There’s fire outside, fire in my apartment.
Swelling in this humidity.
More uncomfortable than Vietnam.
It is not easy to hide.
Even sitting on the roof writing poems,
there is fire.

A thousand words yet to write,
a thousand words yet to write.
Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas.
Dancing dragonflies,
ascending and descending.
Like a madness of Sisyphus.

And then the sounds of this fire.
The bedroom sounds, a taste that will last forever.
The sounds of the late night Baijiu drinkers,
trying to find the garden of love.
And the unrequited who cry alone at 2a.m
Endless, embracing with a glad sadness.

That is the fire in this city.

My neighbour invited me to a party today
for a man who died three years ago.
I did not know the man.
Was he famous?
Did he hurt people?
Or was he just a man in the wind?

He was a relative of my neighbour.
They gathered to celebrate and remember his life.
I wondered if anyone would come to celebrate and remember me when I die?

As I look who will I see drinking Belgium beer and talking about my poetry?
Will anyone say 'He was a man of constant sorrow, but a good father?

So I watched the people eat and drink and thought about my own death.
When will the shadows close in.
Will I begin to notice?
What will I feel?

So many people are abandoned in despair. Holding thoughts that no person should possess alone.
Wanting something better.
Death can seem an answer.

My neighbour offered my some Baijiu.
I smiled and politely say 'no thank you'.
The last thing I needed was to think about my own death and drink Baijiu!

As I left, still searching for my soul, I realised again, that weak winds and silent structures are all around us.
It is the small margin of moments, the walk through time that give us a chance of a good death.

I’d always less than half a sense;
To my detriment, often doubling-down,
Ordering the same sorts of poison –
Warm beer, cold women, back alley-ed eyes
And other late night snacks simmered atop the oil
Salvaged the streets come previously devoured.
Bottled and poured, again and consecutively through me,
An anomaly now evolves average;
Cured only an alchemy wrought, "baijiu," (rice wine),
Crowd summed solitude’s paradox and hazy Chinese moons.

So when in Rome, do as the Romans do
And die as Romans die;
A slighter justification for what’d later trumpet –
Salivation’s sip, salvation’s second,
A tickle atop tongue, sour in stomach
And cancerous come the lesser years,
Deep, nether and beyond the once upon a time barren,
So I plead for seconds and corral but only
Three revelations in the expanses exhumed:

One – I want to die. Two – Tastes beat the years.
And three – The world’s a wonderful meal;
Home to another and common denominator,
The shared variable, viable and pliable,
Our simple ingestion, communal,
So that I may venture a path paved prior
And yet parallel something nearly precious – truly alive.
Either way, it’d satiated but one achy throb
And prevented me from washing the dishes;
A fair trade for someone who’d always assumed early ends.

There was a time in Xinxiang
when you you could find good coffee and solitude.

The place was 'Jumping Bean' Cafe
At a crossroads of the sick and those who drank their first glass of Baijiu before 8am.

I would go when the clouds parted
and the sun first appeared through the curtains.

It was the best time to go.
No banging or rat telling stories.
Or fat hands and bright red noses, crawling home
after another business lunch with the young girls.

Once I met a tall slim woman, almost as tall as me. She wore high heels and high spirits.
And yet walked alone on the hot pathways of summer.

Another time, I met an old man
Who told me he had the power to ****** any woman in China.
I thought he must have the power of the Gods.
And wanted to know his secrets.

Now, Jumping Bean is closed.
And the dregs walk past.
A hurrying dust, looking for a perfect blackness.