on dwindling hurdles

The hurdles they dwindle from many to few – I'll keep this ball rolling; I know what to do. The goal it is simple: to write and to surf, on one of the prettiest islands on earth, to practice and flourish, enlighten and be, to flex all the aspects of who is now me. There are now but few things, that need to get done, with slowness but sureness I tackle each one, soon I shall return to that isle by the sea, my maiden, sweet paradise, sunny Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on burning wood II

Violently flickering was our tall heap, a jumbled and a wooden thing, it swayed not much to left or right but burned throughout the misty night. I'd dragged it this way, dragged it that, with sweat I'd soaked my favorite hat, forthwith a proper place was found on wet and sodden valley ground, where soon was lit a burning fire, a long-awaited funeral pyre. In were tossed the bits and chunks of: cases, cabinets, and trunks; heirlooms, lumber, boards, and chairs; in too went many fears and cares and memories from days gone by – indeed the tongues of grasping flame refusing to be forced or tamed went tearing through the mighty heap like coyote mauling cornered sheep. Photographs of this event bear witness to and document some of the things that had occurred, image trumps the written word.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on BOTG

One of the best ways to visit, I've found, is fully self-powered, with Boots On The Ground. (The term is officially military, which debates and frets over putting BOTG, in places like Lybia, Mali, Taiwan, where costs are increasing and missions drag on.) To explore a city or province or state, leave at home your guidebook and put trust in Fate, for She'll lesson burden and worry and cost, so long as you do not mind getting real lost. To me this is one of the foundation stones, for conquering places like Bangkok or Rome: to blunder and stumble and get turned around yet all the while putting those boots on the ground. I know of no method more fine or complete, than combing the ramparts and alleys and streets, for seeing a region, its intrigues and flavors, for finding small treasures and meeting the neighbors. This past-time is vigorous, healthy, and free, it gets the blood flowing yet shelters the knees, it shows one the flowers and rivers and trees, please come now and join in our splendid BOTG.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on counting back

Sickness lingers, I take stock – by counting back on toes and fingers I surmise it's from Bangkok. Sitting now, behind my face, in sinuses that fill that place, is something my body don't want, something to leave me pale and gaunt and helplessly just lying there while nurses tend and doctors stare. I'll stop counting, take that route, see what the fuss is all about, with living now, here, this, today, and not flushing my time away, with chase or worry, debt or toil, I'll leave for a foreign soil where long my soul's been bound to be, oh I miss my fair Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

surf and babes

There's two things with much in common, here upon this spinning earth – many are the parallels of hunting girls and chasing surf. First of all, the chase is endless, stretching to eternity, from our modern days of comfort to the depths of history. Both endeavors are demanding, harder than they look at first, sure to ruin stoutest body, sure to empty fullest purse. Sleep-deprived and always thirsting, stags and riders know their goals – catching gnarly, pitted barrels; conquering those willing foals. Some among us are equipped to tackle both with derring-do, others though they stumble often, then aloud of sorrows spew; it's a mix of luck and timing, skill and daring, patience deep, as the waves confound and fool them or they go alone to sleep. Keep in mind these simple lessons, they should help and much assist: Paddle not but choose to skip it, that big wave arriving first, number two it will be better and won't choke you in it's mist; when engaged with fine young ladies keep your wits about yourself, have a shave and take a shower, leave the liquor on the shelf, ask her questions, short and simple, speak not much of hate or wealth. Now possessed of these poor teachings you may find your fortune rise, be it in the cresting ocean or a pair of sparkling eyes.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in USA

Now back in the homeland, there's cops everywhere, they intimidate us and keep us all scared, they tail and they follow us, guilty or not, we shan't move too quickly or else we'd be shot. Wide bottoms abound here, as do wide ass cars, as do drive-thru windows and seedy beer bars, where poor people sit around drinking their tears, impressing their barstools and wasting their years. Aggression is common, infectious, and welcome, it drives up the heart rate – how much? lots, and then some – it seeps into all of the facets of life, it's born of malfeasance and envy and strife. This house it is filthy, infested, and base, it is a most lowly and unhappy place, to flee from its confines and borders I must, otherwise my soul shall continue to rust, and whither away in this shelter of doom, this hovel of seemingly unending gloom. I'll keep up my spirits with thoughts of Bali, with practicing yoga and hot cups of tea, with reading and writing and perchance a song, my darling I know I'll see you before long.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in BKK

Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace it will not ever slow, for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on leaving Kuta

I hold fast till the last day, refusing kids who beg and pray and badger me both day and night to buy a bracelet – brown, black, white? Then comes Mary, eight years young, whose pitch is crass, incessant, fun, who won't believe I'll buy one soon, whose mushrooms, “Take you to the moon”. I give her less than she asks for, I claim that I am very poor, I take her small and flimsy thing, she says “OK, better than nothing”. We leave fair Kuta before nine, our engines haul and buck and whine and drag us through the darkened hills, we take much care and do not spill. A storm has slicked our moon-lit path – great burst of light, a booming wrath – but now the night is calm and cool, a taxi driver hits his brights, can't seem to pass us on the right, we slow way down, give up the fight, I curse and yell that he's a fool. Great mounds of dirt cover the lanes, force us to slow way down again, as if from nowhere they appear, with naught to warn that they are near. Then I spy a red barrow whose owner causes me much fright, who interrupts our steady flow, out in the street – no warning light. We get waylaid by crafty men; they sneak us past the ticket pen; they bribe police and harbor boss; ours is not sting or pang or loss, for they defraud their government to feed their kids and pay the rent. No berth awaits us once aboard, no slightly bowing deck steward, we settle down right on the deck, avoiding many sticky flecks. Bali greets us pleasantly when something drops down from a tree and hits me square upon the head; I don't complain for I'm not dead. We make good time and maintain speed, for hurry there is never need, a road-side cop tells us to slow, I speak his tongue – he lets us go. I climb in through the side window, where only weeds and gravel grow, I have no keys for the front door, we settle down upon the floor, sleep for one hour, then awake, as violent screams the walls do shake. There's spitting blood, hurled accusations, this has been a strange vacation, full of laughs but violence too, oh fair Indo – I love you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on highest hopes

Nearly home but barely there my hopes are highest in the morning, when the thoughts of yesteryear descend on me without fair warning. Swiftly they transport me back to times when I thought myself great, hide from me the brutal truth of what I have become of late. Such is life and such is longing, for the things that cannot be, stay the hand and still the sadness, born anew each day is me, there's no fun in self-destruction or in hanging from a tree. Quick to laugh and swift to punish, is the goddess of the mind, she but asks that I abandon all the things I've left behind – all the moments, dreams, and fancies; all the want and broken trust; all the greatness, heartbreak, beauty; gluttony and complex scheming; petty hatred, wanton lust. Raise the spirit, send it soaring, to the gates that never close, sing about it, paint a picture, craft a poem, write some prose – this one life is swiftly fleeting toward things that cannot be grasped, I must learn to be here – present – to let go and not to clasp. Holding on can deepen worry, strangle life, and breastfeed Fear, I prefer to keep the moment, focused just on what is near. Here now ends this solemn poem, writ for me and me alone, now I sit with heart unshielded, contemplating rock and stone, studying each moment's breaking, deep in blood and nail and bone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥