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#hanoi
This far divided land Where the rice grows free Has always had corrupt men Stopping their life's dreams It's in their veins It's not that easy To make it flow on out For a thousand years The same has been Even when a million men Wearing blue denim jeans Came marching in To change our ways It's not what this is all about While the people we trust Pop out of man-made holes And look like they've been Tunnelling like moles Where the enemy lines Have stood for a thousand years During the day We're all so polite But in the night We all have to go and fight The un-invited western men Always seem to lose sight Their communist fears Were ingrained in their mothers womb And will always end in tears Where the streets smell of Pho As you pass on by And if looks could **** If you dare to say hi The aromatic love incense Wafts in the fog filled air Where the market crowds come And traders buy and sell The lonely planet guides Write of this unusual smell The local giggles should tell you That you don't really belong there So goodbye Hanoi This time we can't ignore the flack I'm going home And I ain't ever coming back My wife is waiting To mend me back in one piece We've had that awful feeling Since it all became so fierce I want to head home so bad Now they've invaded our embassy When they don't want our help for a truce And it doesn't bring the change That the westerners wanted to produce So just leave it in the hands of ones own chosen destiny.
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Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 5:33 PM UTC
Goodbye Hanoi
Trees, houses, Treehouses, Abandoned.                   beaches                                  still                                  appear the same as summer but the sky's gone                  Sunshine to                 Windwine                                   (Clouds and clouds, some much                                                 larger than others, sometimes just one big cloud                                      mapped out between                                                us and rest of universe to the cascade horizon) All the pets can tread cement without worry of burns and the two hundred calamities of July are over.                               Replaced with                               rain and bums escaping to the                               soup kitchens and Churches                                   (East side Vancouver, Pandora Victoria,                                                    astreet in a city astray) Ashtrays freckled in the evening drizzle common. My hands are held by gloves and                                  fingertips from half of                                  Japan, my lips are kissed by the                          comet beauty mark on right side bottom                                                 (Though this universe is attending                                                   university in a distant city                                                   while I hold my own                                                   practicing the Dharma,                                                  or MAYBE none of this will happen!) Everything is in its place as it always was- though circumstance has tried to teach us otherwise the                                                                                          **Blackbox                                       made of star-rubber S T R E T C H I N G** Hasn't the concept of          calendars or                              Jesus or                                 medicine cabinets                                                          Dentists and                                                                             Saints. Everything is in its place as it will always be         as it has never been... (Ever) SPONTANEITY of matter                          Gliding thr-                                           -ough matter. What does it all matter anyway? There's                    loving and                         experiencing,                 Music.            Personsong.          Do-no-wrong. That        no-no           of making              mistakes? A falsity! **** up In blissful circles to the         SOUND                     OF SNOW                     MELTING on streetlamps front of my House.                                 (A very silent orchestra performing                                  Before collision and like dog whistles                                  It's a sound we cannot hear.                                 The peoples got their poetry and                                 cognitive thought so the other                                 Animals get the REAL sensory                                 Inconceivables to write about                                 But the ******** can't) In that                         future _______________ basement house Where the Van Gogh                    Velvet Underground sit P O S T E R E D on the wood-c                         u                           r                            v                              e walls. I'm in unfolding daydream Thanking HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS predating my EIGHTEEN. Thanking the                               Beats and the Dadaists                            and Buddhists and                         Existentialists                       Post-modernists                   Minimalists                 Expressionists             FOR BEING. Really, they aided Me off   the ^ ground during eight month unemployment induced depression where I felt disassociated with myself and the dynamo                                                       outside the front door.. Glowing via          sunlight in the day window and             headlights in the night window. Either way I filled up with                                    (((Purposeless cynicism))) The world bulb clicked ON With/without me           there, None of the corner stores Or      airports Or      hospitals           courts and           institutions gave a rat's *** what woes I be asphyxiated by or that                 Farmquiet two lane                                  tarnished path In the country                       (in May)       seemed fine a place as any to     step a few feet to the                                                          right                             and       left of me and                          .......DIZZY....... by death traffic old Buick polish (Tragedy they'd say!) While there midway in the firing line I felt like the wackos in      l o o s e stone COLISEUM daisy cages                Empty lots,        Place where the beast of   Emptiness cuffs to your sleeve              and weeps                       All over itself                       that Sarte was right all along! (No Exit! No exit!) Autumn quartz moonlight                        O Illuminated headstone repetition circling musk fields.   Skeleton wings Of preceded seasons' timbers Caught muttering the Corpseconvo as the               tumblecar trembling             hot in                            Music sauna HUM Approaches life, to the                        paralyzed November air of Coffin bodies insulated By roots N' six feet of terrestrial barrier. Faces disappearing now to Heavenly chandeliers of time offering distant light future and above my ponderous skull presently                  dancing riverside to situations                                                   and newness                            (2016)                   enigmatic spiral   every                 color             every                         possibility every                rainbow          or                       non-rainbow chromatically                            webbed in Attic                                           of secluded                                 Quantum Dimensions- The big blue doors are opening to cosmic entirety, cats everywhere are purring in their sleep, somebody reads                          Murakami,                                                       Picabia,                                                       Joyce,                                                       W.C Williams,                                                       Berryman & Brainard too. Big blue doors, rites of passage, Aarti Varanasi twenty-seventeen,              joyride to San Francisco (I wrote a poem on that once!) Continuing self-exploration,             reminding that soul to stay awake,             the search for love- Warmth when the year is metamorphosed to cardinal leaves        Sunset Summer!       Autumnal transfiguration       spiritual!       Rearrangement of the concurrent reality! I turn 19 in October and a procession of kind-eyed children will be born in the moments I blow the cake candles. Light goes out! light comes in! Hanoi expects me still.
0
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
Blackbox made of star-rubber S T R E T C H I N G (Autumnal Transfiguration Spiritual)
Trees, houses, Treehouses, Abandoned.                   beaches                                  still                                  appear the same as summer but the sky's gone                  Sunshine to                 Windwine                                   (Clouds and clouds, some much                                                 larger than others, sometimes just one big cloud                                      mapped out between                                                us and rest of universe to the cascade horizon) All the pets can tread cement without worry of burns and the two hundred calamities of July are over.                               Replaced with                               rain and bums escaping to the                               soup kitchens and Churches                                   (East side Vancouver, Pandora Victoria,                                                    astreet in a city astray) Ashtrays freckled in the evening drizzle common. My hands are held by gloves and                                  fingertips from half of                                  Japan, my lips are kissed by the                          comet beauty mark on right side bottom                                                 (Though this universe is attending                                                   university in a distant city                                                   while I hold my own                                                   practicing the Dharma,                                                  or MAYBE none of this will happen!) Everything is in its place as it always was- though circumstance has tried to teach us otherwise the                                                                                          **Blackbox                                       made of star-rubber S T R E T C H I N G** Hasn't the concept of          calendars or                              Jesus or                                 medicine cabinets                                                          Dentists and                                                                             Saints. Everything is in its place as it will always be         as it has never been... (Ever) SPONTANEITY of matter                          Gliding thr-                                           -ough matter. What does it all matter anyway? There's                    loving and                         experiencing,                 Music.            Personsong.          Do-no-wrong. That        no-no           of making              mistakes? A falsity! **** up In blissful circles to the         SOUND                     OF SNOW                     MELTING on streetlamps front of my House.                                 (A very silent orchestra performing                                  Before collision and like dog whistles                                  It's a sound we cannot hear.                                 The peoples got their poetry and                                 cognitive thought so the other                                 Animals get the REAL sensory                                 Inconceivables to write about                                 But the ******** can't) In that                         future _______________ basement house Where the Van Gogh                    Velvet Underground sit P O S T E R E D on the wood-c                         u                           r                            v                              e walls. I'm in unfolding daydream Thanking HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS predating my EIGHTEEN. Thanking the                               Beats and the Dadaists                            and Buddhists and                         Existentialists                       Post-modernists                   Minimalists                 Expressionists             FOR BEING. Really, they aided Me off   the ^ ground during eight month unemployment induced depression where I felt disassociated with myself and the dynamo                                                       outside the front door.. Glowing via          sunlight in the day window and             headlights in the night window. Either way I filled up with                                    (((Purposeless cynicism))) The world bulb clicked ON With/without me           there, None of the corner stores Or      airports Or      hospitals           courts and           institutions gave a rat's *** what woes I be asphyxiated by or that                 Farmquiet two lane                                  tarnished path In the country                       (in May)       seemed fine a place as any to     step a few feet to the                                                          right                             and       left of me and                          .......DIZZY....... by death traffic old Buick polish (Tragedy they'd say!) While there midway in the firing line I felt like the wackos in      l o o s e stone COLISEUM daisy cages                Empty lots,        Place where the beast of   Emptiness cuffs to your sleeve              and weeps                       All over itself                       that Sarte was right all along! (No Exit! No exit!) Autumn quartz moonlight                        O Illuminated headstone repetition circling musk fields.   Skeleton wings Of preceded seasons' timbers Caught muttering the Corpseconvo as the               tumblecar trembling             hot in                            Music sauna HUM Approaches life, to the                        paralyzed November air of Coffin bodies insulated By roots N' six feet of terrestrial barrier. Faces disappearing now to Heavenly chandeliers of time offering distant light future and above my ponderous skull presently                  dancing riverside to situations                                                   and newness                            (2016)                   enigmatic spiral   every                 color             every                         possibility every                rainbow          or                       non-rainbow chromatically                            webbed in Attic                                           of secluded                                 Quantum Dimensions- The big blue doors are opening to cosmic entirety, cats everywhere are purring in their sleep, somebody reads                          Murakami,                                                       Picabia,                                                       Joyce,                                                       W.C Williams,                                                       Berryman & Brainard too. Big blue doors, rites of passage, Aarti Varanasi twenty-seventeen,              joyride to San Francisco (I wrote a poem on that once!) Continuing self-exploration,             reminding that soul to stay awake,             the search for love- Warmth when the year is metamorphosed to cardinal leaves        Sunset Summer!       Autumnal transfiguration       spiritual!       Rearrangement of the concurrent reality! I turn 19 in October and a procession of kind-eyed children will be born in the moments I blow the cake candles. Light goes out! light comes in! Hanoi expects me still.
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Veasna Ta Kvak recording playback over Chinatown cafe again while recounting recent events to journal pages muddled from frequent exchanges bag to bag (Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most recently) blind fate blind fate shower me with Indian daisies and photographs of Railway New Delhi! Hanoi Old Quarter/ Vietnam monsoon/ evening on balcony/ Darjeeling water boiled and filtered anti-malaria golden drink for honeylungs and spring-soul morningtide under moonlight canopy of Avalokiteśvara the fruitful Bodhisattva! English lessons and future hourless comely chimera in sleep phenomenon Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW (near Mata Anandamai Ghat) speaking to Aghori prophecy Kala Bhairava FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE? the Ganges is full of lice and flowers candlewax melted into holy water sickness equal to harmony & jubilant eyeclose and mouthcurl. The future mysteries in Mexico City poorboy $2 mystic orb jade green reflective underneath dirt now in North American bottom white four floor house basement suite coffee table. Visions indivisible from the Viridian roundly haze but surefire in their accuracy I'm absolute and universally formed for the next few cacophonous decades!
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Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
Early Rest in the Chinatown Cafe