Thailand for some reason inspires me to write. It inspires me to write poetry and stop in the middle of the sidewalk to pull out my notebook and jot things down. Maybe I’m just paying better attention but I usually pay attention to what’s going around me. Well, sometimes I fall down because I’m looking elsewhere.
Or maybe it’s me and not Thailand? Maybe it’s simply the changes that I have been going through.
I don’t know if life has sped up, slowed down or stopped all together. But I feel like I’m on a roller coaster ride. Sometimes I want it to stop, never end, go back or fast forward. I’m letting go and holding on at the same time.
Okay I feel like I’m getting ready to bust out into song or something, so don’t laugh okay? Okay laugh. Laugh. It’s only my “heart” you’re holding. Actually, let me take that back. Look it’s not like I’m taking it to the streets. And I haven’t attended any poetry slams or anything. (Lately) I just feel gooey and silly and since I’m a free bird – well, I feel good. Really good.
(*no abusive substances where involved in the making of this post)
i’ll meet you
at the river of sky between the banks of the clouds
where the tree tops tickle the wind
and the mountains net the momentum of the rain
before the morning dew
perches on blades of grasses
and after you’ve told me everything
like an impression of a dream
i mean to forget you
like a khom fai, a sky lantern
and watch the air float you away.
cobwebs will have a happier time
as will bad words
of a different language
i mean to forget you
because you have forgotten me
i grow tired of your bamboo behavior
i feel your thorn in my back
on my face the sun’s heat
unrelenting, you grow and grow
who’s guerilla gardening idea
was this anyway?
i’ll run from these palace walls
when i get the chance
i’ll fly away when i’m ready
a sweet release
i lost my grip
stabbed by forgetfulness
what’s a girl to do?
straddled between the missionary man
and the thai-seeking farang
promises of better land, better times and better money
thick flesh attempting to redeem the brown one
button up and button down
bible thumping old men of slightly
head for the hills
and bum thumping old men
who have lost their demeanor
slumber in the low lands
sticky is the rice up north
fanned open the guide books
where’s the map, where’s the map?
backpacks of really large sizes
are those pants?
cornrows of beach days not long gone
and smells of moistness long gone not
one of them