As with any person that comes to the city
others will say of him that he came to be
where the action is, looking for his share of the spoils
but the truth is, he came to put on his suit and toil

more than most newcomers here
he knew already what skyscrapers were:
a daywatch to guard the sun from you
and leave you long shadows to walk through—

even on his shaded way to the ad firms
he slides on his sunglasses, he squirms
through the crowds relishing a moment
of thick silence in a packed elevator, as if sent

on a mission to happy anonymity—
but to die at this point would be a cliché
he thinks, and goes to the shiner to shine his shoes black
black, color of the pavement, the suit, the tie and the hat

black, the color of the plush bruise
in an apricot’s skin, the fruit he adores
taking his time to pick out the finest,
juiciest, softest, the freshest

but this man! you would never know it
seeing him walk in the street
seeing his sunglasses over his eyes—
it’s only apricots that separate his from yours or mine

barely two inches of sugary meat
and some skin to get stuck in the teeth
eventually spat onto the sidewalk—
rubbed by passing shoe soles into a grayish spot

Fires are unbiased—
They burn what suits their mood.

I like to do my running
In the morning, before
The mosquitoes start their work.
During the dry season, you
Would think it unsafe—
Roads crowded by vulnerable
Yellow stalks of rice, long since
Harvested—but the trash
Is burning all the same.
By the time I’ve finished my run,
I am coughing, and the mosquitoes
Are dead before leaving the water.

At night, if you are lost
And alone, the fires—
Four feet high and stretching for
The lower tips of eucalyptus—
Will light the road for you.
Do not walk near them.

Near the school
Between dying trunks of banana
Trees, three men in jeans stoke a fire—
Reduced to shades
Of their former selves, the long, burned
Banana leaves lay withered
At the white center of the fire.
Much to their amusement,
A few students have fashioned
Swords of the live banana leaves
Not yet touched by the flame
And are fighting to the death.

Not often, but certain days, (particularly
The hot ones) I
Ask myself—
What am I doing here?

We drink whiskey from the bottle
On a night off and
Stand by the river.
In the overgrowth on the other side
Far-off fires twinkle—
A reminder—things burn
Over there, too.

we play with a retired professional but
none of the other kids mind—
his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle
memory and god doesn’t he look bad

the ball is an old piece of garbage made from
a kind of industry plastic
half-flayed alive by loving kicks
that expose the moldy gray rubber inner-
sphere like some soft eyeball

and, behind one of the goals, the
boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays
lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture—
unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily
puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut
and I step aside, too—
my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy
of cold cereal I can’t play—

some days are like that—shed of their seriousness
because it’s more fun to play without a defense
even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored
a goal!

After sweeping clear the grounds
The boys were sent to wash the showers.
You once wore your hair like they did—
Skull-tight shave, except for the top,
Where a thin layer was allowed.
I remember how they tossed soap
Onto the floor and bent down to scrub
While others laughed and slid through the water,
Their rough feet leaving slalom trails
Of bubble over the cerulean tiles.

While the sun pours over the early nightmarket
An old woman sits, chewing
Betel seed adrenaline into
Wilting veins sprawled arachnid
Behind her knees

She, the center of all activity, is merely there
A few children lift cinder blocks
And their fathers solder wire
To help put up the gate
Before a white temple

She spits a thick *** of it into
Her ***, a young woman nearby
Pulls starfruit from a stall
Starfruit, whose name should belong
To the most elegant fruit, what a
Pity it has such a wretched tang

By now, the old woman is bobbing around
Her murky mind, a betel juice
Aquarium she can barely perceive the precision
Of the cremation ceremony next door climaxing with
The scattering of jasmine leaves
To indicate mourning and forgiveness
For untimely suicide and when the
Cameraman approaches our old woman
She spreads a numb smile, revealing her
Black oily teeth
Tarred over in betel juice

Are only the tools of the trade
To swinging ***** and easy Janes
Like these now attempting to muffle their shouts
In the purple suburban evening where God knows
Only all the neighbors are striving to listen;
A couple of loveless friends *******
Each other out of breath and full of big plans—

And now I’m sure that we can,
Just listen to her moan!
A man once told me I’ve got to give it to her
To stick a son in there.
I might ask, but there’s no need now to beg
Because we deserve it too much.
Our dry spell is all wet tonight;
Are those the cries of a baby I hear,
Or our bedsprings squeaking?—

It only hurts a little when he gets this excited
But instances are excusable
*** folds in memory
And ****** success caresses forms into forms
I know she will be beautiful
Her beauty will come to her as easily as it passed me by
I am not sad, neither
And the sweat, his sweat drips from his naked chin onto mine—

I tell mom and dad that’s fine,
I want another brother.
They make noises in their room
Which are so loud they keep me awake.
So they decided to make them after dinner,
When I am trying to read.
Sometimes I listen to them very carefully, but
Then I have nightmares of
Them hurting each other.
They are making noises now;
Something not good is happening.

From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt ****, coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?