but i stop, my hands clasped tight on the back of a plastic chair, my feet burning criss-cross dunlop pattern into the wet earth, and my mind takes overexposed pictures of a man asleep, or is he dying?, on a kerb with the smell of dead rats and yesterday’s bananas, a girl vomiting just-digested fried noodles, the bok choy leaves still green and the stems paler, a boy pouring zam zam water on a quarter schooner of smirnoff, the newest cocktail for infidels like him. what do you think of the ectoplasm rising out of his wet hair? her mouth shiny from vomit? the dead man’s hand propping up his face? is this spirit photography or photography of? i go and i stop. and i go again. tell me why i always arrive late at the limit of understanding. stop the usher from telling me, go home, there’s no seat left for people who rush only to be on time.
Ideas for Life
i stop.
break the soft stem of the red flowers hanging over the toll road fence.
red looks good on grey.
i drink the juice that drips from the petals.
my hand grey from the dust around the stem.
i move on.
gondoks grow like gothic ruffles on the swamp.
children fish with thin bamboo rods and raffia lines.
couples sit on motorbikes and watch.
all the leaves are green.
the deep green of save the rainforest posters.
i look for a death metaphor.
the black trunks of the mangrove trees.
green moss.
yellow butterflies so pretty.
purple springs of ivy propping up ideas for life.
Nots
not the puddle of black water your dunlop volleys fall into, not
the cold wet between your toes for hours after you had forgotten it ever happened, not
the lime green shirt-tail popping out of her olive green pants (everything else was in its right place, even the gradation of black in her hair), not
the pink flowers of eczema on her arms—i tried to outthought them, but they stayed in my head for a little while, not
the pathetic white cotton towel tied around a broken pipe on the men’s urinal, not
the milisecond wait before the sloan automatic tap washed the dirt and sin off your hands, not
the conblocks everywhere under your feet, grey, white, black, the rare red in front of my office, on their surface more pamors than on a sendang sedayu, not
that anyone here would know what i mean by pamor, or sendang sedayu, unless you read him every week, not
the surprise moon over suburban rukos’ rooftops, the way it makes you feel good about being out there still at 9:31 pm on a damp tuesday night, not
the caterpillar of clouds that ran along an invisible branch off the trunk that propped up the moon. not
anything.
Divagyrations 