It could have been a Thursday, 
Wednesday, Friday, who cares;
It could have been one more day
on top of many others, piled like pizza boxes,
empty ones, tottering, reaching for the ceiling 
(the highest point, 
not in absolutes but rather in what we dare
to dream for ourselves).
It could have been the end of something;
or maybe a beginning - 
(aren't they the same?)
- I'm not sure about any of that, 
because being godawfully tired is so sewn
into the fabric of who we are
that we think longingly of the second
our heads hit the pillow rather than
the second our eyes open 
to take in the blaze 
of an impatient new day. 
But that day was my birthday.
I remember it well.
There was so much good 
on that day, I think; jokes, wishes,
sincere grins?
Then why is it 
I can only remember
holding my phone, cold, metallic,
my damp nape shivering 
against the winter breeze,
reading the words 
"I already ate"
as a hard stone formed
in the place where hunger
should have been.
All I remember
is the bitter cumin,
the plastic orange chair,
the fried oil film on my lips,
unkissed, unwished, unwanted.

Erased

Finding people is exhausting work.

Smiles, our social currency,
are so practiced they appear without reason,
and sometimes, treason, to emotion beneath.

I'm good. Can't complain. Not so bad.
And if it were bad, is that bad to say?

It takes days of encounters,
months of memories,
to map people into your world.

But, with distance,
how quickly they are erased.

Then you need to find more people.
Not just any old people.
People who are your people.

People who wonder aloud
the things you haven't dared to say.

People who catch your eye
in a shared moment of thought.

People who laugh uncontrollably
at the same stupid joke.

We suppose that our world
will always be filled with them.

But add in distance,
and see how quickly they are erased.

Blood race

I love how new this is, how heart-wrenchingly good,
while half of me wonders if it will all fall, spades over hearts,
when shaken, or tipped.

The racing of my blood fills my throat and holds it, vice-like,
and thus clamped I struggle to toe the line and follow the path,
training wheels missing.

Could you perhaps start with a look, so I can catch it, knowing,
at last, where this is going to go? Words in wireless trip over their own
pregnant definitions.

And maybe if you start with that promised look, I will be happy
to offer up arms in greeting, hands in welcome, folding you close
to feel your blood race.

May, soon June

Please remember,
In these tight moments,
Alone,
In the steady drip of rainwater off eaves
into pools already overflowing
with sky-water long overdue,
What it is to long
for -
When all seems clipped neatly in place,
edges lining up,
that today might be the paperwork,
shuffled and dealt with,
and yesterday the rows of washed
cups,
dried and clean, collecting dust,
but that tomorrow will always be
that one drop
one drip away
from the puddle,
or the leaf,
or the nose of an upturned face -
Remember:
longing wrings the oxygen
right out,
Even though crossed-out sentiments
make it easy to deny
ever having a need.

Your cups may be clean,
and your paperwork sorted,
and still the drop
hangs.

Earnest cliche

I have let them go, friends once and no longer,
And our camaraderie has, as they say, sailed,
(Missing journey implied) --
But sometimes the what if of us blows back into port,
And then I see, once more, the ship pass by,
There it is - and there it goes.
Was it wrong to haul anchor so?
Nautical metaphors may work well in the sinking,
Eventually, of all remnants of that worn-down boat,
That skiff, that raft --
Until it is nothing but driftwood floating
forlornly, its doom not far --
But in this cliche, all I want to say is
our ties were cut justly
and even as I rig the display - the model -
that ship in a bottle - as a fond reminder -
I know I will cork it tight
And, metaphors be damned, be glad
that it is over, and for good.

Gao tie: Shanghai to Tai'an 2015

Cobwebbed skies
Sunless daylight
A cold brightness, chilling hearts
Across expanses of frayed toothpicks
Muddy prints filled with stillness
Blocks of residence
Human residue for miles, as deep as sight stretches
And as long as lives;
Ones that have never known, someday,
Anything before the milky cataracts
Of smog blanketing China's ancient eyes.

Tai'an 2016

This chatter in China, whole vowels
Toned tautly, characters clipping
Through air dense as cotton
And I, lao wai, walk, head bowed,
Parsing the threads of unknown
Tongues and climates, picking up
Rinds of meaning, their zest obvious,
Their seeds a mystery.
Here, they stare as hawks at prey,
But I've stopped expecting differently,
Delighting instead in the widened eyes,
Slightly parted lips of wonder.