A touch of Zen

Even in Kyoto,
Hearing the cuckoo,
I long for Kyoto.
(Basho)

He says he loves the sun on his face,

the sound of the busy Paris streets.

At dawn mostly:

the idea of sipping coffee

with sun on his face;

But what he likes more

is the hollow of the coffee cup,

more than the coffee,

the promise of coffee it brings.

He reaches for the sky,

finds nothingness,

with sun on his face,

or so he thinks:

in Paris,

hearing the metro rumbling,

he longs for Paris. 

Flamenco à Hanoi

A la cathédrale Saint-Joseph de Hanoi,
je n'ai pas pleuré (à l'idée que tu es à l'autre bout du monde) :

au café en face, Paco da Lucia joue un air de flamenco.
Et j'ai souri : quelle connerie la vie.

Mais quelle belle connerie !

42

“I”

has become a nuisance,

as I have no use

for it

anymore.

Today is my birthday.

I have spent it alone,

purposefully.

I read Romans,

I slept,

I listened to the radio,

spat at the TV

and wondered where my

faith has gone, unresolved

yet mingled, like water

through a half-drenched

coat – strong and

weathered –

storms and boats,

thunderous mental

states,

psychedelic dreams

of vacuity,

the LSD generation –

alas gone!

Still no matter:

I just wish you were

here.

Published in Eunoia Review

Marché de Fer, Port-au-Prince

It looks like the zombie apocalypse is doing very well here,
thank you Madame l’Ambassadeur.

Or that suddenly civilization turned around and says
thanks that was great but let’s just be friends, okay?

This is where men die every day for lack of poetry, while we –
staunch remains of confetti d’empire – just lose it.

Yet mother cat reminds of the endless love – metal structure,
market day.

Only men have guns here. The women? Well they know of
the secret crossroads.

I know I’m white. Just let me breathe it. All this confusion.
This joyful mess. Basically Invictus.

Published in Eunoia Review