We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd  little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.

We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.

He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."

I carry a white noodle bowl,
carefully up to my chin.
I smile as my nose catches,
the steam so grey and thin.

I set the bowl down gently,
Because it was too hot.
and take this time to ponder,
The noodles I have got.

A small carrot captain,
rides his vessel south.
But the spoony seas are violent,
and bring him to my mouth.

Legions of green sprouts,
are armed and at the ready.
But their base was built on broth,
and therefore is unsteady.

A scallion sergeant paces,
He’s timid and afraid.
And hopelessly fell in love with,
A mushroom mermaid.

The brothy land changes,
As beef enters the scene.
And to the broccoli scouts,
this meat is only mean.

Finally the egg,
who knows he’s the best.
Will wander around the edges,
till he decides to rest.

The dinner’s duty done
I tilt the ocean east
And drain the sea of veggies
into the belly of the beast

I take the styrofoam bowl.
And poke a hole in its side.
The bowl is now found empty
All my friends have died.

Easy answer to a simple problem
Raise my hands and scratch the **** thing
But then again, why should I have to?
Why must I immediately raise my hands to scratch my itchy nose?

Is it because the itch is caused by a parasitic alien?
Hellbent in destroying my body by tickling my prickly nose hairs?
And thus if I scratch my nose I would rid myself of said parasite?
No no no, the idea of such a thing is of the utmost absurdity

The most logical answer is that I must rid myself of discomfort
Discomfort: Quite a word indeed to one that lives well
Where I can sit comfortably on a couch in an air conditioned house
And I can still find something that causes discomfort

Perhaps after I rid myself of this infernal discomfort
I shall go to the kitchen and make myself a lovely roast
With some scallion potatoes on the side with green beans
And then rub uncomfortably on the chair because my ******* itches

nebulous mercury, or old neb as friendly namesome, was a longtime salty marner.

one day he was seasonally easing along with the flotsam and jetsons

when there appeared before his worn and weary orbs a macabre confoundment,

the vastly ghastly countenance of a slithering slimy see servant,

a critter that rose from the sea and had to hunch over so as not to break the sky,

the kind of monstrosity you only see in miffs.

he began to wrap his protuberances and testicles around the clig as to make repast. 

ohh, dreadful tingers draggled forlorn! 

shunned and electrolytical he was, old neb, awash in gloombulches and grovel gullies.

but then old neb snapped to! "Not my chipper clig you don't!" he charged allowed as he fingled forth in fury!

the battle eschewed in the stub of legends. old neb will ever be memorial for what he did that day.

to this very day, indeed up to this very moment right now, even chipper cligs flying scallion bones cut him a big bertha,

such is the perspective they feel for him

no hobo, but a ****** chum.

Rusted, thrown
                          Brown
onto the walls of
                          Subsequent
                         ­ Possession
We feel, blindly
Our tips rubbing plaster
and soliloquy. Dodging             meandering
                          despair from
torridly ambitioningly mild forms
of lower-
                          Back
                          A­rch.
You scallion, you
                          You
and yours.
                          Those shoes

Salty rain begins
Gliding its way down trunks
Getting lost in fabric leaves
Or resting gently on cheeks
Basking in the heat of skins

Molten bean soup
Housing shoals of ****
And Silken soy islands
Habituated by scallion trees
Brewing the perfect flavor group

Then a beam above
A blinding light
Followed by silver
Crashing with all might
With the grace of a bellied dove

The crash pays homage to Moses
Splitting tectonic plates
Paving a path to the scoop
The stew child ascends
And the gap below closes

Into the cave it goes
Entry barred
a serpent slithers
Corralling refuges back to nest
The only ritual it knows

The rain is dense
A body is a temple
This temple a sauna
Coated in scorched poison
It yearns for a cleanse

Watered Calvary sweeps in
Purging vile spice
With soothing touch
But glass only holds so much
And the cure is left thin

Slamming the clear dome
Icebergs swish
In a desolate tomb
But a savior passes by
Returning sea to the arctics home

Hope is restored
Now it’s time to desecrate
Pangea resumes
It won’t stop
Until bowl is fully toured

In a crocus bag, I remembered home.

The familiar flush of a Saturday’s work
we would fry some green plantains
and head to town.
Women with long, billowy skirts and red handkerchiefs wrapped around their heads line the street.
Some pumpkin, cho-cho, a bag of pimento seeds
carrots, Irish potatoes, scallion and a piece of thyme are bought
The threaded lines of blood, sweat and tears
bring home a bowl.

When there is no water to fill our basins and buckets,
we get up before the roosters.
To bathe, drink, wash, live
the assorted empty plastic containers get acquainted in the bag
on their way to the pipe.

A tablespoon of sugar for my fever grass tea
The zinc fence that cut a portal on my leg
A sip of Saturday’s soup
A container for other containers.

of yesterday. It’s stuck in
the plasterboards and sung
as a lost chord. I rehearse every line
at night when I can’t sleep. I can’t turn
down the volume to the sick beat.

I can’t get my head out
of the billowing clouds. I wear
my pain as a shroud. I weep
lightning rods the size of stallions. But
it's shrunk my brain down to a bulb
of a scallion.

I can’t get my head out
of the front door. It’s swelled the size
of a piano. None can know that feeding it
every day has made it grow.

I'm not against the middle class
Several schools I like
Often not ****, but steady
Prayers for Steve and Mike

We need more beautiful buildings
Train stations, fewer guns
I'm not against the middle class
I'm Taipei 101

Charlotte my awakening
But awakening takes time
I play the long term game
Cranberry juice with lime

I like Asian soups
Hot ***, scallion bread
If my love were in my arms
And I in my bed!

             Jesus bled.

falling with a splash
in a round clay ashtray. I lay
flat on my back as smoke
billowing black, dances

a waltz up on the table
stage. Thick as clouds on a
rainy day. Tossed like a salad
and swept like

hay. Riding the wind
like a stallion. Cut up and thin
like a scallion topping the
soup. Flaky and loose like

snow on a spruce. Soft as the sand
in the dune. Dried up like a ma’s
jar of prunes. Shadows bite me in
late afternoon.