I went out early and saw the sunlight
Dive on the breast of a mountain;
Then I watched the firs and spruces
Poking through the fog.

I ground their words into tiny flakes
And smoked them all afternoon;
Then I succumbed and floated up
Way up, like a balloon.

When I woke, the flames of dawn
Were raging in the east;
Nighttime left my roof and lawn
And crept off like a beast.

I was fixing the flowers
When blue-eyed morning
Stopped and came inside:
We visited over coffee
Until the dew had dried.

clever is the fortuitous man to surmise
the ever-changing meaning and machinations
of life's tinsel and flagrant floppiness
flipping and bending about immeasurably
to whims and claims and vignettes of
times past and future just guessing
and murmuring assumptions and platitudes
irascible mendacities or sagacity ever plain
in your mind's eye to blink or close
perceive or persuade the idle viewer or
dedicated neophyte all matter is but
conjecture for sure it illuminates both the heavens
and darkens the pits of hell

Your name has a bitter
taste, like cologne. A muggy
sweet scent that deceived me so easily.
I always tried
to spit it out, but the spray
stuck fast
to the roof of my mouth.
Made me heady,
heavy. Sleepy. I started nodding,
going. Wake me up later,
give me a month or two.
Shake me when the sight of the back
of you won't phase me.
Shout when your eyes and your smile don't nauseate me.
Please let me sleep off the feeling
of losing again. Of everything slipping
into the ocean, of my life
crumbling and cracking open like old brick walls and peeling front doors
and old wardrobes.
I thought you could be
that breath of fresh air I needed so badly,
to come rushing in when the bell jar
cracked open.
But you weren't,
you weren't anything special,
you were an Oxfam shop
bottle of cheap perfume.

I have been the crying drunk in the hotel lobby,
The mosquito bite in the thin white sheets.
I have been the monsoon rain in the tropical heat;
I have been everything you said I could never be.

On the streets of dust I can eat my fill,
No more clouded eyes, no more ash-filled windowsill.
No more patient wait for my timely death,
No more passing glance; no more loneliness.

I will find my place with this foreign tongue,
On the precipice I write my immigrant song.
This culture shock makes me feel alive,
It kick-starts my heart; I finally turned the tide.

I finally made my peace in this call for arms,
In this incessant storm, I could feel the calm.
Could feel it loosen my bones,
That age-old ache, that I kissed on the mouth,
That I tried to replace

With every chemical within my reach,
With every pill or lie
That passed through my teeth.
I have been the crying drunk,
I have been the victim, too long.
I sit still and breathe.
I write my immigrant song.

One should rely
On no one
But oneself

an artificial sanctuary
we destroyed forest
to rest
Overseas Metal Birds