one of those old photographs days

seems like it’s one of those
old photographs days
where a friendship may be celebrated
just by sharing an image
that reminds of the sharing of
time and space
and how far it has come
and how long it’s been going on

approximation

a series of interlocking
intertwining incidents
along an apparent
corridor of spacetime

a handful of jobs
and midnight words
and mind sweepings
and lit dawns

a set of dynamics
an approximation of stereotypes
a couple of bucks
and flights

thus engulfed
without script
the crossed line
further into ambiguity

on the day

on the big day
of The Election
waking up on Wednesday
the internet was out
maybe it was a sign
the world had ended! 
but no…  

and so the days dragged by

tonight I came home early
from my nightplace of work
and shortly found
OMG (as we say nowadays)
Harris is VP.  and the other thing
and the other other other thing will be gone

and ten minutes later
here in Phnom Penh  
the cleansing replenishing reviving rains
fall

and the next fight begins

tune

tune

late on the familiar balcony
I spy a musician
– cannot see –
as he turns the corner
and plays his whistling riff
over the beat of his ponderous steps

a beautifulsad phrase
on an ancient whistle
I know as a recorder

and I rush downstairs
to honour
– with small money –
a working musician

and he stops
– is gracious –
then ambles forward
in stately blindness
at the furthest left of the street,
one motorcycle length from the curb

he is passed at pace
by sellers of village food
– creepycrawlies so challenging to the outsider –
and the more sophisticated street food
idles and sizzles by,
seafood and other exotica
feeding the workers of the night

the musician shuffles on
his tune blending with the
YouTube of the bars,
and it fades slowly as he proceeds
slowly east towards the river

the floating, sad, delicate melody
can still be heard
from the balcony
15 minutes later,
as he still shuffles on down the block

he takes his music with him
but leaves a little behind
as we all strive to do

are we heard 15 minutes later? 

smot

an insolent walk
in the last spits of a downpour
turns to detour
past a blackandwhite
as the air is thick
with smot
and there is little enough beauty
on sodden afternoons like this

around another turn
and a young man
wears a t-shirt saying
don’t let your friends and family
get lonely
keep bothering them

learning to read again

learning to read again
a merry dance to be sure
the turn of the eye
the flashes of recognition

set pieces with
improvised dialogue
and handful gestures
floating just above language
where meanings are explored
gently
like watching soap bubbles
drift
lightly and tenderly aware
that too much focus
will linger only into a withering

the unexpected
arrivals of small round
grapeshaped and
fingershaped fascinations
coaxing a merry dance

not taking it personally

in the time of rielisation
I am surrounded by the
sweet and sour dreams
of one hundred years ago
no doubt the change
another hundred years will bring
will have them shaking their heads
at us
their ancestors

we still do not understand the rain
and where it falls
and do we take it
personally? 
sometimes

the floors and the walls
look different now
with the hope that
it can push some
internal improvements

the downward stampede
to the next new number
has begun;
today I talked of
new year’s eve plans
to my surprise 

what’s in a number
but what a strange season
we have been donkey riding
bumping crashing
slipping sliding
through

when you can see the flecks of gold

you can take a crowded room
and hold it in your hand
and raise it to your eyes
and see it pure and small

above the clamour and the yabber
the laughter and the song
and the hearts and the embraces

when you can see the flecks of gold
flicker in the cracks
of the lines that stretch from each one
to another and another

when you see the gold that is collected
through the dusting
that is time

our marble and our clay

a peace
too dear for my possessing
yet lingers on the periphery
in certain hours

when my ghost
floats through the space
brushing surfaces and
rhapsodising the room

the lessons of living chip away
at our marble and our clay
we hope that we are approaching slowly
a truer self, a place we’d like to stay

looking for camouflage, spotlights,
exits, nooks, trees, ambrosias,
running water, dancing moons

and softness
always softness

better in the rain

the elegant turns of the street corners
frame progress through the
untidy streets

the gods have their candy
the rats have their holes
the cats have their kittens
the nights have their perfume
of street food and petrol fumes
and bright, bright lights

in our public caves
the beer tastes better in the rain
and we are going nowhere for now

contemplating the quiet joy
of a clean floor
and all that that references
as this daylight hastens
to broaden

new sheets for new jottings