what ever happened to the underground

where are the heirs

of the demimonde?

the emblematic hair,

chopped or cropped

or mohawk spiked,

when dreadlocks

belonged to rastafarians

instead of humboldt state

or berkeley posers.

when tattooed sleeves

were the inky terrain

of sideshow freaks

and jailbirds.

and the underground

spoke to itself

with xeroxed 'zines

about the sounds

and scenes,

and mark pauline

reanimated mummified dogs

with robotic limbs

and built infernal machines

that spit fire and bowling balls

and the abandoned breweries

were squats.

where art and music

happened to happen

and a lukewarm can of bud

could be had for a buck

in a basement club or loft.

and we went out

to dark corners and alleys

with a stack of posters,

a bucket of wheat paste

and a brush to claim

a vain resistance

to the encroaching wave

of homogenized life

and culture.

before the signs and signifiers

were semi-digested

and re-projected

as an infinite spew

of available lifestyle

selections.

and nothing was permitted

but much was tolerated

in the shadows

and the cracks.

Bugs, busses, and butts

The dying cockroach lay

halfway on its side

on the hot white tiles outside

Chiang Rai Bus Terminal #2

halfway to being fried.

The bus was not due

to leave until

three forty five.

Not much to do except

smoke another Marlboro,

ignore the photo on the box

of cancer riddled lungs

and wish that I could

have a Camel Straight,

but they don't sell them here.

Sunday, the thirtieth of July

is the forty fourth anniversary

of the day I walked out

of the last Army building

in which I'd ever wear a uniform

I lit up a Camel straight

and flagged a Yellow cab.

wish I had one now,

but they don't sell them here.

I snuffed the Marlboro out

and went back to my seat,

just another forty four

minutes until the Chiang Mai

bus was due, so I waited

and considered

that bug slowly roasting

on the hot white tiles outside

Chiang Rai Bus Terminal #2.

five senses aren't enough

I need more eyes, another pair of ears

spare nose and tongue, a second skin.

To see the thousand million signs

and writhing vines, the ganglia of wires

strung from post to post,

to balconies and roofs.

To see the banana trees

between the motorcycle dealer

and the cafe. The mansion beside

the bridal dress shop.

The lotus wrought in iron

on the window security bars.

The chrome spear points

that top the spikes

of golden fences.

More ears to hear

the swarms of scooters,

the crunch of gears

in the wheezing buses.

The roosters that never cease

their crowing noon or night,

the yowl of a tomcat fight,

the plaintive notes

of Isaan instrumentals

or elevator pop in the mall.

The mellow flow of spoken Thai

even though I understand so little.

Another nose

to separate the mix

on the street of jasmine leis,

roasting meat or corn, and diesel fumes. 

The sweet perfume of Belgian waffles

at the Victory Monument Skytrain station.

The musk of muddy earth

and rotting leaves.

A stronger tongue to taste

the bite and spice of larb

or nam prik ong,

the pungency of basil,

the cool restorative crunch

of cucumber.

The sweet nectar of fresh lime juice.

The comfort of warm sticky rice

with mango.

I need a second skin,

shedable as a cobra’s

when the rain refuses to fall

and the street feels like a sauna.

Another skin to keep me warm

in the over air-conditioned train.

And a special skin, at least an acre

to enjoy the midnight breeze

while gazing at  the glow

of clouds lit up

by the vast metropolis below

when curtained lightning

sends a fifteen minute storm

to wash the trees and streets

and forgotten sheets

left out to dry

the day before.

Bird life

Bangkok cocks crow

ur-early, three hours

before gray dawn.

The swallows wait

for the light before

they zoom past

the balcony
on the 14th floor

in tight formation.

Butterfly

She's almost always there.

sitting crosslegged on the sidewalk

with the purple blooms of agapanthus

nodding in the breeze over her head.

Eating pancakes.

She asked me for a smoke.

Told me her name

-Butterfly.

says that she is an African warrior queen.

Her outstretched hand is crusted with dirt,

because it seems the last bath she had

is a question for her royal history.

A big half-dressed, barefoot African warrior queen

with missing teeth and a missing mind

but the sweetness of a child.

I walk past her spot on the sidewalk

by the park-with-no-name

every afternoon. So I give her

a dollar or two sometimes a five,

whatever I have in my pocket.

She likes cigarettes too,

says -I love smoke. and laughs her big

four-front-teeth-missing smile.

so I tuck a smoke into whatever

folded dollars I give her.

Today I told her I was

going to be gone for a month

and gave her a five.

She says

-I know what peoples had to do.

Says it like the punchline of a joke

that only she understands.

I hope she makes it 'til I come back.

Because you know, even to

simple-minded African warrior queens,

crusted with filth and kind of crazy,

who sleep in the dirt under the poplars

in the park adjacent to the office towers …

Because things happen.

and five weeks from now,

I might not see her.

Eating her cheap pancakes,

and asking me for a Camel

or a Coke with lots of ice.

I said Goodbye Butterfly,

see you when I get back.

and walked on to catch my bus.

Things happened.

Safeway

His voice is a dog fight

on the beverage aisle.

The security guy,

interrupts the text

he's writing to his lady,

tries to calm him.

Unsuccessfully.

the shabby guy

slams a twenty ounce

plastic Pepsi bottle

to the floor.

The pressure bursts

the seal of the cap

and the escaping jet of soda

spins the bottle like a pinwheel.

A small group of seniors

down from Chinatown

gather by the frozen vegetable case

whisper in Cantonese behind their hands

and watch the unfolding drama.

The store manager

comes out from the stockroom

to size up the situation

and tells the would be

Pepsi purchaser

to get out of his store.

The guy is growling

something about uranium

and anuses and the Gulf War.

Dumps a pillow case

filled with his clothes,

two dog-eared books,

and a roll of toilet paper

into the sticky puddle.

Happy? Are you happy now,

you son of a bitch?

I fought a war for you.

For this?

The store manager yells

get out of my store

and don't ever come back.

The guy stomps out of the store

leaving all his stuff behind.

The manager prods the pile

on the floor with the toe of his shoe

tells a stocker who has come over

from the produce section

to clean up the mess.

The books and clothes

and toilet paper go into

a hefty bag (on sale in aisle 6)

and after all the Pepsi is mopped up,

he puts out a yellow warning cone:

Caution - Wet Floor

Ant Farms

Hundreds of them.

no. thousands.

every ten feet or so.

Ants erupting

from the gap between

the sidewalk and the curb 

on Avenue B.

A mass evacuation,

some alert passed

from nest to nest?

mobilized for battle

or immanent disaster?

The little black ones

that mom and her sisters

called sugar ants.

Maybe because

how if you left out

anything sweet,

a couple bites of berry pie

on the counter.

or missed some spilled

RC Cola on the floor,

in the morning it would be

crawling with a crew of ants

hauling bits in a long caravan

to some crevice

under the cupboard

or the stove.

sugar ants sure don't

smell sweet when you

rub them off your arm.

they smell like some

kind of bitter mineral.

I can bring it to mind

right now.

if you had an invasion

in the the house

it was a pestilence.

but Uncle Milton's Ant Farms

sold millions as a novelty.

You bought the slim

clear plastic case

with the silhouettes

of a barn and a silo

farm animals,

some sand to fill it

and a certificate to

mail to Uncle Milton

to get your ants.

Put them in the farm

and watch them build

their tunnels. Feed them

sugar water and tiny bits

of fruit. A few weeks or

months later they all died.

It's only natural, the lifespan

of harvester ants is brief.

Then the farm sat on a shelf

gathering dust unless you

were as fascinated by ants

as Edmund O. Wilson.

There were other kinds

of ants on grandpa's farm

down in the San Joaquin Valley.

The little red ones.

The ones who bite.

The ones who swarmed your feet

if you weren't careful

playing out in the melon field

or the barnyard.

I heard about a new kind of ant problem

down along the Gulf Coast

a species that is attracted to

electronic equipment.

Like transformers. Air conditioners.

Televisions. Laptops. Cell Phones.

They're called Crazy Ants.

Invaders from Brazil and Argentina.

Could become a real serious thing.

Suppose you're tapping and clicking

away on your favorite social media,

and a mob of crazy social insects

attracted by the magnetic field

in your router or you cable box

get electrocuted and short circuit

your set up. No tv or internet.

No air conditioning. If they

got into your home circuits

and the refrigerator shut off,

no ice tea and your Bud Light

would be warm. 

What would the consequences be,

if these socialistic invaders seeking sweets

commandeered millions of cell phones!

cut off all the tweets from reaching

a swath from Tulsa to Pensacola?
Marched on Sherman's path
from Atlanta to Savannah?

Might have to build a wall.

Round them up

and put them in Ant Farms.

And make Brazil and Argentina

pay for it. I, for one, plan to boycott

the tango and and the samba.