Grace

In the old man's mind's eye

he saw his faith as like

a broken stained glass

window in the church

where he had learned

comforting psalms as a child,

when his kindergarten innocence

was still intact but cracking. 

His grace.

insubstantial as a moth

disappearing

in the altar candle's flame.

He found comfort -sometimes-

on rainy weekday afternoons

drowsing in a back row pew

sheltered from the latest news.

Sunday services were too much.

Too much goodwill, too much love

which he found difficult to reciprocate.

But he loved the music, so

he tried to be invisible

wrapped deep within his overcoat,

joining the joyous songs so softly

a ventriloquist would be proud.

He always left

before the service ended,

found his favorite bench

in the park across the street

where he could sit unnoticed

as the elderly often seem to be;

a fragment of the landscape

like the pigeons and the elms.

Ain't no cure

Jamal was pissed.

insisting to his sister

loudly on his Samsung,

-build the wall, build the wall.

His interview had gone badly

and he suspected

that the manager, Mr Garcia

was holding out the position

for some damn cousin

up from some god damn

fuck'n Burritoville

like the three senoritas

he saw working the register

and the sandwich counter.

He glared at the rest of us

waiting for the bus

like he didn't care who

was listening.

Maria and Meifeng

stared at the ground.

Joyce, the transit Inspector

the one who looks like

a caramel hip hop dream,

leaned up against the window

outside the new Philz Coffee,

rolled her eyes, curled her lip,

caught my glance with a sadly

knowing nod as if to say,

What world does the brother

wanna be livin' in? walled up

like a whites only country club?

This Trump bullshit is getting thick.

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.