When I’m Not Writing A Poem
When I’m not writing a poem,
Time stretches further and further
And I see myself dragged to the edges
Of galaxies and stars where I establish
Keener ties with bizarre occurrences, vast silences,
And emptiness. I become a sick man whose heart
Is frayed and waiting to expire.
Yet a lot of things get in the way.
I fight off the severe cold at dawn.
The birds have taken the habit
Of dropping their shit on the rail of my veranda.
The house has tilted and gives me
The sensation of falling through a precipice.
Things to get done, things to undo. I fall into
Intense talks with the Israeli women
Who fell in love with our village.
A recent friend, Monorak, affects innocence
About the higher level of stimulation
In the hands of a masseuse in Phnom Penh.
I gasp over a bright surprise from a moonlit sky.
So I live. I could only accept the poverty of my thoughts,
The faint murmurs of the heart;
A cold beer in hand, an icy stare into space,
When I’m not writing a poem.
19 January 2011
Koh Kong, Cambodia