it’s an old day in a new year.
the sky’s still blue and the clouds will steal the blueness later. still.
when the sky’s not looking.
then the top of my head will be grey.
i will be su tung-p’o and scratch all my memories away.
and i just cut my nails last nite so the ends are all sharpee and later the skin just above my ears will sting.
when i pour a pearl of shokubutsu on my palm and rub it all over my hair.
receding hairline is the ultimate, undeniable, proof of getting old.
isn’t it funny when you remember what you wanted dearly to do three
years ago and three years later, now, you realise you have done some of
the things, but maybe not as much as you, but hey i’m still adapting,
but that’s no excuse, but what if i keep this sentence going for a
whole day, maybe i won’t even be able to finish it.
i wanted to be a writer.
i used to write about seagulls, time in the disguise of a perfect
rolling wave/discarded keychain on a beach – lick it, it’s salty,
tasty, lowell, jodhpurs, fat baristas’s breasts.
i liked especially the fat baristas’s breasts.
i was obsessed.
i’d sit in badde manors for like a day and just stare at them.
and they’d stare back at me.
and even now i don’t know if by “they” I mean the fat baristas or their big great breasts.
so i went home thinking, fat baristas’s breasts are great, but they’re not important.
not like the sweet orange ends of a burning sam soe sigaret, the smell
of rotten banana leaves and whatever was wrapped in them, the
feeling i get when i see a middle-aged salesman walking slowly with his
heavy tennis bag, his body leaning forward and away from it to get a
little traction for his next step –
– not like this nothingville.
i came home for all that.
and of course they refuse to reveal any of their secrets to me.
not like the fat baristas’s breasts, they were willing and generous.
so this is it,
i’m losing it,
and the world around me.