moving on
old grey pixelated photos
line up against today’s backdrop
same person? same place?
smoking grey coconut hulls
shower us with magic, danger
either way, too close
red lines barely tie these islands together
and dollar signs drift in and out of focus:
how to get to point B when point A resists?
all I want to do is sleep now to the echo of gamelan
but we must keep moving on
Bali Bearings
incense and flowers spilling into the street
furious gamelan pounding
with the same strokes as
the threshing of rice
shocking turquoise of kingfisher
matched with the identical blue rice-field banner
waterfalls along the sidewalk
frangipani scent everywhere
orange stone and
black-and-white checked guardians
the shadow puppet villian’s bwa-ha-ha
and the Baris dancer’s and Barong’s rolling eyes
a stark contrast to the friendly Balinese
Bali finds every way to outdo itself
(even now, despite the travelers who complain
it’s overdone)
& saturates your every sense
Trimurti
at Prambanan
my Irish Catholic shamrock days resurface:
three-in-one
Creator Preserver (and most prominently) Destroyer
I look at Shiva blankly
feel nothing
Vishnu at least smiles back
but Brahma is my favorite
looking out in 4 directions
making the world
one tremor-struck
cracked
easily-eroded
block at a time
Borobudur night sounds
Progo River hurrying through the shallows
chuckling tokay booming his love song
waking everyone who hasn’t already filtered him out
crickets pulsing
airplane’s vacuum gush
shaka shaka shaka cicada beat
thin voices down the bank
the odd rooster going off early
rumble of traffic somewhere
casual scratching of an old mosquito bite
the river swirls them all together
transforms the angular noises
into a smooth wash of night sound
closes the day
explaining hot dogs to Europeans
hot dogs
plump taut hot flesh
nestled in warm soft bread bun
studded with red (tomatoes) and white (onions)
and a ribbon of ketchup
(not toe-mat-oh sauce)
crack the sound of the bat
the waft of steam from the warm bath
from which they’re drawn
or the crisp black stripes of caramelized skin
the hot red sizzle and smoke of the grill
or the woodsmoke mixed with cedar duff
of camping in the northwest
the hot packet of meat comfortably warming your palms
on a cold spring Little League night
the sinful carnivorous pleasure
of the hot dog joint
in Boulder’s sanctimonious heart
Smith’s spicy thick hot dogs
a taste of my childhood
made by my neighbor/friend’s family for generations
Sara’s – the venerable greasy spoon at the peninsula
we’d brave the line then hurry
to mix hot dog, ice cream, soda, sand
with sun sinking into the lake
the first time I tasted a Hebrew National dog,
considering converting
spring training in Phoenix
watching the Cubs
learning from Chicago masters
to add tomato and onion
There’s nothing quite like an American hot dog
(if you’re American
and eat beef).
under mosquito netting
inside the sheer wisp of fine netting
each outside light goes stretched and starburst
until sleep lets us surrender
to a false sense of safety
we enter and our mindset shifts
waking >> sleeping
apprehensive >> accepting
everyday >> romantic
common >> exotic
exposed >> protected
(partially)
each time I tug one gap closed
another springs in its place
impossible to fully close out
jungle
September: Equinox
an equinox with no pull of fall
this year there’ll be no
slowing-down shedding-time
no long inward-turning impulse
pictures of home bring yellow and reds
but more the sense we’re moving
at a different rate
to a different clock
not just 13 hours ahead
we’re in a time without seasons
without the rhythms our bodies know
chasing summer
while the people we love
watch for frost
Danau Toba Dream
the lake shushes us to sleep
a sweet sloppy sighing lullaby
the whole black-blue basin jiggles
while this big world spins
another dark night streaked with
columns of staccato horizontal
dock- and boat-lines
and the unseen air is as heavy
with smoke and water
as a Varanasi ghat
mimpi indah, Samosir
the river grows
at lunch the friendly waiter explains
in a month from now
when the rains come
water will cover
all these rocks
we murmur in surprise
sit placidly on the same rocks
after our meal
retire to our room
and then the rain starts
slow at first
uneven pings that could be monkeys
then the usual short steady afternoon shower
then it changes, drives down in pounding lines
the whole scene a gray blur of
air displaced by water
shingles shoot past the open woven window
and the stream beside the lodge
becomes a chocolate surge
it pounds on like this all afternoon
until I wonder
what’s a cyclone like?
then I remember to check the river –
the rocks are gone, a month early
each one washed by
the galloping white waves studding
thick brown ropes of river
racing away from the rain
bringing the mountain down with it
Thanks to Cedar for helping to type this one up!
