and sleep for a while.”
He’d nod and say, “sure,”
and I’d open the door and walk to the upstairs bar
that was only open on certain nights of the week.
I’d go over to the pool table and pass right out.
Later in the night, at closing time,
the manager who’d come in would wake me up and say,
“hey, kid. you want a ride home?”
I’d look around, figure out where I was and mutter,
“if you’re headed that way, sure.”
I could sleep anywhere during that time and I did.
pool tables, hardwood floors, couches, lawns, sidewalks.
Some mornings I’d wake up on a bench in a laundromat,
The washers and dryers whirring away.
I’d have the thought,
lying in some dirty grass in the afternoon sun,
“when you’re tired of life, you can just sleep anywhere.”
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