I have nothing better to do
when it rains so I go to the pier
on vacation with my pole and chicken necks
and rusted traps, drive down

to where the kayaks wait
in the mud, stop to smell
where fresh fish float through
brackish waters and tie a knot

at the end of my string, attach a bob
and minnow and cast
out towards the bay spotting
dead skates and hope

for mackerel and striper,
how my father taught me be gentle
I tie the necks to string and let the meat sink
below the surface and wait to be caught

up with delicious ****** poultry
to feed on and get trapped behind
the jailed walls. I hope the blue
crab knows I had to drive over

the county line in my shoddy white
pickup to the quiet co-op
when she bites into the chicken
for our dinner.

Paris, France,
streetcars, alley-ways
and tight corners
and perfectly trimmed
trees lining sidewalks
with cafe scent
and coffee taste rising up
to keep in pace
with the lights of the Louvre.

Sit and talk a bit then move
your hand down her thighs,
and maybe under her skirt
(and please talk a bit)
because he needs a
voice to keep reminded
that he feels your hand too.

A ticking clock keeping beat

and sunshine rays leaving

shadows behind the dog

dancing from kitchen to study

absorbing life-beams

from time's continuation.

Droplets of rain mark the end
and I can sit and sink within the softness
of the reading couch we bought and count
the drops descending slowly as a bunch,
then separating from wet globs
mimicking July 3rd when you
left cardboard boxes of forgotten sweatshirts
and polaroids on the porch
of my mom's brick paneled apartment.

The husband divorced the wife
after she cut her hair
because she was
way less "****-able"
so now he bought
a condo and goes
to the pool
without a bathing
suit to scout out
prospects.

With looping hillside vendors
and red-light beams stalking the
cigarette smoke clouds, clinging
behind business men mobs (of 4 or 5)

and fracturing wildly from green-glass
bottles of soju and the girls
(oh the girls) who guard and call
out from dark thresholds with only
a spotlight of pink neon from

(***, Trans Cafe, Eat Me)
the signs from above. And the glass
walls separating the men
from the girls and the short skirts
(plaid like schoolgirls) beckoning,

silent and alone, sitting on stools
(one leg over another) paid at the bars
for two drinks (and 250,000 Won)
usually by Americans, bored and trapped,

stranded (at Yongsun Army Garrison)
they venture Incheon at dark,
with sad eyes and lust, (trading paychecks
for hand jobs) guilty and delaying,
waiting for a three year tour (of
what feels like a lifetime) in Seoul
to end.