My Picture: Xinxiang City, Henan Province, China.
City Lights
Art
How to disregard me
My Picture: Burnt Scooter – taken today: Xinxiang, Henan, China.
Just tell them I am a frustrated poet,
that swears that he is an atheist,
and hates football.
But even this they did not get.
Just tell them, that
I promise never to listen to AC/DC again.
And I swear, I will never, never again read
that alcoholic sexist pig
Bukowski,
at least not for a while…
But even this statement of my ill-intentions
they did not get.
Just tell them,
that I will get back to teaching
cats and dogs, and promise to give more
time and marks for beauty.
After all, every day is judgment day.
And as they drift,
and fade away so slowly.
Some said
“you cannot be a poet”
Even though, I could show it.
Then I realized that I am at their mercy.
And a life on the road seems a good
way to sink into my dreams,
and write my open poetry.
On Reflection
My Picture: River Wei Today: Xinxiang, China
Observing all the things I meet
on downtown walks,
reminds me of walking through life.
You can yell at this direction
or that direction,
a fire garden of illusions
Either way, the wind takes
your voice away.
And you see the shadows
of your mother,
or any other empty reflection.
In the end, two people can look
at the exact same thing, and see
something totally different.
Only to doubt what
is presented to you.
Passing Time
My Picture: Statue of Vietnamese Woman: Hue, Vietnam.
How strange to see a familiar face
in a Xinxiang Coffee Bar.
War marched through my mind.
I wanted to ask
how you addressed the fog,
and how to treat the ghosts.
But I know that time and space
describe nothing.
A dark side, often hidden
and all alone.
The Indifferent
Today was not a good day.
Some people never seem to think,
and weep with soft eyes
when you tell them you do not
fear men that torment you.
They try to establish a dangerous consistency,
as you talk with people about
Camus, Dickinson and Bukowski
all examined and returned again.
They laugh at you because you
know what happened in Guernica,
Nanjing and My Lai
“Only we know this truth” they cry
And as for how truth and love have been lost
time and time again.
Well…they know nothing of this.
I try to hum a tune
or write a poem, but it becomes
a fixed subject.
Because I care and know that
hope will be encountered.
So…my friend Sophia, a radiant
point in this indifferent place
took me for coffee, and told me to
“Grow your fixed ideas,
because you are true”
So, we drank the coffee,
and I bought some flowers.
I put them next to my Bukowski books.
A form of resistance
in this deep-rooted time.
Bob Dylan’s Harmonica
dav
dav
The book shop owner in Xinxiang
gave me Bob Dylan’s harmonica today.
At least he said it was Bob’s,
and that was good enough for me.
So I played a tune,
and it was like it used to be.
When my head was high
and I was a king.
Before the signs of the cross,
cold and blunt
and things that worry me.
Then everything had to be replaced,
and I forgot about being a king.
One future was traumatic enough.
A drifting fragrance
My Picture: A bird landed on my windowsill …a caught moment.
Sometimes I feel lost,
a place far off it seems.
Hidden by endless
autumns of traditions,
and demanding something deeper.
Five hours this afternoon,
sending documents and
talking on QQ.
Trying to wake them
from the dreaming forest.
Memorizing or creative thinking,
Who cares….
Not Jenifer Aniston
or Kate Winslet.
They are shown on high
definition screens
24 hours a day, on endless repeat.
Each new thought being lost,
and stretched far behind.
This is deep and secret to me.
A failed drifting fragrance,
from a time before the new age.
And I wonder…
where have the wrong turns been made?
A Supermarket in Xinxiang
A plant I bought from the supermarket
What thoughts have I,
pushing my trolley
around this supermarket.
Another solitary walk
shopping for images,
and a beautiful
Chinese woman
to share my life with.
Open isles of pork chops
and my feet dragging
across the ground.
Passing the ladies selling
expensive hair conditioner,
to the weary and unrequited.
‘Where are we going’, asked Camus
I am reading him now.
There is meaning here,
at least for some,
and absurdity is a distant memory.
Everyone in this supermarket
seems to have a mission.
Following a 5000 year old star
to the end of the road.
They taste the sweet bread,
and stroll dreaming of
possessing every
frozen delicacy from a foreign land.
They are not scared or unclear,
or make love cry.
Everyone knows they are part of history,
except me.
Domestic Issues
My Picture: Poster promoting women’s health. Hanoi, Vietnam
It was winter and wet,
our children gone.
Your anger fueled by grain
and family traditions.
Persuasions, to no avails and
my body a punching bag.
Beautiful diamonds,
no longer carry your traditions.
When the insects sleep
the wounds heal.
Silent knife, I hate you
for what you try to subjugate
and take for your own.
I am leaving now,
this can’t be living.
No longer receiving,
your pains and sorrows.
You broke my body, but not my mind.
The blows from you,
will hurt no more.
Difference
My Picture: Red Coffee Cafe, Xinxiang. Henan Province, China
A Wandering Poet 