With one single step out of the train there is no direction anymore there never was any- no structure, there was no architecture successfully threading the instances of the biography, successfully leading this afternoon successfully leading this career this life towards -sigh- anything There is no direction inside this station and the dawning is cold like the air escaping the closing doors and the somersaulting commuters ditching the fee Smart ones: them and the smug academic flaunting his million publications flaunting his indexed life such a professorial life straight out of graduation in one flawless impulse of his train where all the maps are clear and twelve years after he can boast his scholarly chin bearded in foreign climates and cozy colleges cozily sailing away his success Such is his station, their station, all their stations, in this forsaken life! All the millions, all the toils all the calls were correctly placed and correctly given and it was a smooth transit no
out there
today
in the universe
a supernova!
don't bother to look yet
light only travels at lightspeed
a thousand years or so hence
we'll see it and get all excited
at least I sure would
yup - we'll see it
if we haven't destroyed ourselves
in the meantime
llp - dA - aug2018
on calling home, vietnam 2017 by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
on calling home, vietnam 2017
we walk to the market, watch the barefoot children,
the winding snake of tuk tuks disappearing into noise.
we look to the internet to express our fascination with these newfound novelties.
i tell my facebook friends about which strange meats taste like chicken
about the meaning of time on the long edge of horizon
and the vietnamese word for thank you.
they laugh, tell me that i am brave, that the world is small
and the people in it infinite, everlasting, some trope of belonging.
Dressed like a civilian,
he only comes
to maim
(No one is watching
the house tonight)
Tin cans line the porch rail
as if they had all
the time in the world to flee,
just waiting for a shot
to fracture the silence.
The air is a blister.
It swells his feet and hands,
his heavy jowls
dragging down the walls.
The rocker waits for him,
guessing his mood
and the weight
of his heart
as he sprawls into the wood
and shifts his face.
Testimony
Clockwork
A last glance at the door
and the windows staring
back at the yard.
He can feel the sleight of hand,
the slow turn of the screw
and knows the fire
has gone out.
I’d heard about the crocodile in the salt ponds
I walk the road nearby every evening and thought I might see it eventually
The American Crocodile is a rarity, but if left unmolested will live for seventy years
The local paper mindlessly reported the sighting and the tourists came
Gaijin in red rented Mustang convertibles
They would stop me on my walk and ask, “Yo, you seen that Alligator?”
I said, “No and it’s a Crocodile and I doubt it wants to see you.”
Not the friendliest local, me
I was worried it might have been rubbed out – killed for its skin or its skull
Or the human perversion, killed fo