The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy!

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.

I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer.

Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day.

And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!

expansive untold body revealed in moonlit splendor.
obscure and nebulous.
seductive and serene.
offers relief from the swirling, ever-whirling thoughts in my head.
if i were to desend, and beneath each crest remain, i could escape
existence.

my eyes: see nothing, yet see everything.
my arms: reach out and feel nothing, yet each fingertip electric.
thighs, knees, calves, ankles, feet, remain solid and strong.
propel me forward sans fatigue.
they are present, powerful.
carry me.
carry me.
these other parts, they are at home here.
my back softens, each rib *dissolved.

The Plane from Bangkok touched down,
Bouncing hard, jarring nerves
And bones alike.
We emerged into the  
Hot damp breeze,
Smoky Sun light glare,
Our eyes squinting,
Fumbling then for dark glasses.

Descending the gangway steps,
As if into a different world.
A new fragrance of foreign things
Of a mystical persuasion,
Hung heavy in the air.
I quickly breathed it all in,
My mind racing in anticipation.

For years I had dreamed of this land.
A country of fabled mystery,
Legend and contradictions.

Reading enough to admire the richness
And sheer wonder of place and people,
All to know and see better for myself.
A land so different from my own,
Being there seemed almost surreal.

Taxi and PedalCab rides into the City.
In every direction, where ever I looked,
New sites, sounds and perceptions observed.
More people in one place,
Than I had ever seen, 10 million in number,
All in that single city.
Most it appeared to be on foot.
All moving with individual purpose,
Seeming to flow all in different directions.
What at first looked like chaos to me,
Apparently worked for them.

Calcutta by Western standards,
Could be judged an urban mess.
Old British style colonial buildings,
Crumbling to bits and ruins,
Yet still very much in use,
Relics of a bye gone age,
Lingering still,
A visual reminder of what was,
Of a another culture,
And people gone home,
No doubt to where they belonged,
With all the riches they could carry.
Leaving more than a trace,
Behind in their wake.

A Kaleidoscope of movement and colors,
Best describes what I was seeing,
Cows and monkeys in the city streets,
Along with multitudes of moving people
All in traditional dress.
The very images and grist of the works of
Western writers and photographer’s attempts,
To capture and relay for over two hundred years.

Fascination best describes my impressions.
Captivating wonderment cascading,
An unstoppable vast Human River,
Churning and ever rapidly flowing,
Ethereal and emotionally stimulating.

Attractive people, dark eyes staring,
At the specter of our Western selves,
We as unfamiliar to them,
As they appeared to us.
Two distinct worlds meeting head on,
Learning, growing from the encounter.

India, timeless and magnificent.
Never felt more excited or alive,
Loved everything about it.

Who am I?
Trapped in this lifeless figurine
No getaway, no exit
I simply drag myself through these daily activities
But why?
Is it in order to
Impress everyone else?
To show them that I can do it
To abandon some long established inferiority complex?
Maybe, maybe.
And yet, and I am still bound
By life's broken lines and timed events.
I'm spinning a web of lies,
Thoughts like
"I'm okay"
"I can do this"
Spill from my faucet-like mouth
But really?
I'm getting tangled up in all of it.
Too bad suicide is not an option,
Self-harm is not an option,
Escape is not an option.
And therefore,
I remain caged in this labyrinth,
The deserted ruins of something resembling
A borrowed and ****** body
And my shallow and sorry soul.

You were her friend* and yet on a starless night in the back room of an empty bar, you ripped away her innocence. She did not deserve a gag on her mouth and scratches on her cheeks. Blue bruises on the inside of her thighs constantly reminding her where you'd been.

You were her friend and yet you ripped away at her clothing as easily as if you were plucking the roots of a tree, and perhaps you were, because you dug her out and left her there to wither.

You were her friend and all you gave her was forced kisses reeking of whiskey and a bed sheet stained with her nightmare. There was no remorse in your eyes as you held her down and had your way. Again and again and again. You did not even wipe her tears.

You were her friend She did not deserve the whispers and glances in the hallway, your smile reminding her of what you did and your taunts when she sees you.

She was your friend She did not deserve dreams of a rope as a necklace and thoughts of a funeral where no one came.