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.