Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
contrast.
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

Like
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
  
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls
                         between
                                     tremors.

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
wearing
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                  very,
                                          very
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
            

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
to
   catch
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
Sometimes
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
sometimes
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
      in-ternal,
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
quickly,
before the cloud curtain closes
again,
obscuring the mountain.
                                                
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
                                        7/13/11-7/30/11

Spare me some of your love
and love shall color our hearts each day;
no roads will diverge, and make me move,
if you could be my only loving way.

Spare me some of your time
and time shall reveal happiness to our world;
odd words from frozen faces will rhyme,
if you could be my only loving girl.

Spare me some of your kisses
and kisses shall warm our moonlit nights;
we will embrace the darkness of the eve,
if you could be my only loving wife.

We will meet on the horizons
where no one can ever hold us apart,
and that...

...if you spare me some of your love.

That moment
when you stood close
to my eyes
was when I felt
like dying with surprise,
I don't know how, or why
but those feelings
still abide.

Your love always satisfies
my deepest affection
towards you;
words may be left unspoken,
but I admit the fact
that I'm still stuck
with those
bittersweet memories.

That moment
you wrapped your arms
around me,
was when I couldn't help
but tremble;
so, why do we always eclipse
in this situation?

You came to conquer
these fences of my heart,
you're an angel
from a once Heaven's delight;
that old odd kiss
will ever stain that night,
and I would be hungover
whenever you left,
for it was very the first time...

I was drunk by your lips.

x.

understand that nothing is real.

**.

search for art in all that you see (for art is present in all things).

***.

art is everything, nothing is real. we are left to conclude that art is nothing, nothing is art, or perhaps everything is nothing-which makes art more real than nothing, because it is in fact something.

xxxx.

when we smoked cigarettes in the alley way during winter, our backs against the cold brick wall; well, darling, that was art.

xxxxx.

you made poems and paintings and songs and dances, but i’d never seen anything more real (or perhaps less real) than the way your eyes looked when they were in love. and that, well that was the truest art there could ever be.

xxxxxx.

understand that your love is everything, and everything is art, but nothing is real, or art is nothing. my words will never quite be right, but your eyes in love were the rightest thing that never existed -(or existed more than anything).

bring me your silence
bring
     me, full of wonder at the waterside
bring me
         a lifetime of long walks
bring me real
               freedom for two, for here
               far from worshipped lights
bring me you
                      and
please take all that I have,
all I will be in your hands

there's a quiet sense of knowing
in this fire, slow-burning as we
reach a state indistinguishable from
its freedom

my open heart, sure-footed as a rabbit on
pine needles in the summer, dreams
you here with me, two melting as
candle smiles climb our faces and
birds shriek their approval like
so many arbiters of the forest

nobody knows the part of the story
where Jesus
and Satan
lusted for eachother like common ****
the devil kept his lips puckered
but Jesus
He used tongue

so does that make french kissing
heavenly?
or does that make Satan
a *****?

there is no breath when
you join my world, only
snug bundles of air ******
in
   between smiles

one of these days, I'm
living here
             listen (for me) like
people once read and
found reasons to grow
another few inches

(and to know) you
are the (fire's silver)
heartbeat!

/

nobody is masterful
to the undoubtable "I
have a word for this", no
suggestion 
          someone should try

/

there is no breath, (no
pause) when you join my
world
              only a warped sense
of direction, a shift in gravity
joining, warming faces

do you feel me?
filled with verses, lost in words?

/

will we go together?

dream how the
days flame when you
join my world (and
    when you
            remember it)

so many laughs and
loves and glasses of watered-
down whiskey to share with
all of you

out of concern for your
general well-being, let's
boil all of the sludge and drivel
down to choice words (it'll
slide down your
arms more smoothly)

not what is wanted or
wanting, never allowed
whistles to get into the
dreams that keep you
up at night, down when-
ever they appear in your
periphery

only words, syllables (only
an overpass at night, halogen
halos on a concrete angel) can
carry the undeniable weight
of my thoughts

living and dying every day
in silence

You with the sad eyes,
isn't that a song?
It flitted fast across your face, the pain
you hide from everyone
and especially from
me.
Guarding me from it
shielding me, you stand in front of me,
block my
vision
it is too terrible,
won't let me see the
damage.
Uncover my eyes please -
let me look.
Does it hurt when I press here?
Right here,
over your heart?
You're only going to stare on straight ahead,
No,
Please,
I'm quite alright.
And walk on by, quickly now, flash a smile, then hold her tight
Maybe she won't ask questions.
But she wants to.

Running, run after you and I'll probably
trip over my own feet
trying to keep up with you because you move
so quick, snap your fingers and
everything changes.
Caught you.
Reaching out to grab your hand
to make you turn and face me, grasp your face with both my hands
Look at me.
Angry eyes now, so cold, fire would be better,
I touched you once and you pulled away, now I'm
petrified in place.
Pure hot anger is better, you feel
something that way
like love maybe, you feel
love
and you feel
alive.
Cold anger, frozen anger is the worst
kind, the kind you
can't talk about, the kind you
can't feel, nothing can touch you
nothing can make you warm.
Let me touch you, touch you again
I'm warm from trying so **** hard.
I could make you feel okay again,
good again,
wonderful maybe, if you would let me?
No,
Stop,
Stop trying to do that
Words like ice and I'm stuck in this spot I can't even dodge
the frozen shards, sinking into, tearing
my skin, my
eyes freeze wide open, as the
tears turn to icy trails on my cheeks.
Don't touch her, don't go too close with the
ice cold fury because you might
freeze her
but you've done it anyways when you wouldn't tell her,
when you turned
away
so touch her,
touch me.

In the midst of this frigid cold comes your
breath, warm on my cheeks.
Whisper, whisper.  
With the sweetest tongue, the softest mouth and
you love me.
Again and again you love me.  
I love you.  
I love you.
The tune fits so flawlessly, slips
from your tongue to mine
and back again,
again please?  Kiss me, harder
longer,
slower every time, show me
please, how you love me,
need me.  
Sing to me, play
for me, sing the song of how
you love me.
I'll beg if I have to,
please God please.

What do they call it?
Love, I mean.
A rollercoaster
well that is much too slow
the incline not steep enough
the falls not hard enough
but I suppose it will do for a metaphor.
You don't like heights but if you hold my
hand, maybe we could stay up here
a while?  No chance
we drop and hit the ground
then we're tossed back up
skywards, flailing for one another
for a hand for a heartbeat.
With a roller coaster at least you know,
you're never going to hit the ground.  
Please wait until the train has come to a complete
stop before exiting the ride
but I don't want to leave
don't want to let go
I can't, I won't
Promise, okay?
Because I would rather hit the ground in your
arms on this ride
than be anywhere else
I'm safest with you.
I guess it's not so much like a roller coaster after all
but I like what I've written there
so I'm letting you read it.

I never wanted to make anyone
smile, as much as I want to make you.
Your smile, sometimes rare,
occasionally common
is the most wonderful thing
I can think of.
So smile please?
Laugh for me, when you're not
happy I hurt, I want to
curl my body so tight around yours, wrap you up
inside of me
until you stop hurting, and then I'll feel
alright again.
I'll **** it out through your nose, through your mouth,
take the sadness right out of your lungs, see
how I made that sound poetic, when
it's only an inside joke?
Smile please?  
There you go.  
It's not so hard, is it?  Just
do what I do, follow me.
Your smile is so
enchanting
infectious
perfect.  
How could I not
smile
when you are happy?  Because all I ever
want, all that I
need, is for you to
smile.  
And not a fake smile, not so forced -
try again,
a real, genuine smile because you are
happy
to be alive, to be
with me, to be
the most wonderful person in my life, to be
the only one that can make me
smile, really
smile.

And I see that smile,
surfacing from behind that glare that is
'just your face' (it's not your face)
and when it happens, when it
splits open, and you look so happy (that is your face)
I smile and I want to be
close to you,
closer.
Let me touch you, run my
fingers over your
face, and through your
hair and down your body let me
touch you,
touch me?
Touch my face, with your
fingers, with your
lips, tell me how you cannot let me
go
because you need me like I need
you, I can't stay
away from you, can't keep my hands off of
you, sink my fingers hard into the
soft skin of your back because I won't let you
leave, I could not live if you
left.
If you let go of me I will never
make it, not
alone, not without you,
you cannot let go.
Hold me, close to you
next to your heart and never
let me move from there, it is where
I am happiest.

Iron chains rub my skin raw,
Keeping me safe.
From what? Help;
Pulling me down,
Keeping me down.

Teach me to bleed,
Rich, thick, red.
Scarlet for lust,
Scarlet for love.
Scarlet for the pain,
For the burns left by your fingers,
So indirectly, free from blame.

I can be better,
I can bleed better.

Open me,
Enter me.
I can bleed better.

Push me down,
Gag me.
I can bleed better.

Hurt me,
I am begging - help, wait;
Give me more,
Give me everything.
Teach me to bleed for you.
Wait, stop;
No more.
Force me down,
Smother me.  
Please,
Teach me to bleed for you.
*No more.

Put trees in the back-
ground, shade built from
green and mahogany, lovely
little flowers with yellow heads
marching to the beat of your
eyelashes, skipping like stones
across memories

and in the foreground let there
be only you, only you
as you are

A challenge for
most people, looking
into the eyes of another
for ten whole minutes

but there is so much
I can see within your
colors, your soft
airy connection as if an
examination of my
soul deemed it a perfect
fit for your own
and our trial
run of five counts to
sixty was through
in a blink

Thunder hearts, rainstorm
breath, lightning smiles