the shirt
the shirt that I wore on the day
a music box, a pine cone
a shell, a key chain
such things are
talismatic and
brim with tender memory
they have been touched
and so are tactile
in a way that
a photographic record
is not
with time
so much
can stay
the same
and also
the opposite
is true
in praise of quiet surprises
can a surprise
be anything
but unexpected
our artforms
so limited
still urge to the infinite
the familiar
can dull and flatten
collapse into time
the new can
rattlestartle
and gobsmack sometimes
this was not
what I thought
I was looking for
this was quite
quietly
unexpected
chairs in the river
waiting for the shoe to drop
waiting for the world to open
or for the monsoon to come
either would be welcomed
waking up to watch the cockroaches
growing old, losing their scuttle
despite their ignorance of the
polemic headline screams
hard to learn
to love such a pause
with its bleak infinite-looking terms
whose sharp edges will hardly be remembered
as the can is kicked down the road again
waiting for the world to open
or for the monsoon to come
either would be welcomed
because of the rain
these moments of joy
need not be denied
because of wine
because wine is involved
because of the crazy world
because the crazy world is involved
because it’s late
because being late is involved
because of the rain
because the sudden rain
is most of the joy
in ways so easy and yet
so hard to fathom
In the long new year, part 2: Easter Stretch
the street continues to clear itself
imperceptibly and then dramatically
as those usually kept afloat by the
vigorous energy of the crowds
are no longer bobbing in the surf
the vista resembles
a dried up salt lake
in the middle of an abstract continent
a quick rearrangement
so some of the vacant positions
have been taken up by
new outfits
and some have returned quietly
in hope of catching passing business
between the closed gates
out on the streets
be-masked,
we toss eyes at each other
as greetings
and by some grace
we are blessed with thunderstorms in the night
that tease then satisfy
and sometimes coax us to stand naked
to receive the blessings of the rain
~~~
traffic sparse
like new years of old
pigeons jaywalking while
motodops have retreated to
particlar corners
away from mine
but somehow Norodom Boulevard
is heavily armed by uniforms of all shades
a car-proud motorist
ostentatiously hoses down his Lexus
on the shores of the salt lake
the workers building the new hotel
still flood the lunchtime streets
and the endless roadworks on 19
continue to be endless
up in my room
the sound of ancient new year games
trickle and slam across the empty air
despite the official cancellation
for the people will always find a way
to celebrate
and three storeys of guitars
are rostered throughout the hours
what were heresies
now are habits
and vice versa
perhaps we needed a break
from the relentlessness
that we found ourselves in;
we are meeting ourselves
in ways we had forgotten
~~~
it’s a whirlpool
today is written
on onionskin
that trembles and flickers at each vibration:
the footsteps of doom
or maybe those of impending rescue
laughter and sneers
but underneath our minds, aghast,
stand with mouths open
as if we want to catch flies by swallowing
tomorrow already seems behind us
today belongs to another year
this is our whirlpool
and we are welcome to it
~~~
there are statistics
that prove whatever
is desired to be proven
some shutters now unshuttered
like buds in an early spring
as life urges upwards and onwards
and yet it seems too early
and yet for some it is too late
we discuss strategies
in the face of the unknown
they comfort us
as we watch time pass
flicker by flicker
flicker by flicker
flicker by flicker
In the long new year, part one: Indefinite Lent
the crowds are thinning
on the boulevard of cautionary tales
but maybe a new name is in order:
the street of the last chance saloons?
the avenue of the end times?
deathpat’s graveyard?
(have I been reading Tom Robbins too much?)
if only beer wasn’t half as expensive
as soda water
I think to myself
as I scratch the unshavenness
I am wearing to blend in
Monday has not traditionally
been a good day to start again
but so many of the old rules
are gone
and why wait for Tuesday?
as the street dwindles away
into shutters and sentries
~~~
one cannot help being impressed
by the creators of email spam
who continue to work tirelessly
through this crisis
the internet is our mirror
both individually and
our society
all the things we are
are in there
blaring back at us
staring back at us
in piercing shards
and loud lectures
our mythic heroes weep silently
in their corners and their caves
they are spent; they did what they could
for now we are on our own
the bandleader up on the bandstand
keeps calling up new titles but
the dream orchestra keeps playing
the same tune
the shadow protagonist
his time called at last
can only hack his way through the scenery
in stubborn repetition of past roles
on the same backlot
high shimmering painted skies
and smoke machines laid to waste
as he stumbles forward
incoherently shouting lines
from his past triumphant speeches
once there was not a dry eye in the house
now there is not a house
not even a rickety chair
~~~
after the day-after-day morning bangclatter
the view from my window
is still and flatly hot
like childhood summer afternoons
when everything was distant
and the birds were the loudest thing
to be heard
when we walk the streets
the comparison with zombies
is hard to avoid,
with our mouth hiders
firmly in place,
eyes working overtime in exaggerated expressions
to overcome the facewrinkles that
complete our brief exchanges
all plans mothballed
all bets off
all opinions bleated
all encouragements obeying
the law of diminishing cares
~~~
the streetscape edited
erratically, but continually
the familiar faces of these years past
disappeared:
home means different things to different people
particularly when pushed
strange times, we nod sagely,
as we quietly rearrange our priorities
even as we wonder what they are
somewhere it seems
our alter egos
are off hiking in the hills
picnicking halfway up cliffs
waving bottles of wine
at a different sun
wondering where the glasses are
wondering where the corkscrews are
wondering where we are
all plans mothballed
all bets off
shutters and sentries
the dream orchestra keeps playing
the same tune
as if underwater
like a postcard from
a different age
playing a tune from
an old fashioned show
still being written
embracing time
in small parcels
such as circumstances allow
take these thoughts
and do with them
what you will
now they’re out
they’ll find their own meaning
a mind bobs around on
remembered
embraces of deep recall
twists and twirls
as if underwater
confessions
obsessions
depressions
redemptions
all cut from the same cloth
like a postcard from
a different age
playing a tune from
an old fashioned show
still being written
