She deftly navigates the aisles of the flea market
without paying much attention to the furniture,
jewelry, rugs, posters, pottery, books, any of it.
Nibbling at a tissue-wrapped éclair in one hand,
she thumbs away at a cell phone game on the other
and, to the irritation of vendors and customers alike,
concurrently holds a conference call with speaker on.
She cuts deals, makes trades, accuses, cajoles.
A fluffy white Pomeranian on a leash of sapphire
beads is tethered to her gold lame belt. She lashes
out at Bob, Eveline, and Joanna, principals
at the main office in New York. Time is short…
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Sometimes all you have
To write on is the receipt
Back for a pair
Of books you bought,
And lines of poetry
Shorten accordingly.
Sometimes, in the finale of
Winter, flaxen lawns,
Ashen trees beneath
Chimney smoke, and
Scoured sand are
All the colors seated
In your world, and you wonder
What’s the warmth you
Find in so small a palette.…
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Grey walls, and cold fluorescent lights buzzing like bees
They sit there, rubber stamps in hand,
they are gods of small power and big and important paperwork
I smile through the glass at my own misery
Forms to fill,
……………….lines to stand in, and the hell questions
and these voices, each syllable is a nail driven into my patience
I see them shuffle their piles of nothingness, like poker players with a losing hand, but
they’re not bluffing
They do not laugh, but they do drink coffee because they are people too, and they need
sometimes to take a break from breaking the human souls
Coffee cups they clutch like trophies of their small evil victories
I stand there, like shit stinking, waiting for a nod, a wink, a sign that I exist
But the clock on the wall is the only one that moves, and its ticks are louder than my
thoughts
And when I finally reach the end of this line, this torture, I’ll be free!…
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Forest roots
bulge through
the dirt road’s
four-wheel drive
tracks.
The homeless man
lies on the sidewalk
giving pedestrians
a few more steps
registered on pedometers.
– Diane Webster…
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I sit in my room and watch the paint dry,
although it’s not wet. I wish it was
as that would be something to do
other than just sitting.
In the summer they wheel me outside
and I sit
smothered in sun tan lotion
in my straw hat and watch the grass grow.
My life has become slow,
each day sliding silently into the next
while I wait
for my last breath,
for the sun to go down
on this quiet solitude
where I am surrounded by kindness
and dying of boredom.
I used to be so busy
but now I must be content
with the grass and the paint.
As if old people did not need something to do
in their last years,
someone to talk to as their world shrinks
down to a room,
to a bed
and finally to a box
where there is nothing to do
but sleep.…
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I wish you had warned me,
When we were young,
Or some other time,
While we sat on the terrace,
Drinking wine,
Or, perhaps, the time
We walked for hours,
Miserably lost,
Or that evening
We slept on the sand,
And could smell the sea
And could feel its pulse,
Or the time we sat
In a waiting room,
As quiet as air,
Reading ragged magazines,
Wishing we were
Somewhere else,
Or any time,
In the time we had left,
In simple words,
In a voice as loud
As a coyote’s howl,
Or soft like whispers
Of conspiring thieves;
In shuddering stammer
Or wrenching rasp,
In scattered sobs,
Or syllables spat,
In a long moan
Like dying breath,
The only thing
I needed to know:
That someday
I would be all alone,
And walk the house
In a sad trance,
And find myself
At the foot of the stairs,
Gaze up at the top
As if it were a universe,
And need to summon
All my strength
To climb those cruel,
Inhuman steps.…
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South Koreans have pale white faces. Oriental is what many people call them, though they aren’t oriental. Their faces are like rice cakes: soft, squishy, and fleshy, like the pastry itself. Their faces pearl white or the color of sunscreen that reflect the harsh rays of sun as it beats onto their umbrellas as they stroll down hilly streets. The porcelain color of their faces reflects at one another as they chatter about the newest Korean beauty trends. Asking one another what the best course of action is so they can keep their porcelain faces polished and pretty, like a doll. So that at least if not smarts or money, they can have pretty faces that they have manufactured for themselves.
Their faces are unchanging like the seasons the Han River runs through.…
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