~
lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.

blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.

her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.
~

Russia and China are not friends. The two Asian giants tangled for centuries over the vastness of resource-rich desert and mountain between them. They remain uneasy neighbours. Their leaders, Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin, recently proclaimed a partnership in a ‘new order’. But they are trapped by geography, birth rates and strategy in a very old order; one that explains why the Chinese leadership distrusts the Kremlin, fears its own subjects and keeps an iron grip on the borderlands.

‘Chinese Turkestan’ only exists in vintage travel books. Today it is officially known as the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region. It is in the news because China is accused of committing crimes against humanity in a campaign to instil what it calls ‘stability and order’ among the original inhabitants and Chinese settlers, who now outnumber them.

The Communist regime’s well-documented abuses against the Uighurs, a Turkic Muslim people, are so gross that they tend to obscure a paranoid insecurity that is as real today as in a bygone age.

I never learned to weep
But ground my eyes down
On the griststone of a mill
Turned sadness into powder
Then choked on my own weaponized sorrow.

Dad's been dead a while now, but he used to always say, 'boys, don't let the ******* get you down.'
Or, 'they can **** us, but they can't eat us.'
Nine times out of ten,
he would utter these great pearls of wisdom when we received a large bill in the mail.
Minutes later, we would peel away down the Pacific Coast Highway to the track, Santa Anita or Hollywood Park.

It was an exciting experience, being around
that environment at such a young age.
After all, it's the sport of kings.  Dad took everything in stride; he didn't worry much.
Unfortunately, I didn't inherit that from him.
He was an English and drama teacher, and what he did pass on to me
was a love for literature.
He made it come alive, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So Dad, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know, I didn't let the ******* get me down.