loaded die

My home was once foreign

A loaded with dimensions and distractions,

Eight months have passed-

Now I walk these same streets with clarity

Knowing and predicting

What waits around each corner

A wok of familiarity sizzles my senses-

The confused look of unassurance from my motorcycle mechanic, who apparently

Only recognizes me with machine cradled between my thighs

The endless shift the fighting ajumah performs is like entering ones wages in pennies one by one into a piggy bank only to have to overlap next pay-check and work doubly hard.

I pass Phillies and spot Ari sitting out front with the back of his chair separating him from traffic- and I too pull up a seat. A fellow MC recognizes I from a poetry slam and we exchange numbers and verses until I tire of stillness. I pardon myself and excuse my chair of my absence.

I pass few more familiar faces before  I reach an underpass to which many a homeless men retire- though now vanished an intestinal aroma lingers like thick fog in the brush.  I climbed out of the fog and found another street dweller snugly tucked into curb- who perhaps only had enough air to collapse feet from the tunnels exit. I pass the man- opting not to wake him from his euphoric high.

The hilly mountain climb is home to lackadaisical tricks who do not fane interest in I- sad. Fortunately I reached the peak and was robustly rewarded but two tricks whose wordy pickup attempts didn’t reach past hello; I greeted them warmly and admitted my disinterest in a casual tongue kiss “I’m sorry- I don’t have the money at the moment, but I would have loved to acquaint myself with your vagina; barring two simple exemptions. 1) That you were 30 years younger and 2) That I knew I wasn’t going home with a tucked penis. This being said; our tongue is kiss ended and I bid them farewell with the back of my head and a wave “anyonghaseyo”.

I have just reached one of my said destinations and cordially invited my ass a seat on the corrugated parking lot floor that sat beside The Hyatt overlooking the towering firefly buildings of Seoul. I depart because my ass and legs are numb.

My feet gorge themselves on the cement inclines while my eyes feast on passing embassy’s, free toys, barred entrances and caged humans.  I re-emerge into controlled confusion in the form of the Itaewon strip.  A lightning bolt of neon sighs and thunderclaps of drunken Wednesday street-life paint my forefront a colourful shade of dancing hues.  I graze the street like a Sheppard overseeing his flock- and leave them at a safe distance.

The Asian city fretted with insomnia is peppered with alcoholics unhooked from societies life support; Woodstock,  one local your dads soda-shop decaled  with wooden boards disguising time- has the roof swaying like stumbling drunks  in search of the ground.

I walk past four shwarma trucks before recognizing a familiar face. Johnny a Korean acquaintance is chilling inside his mustard box that’s been converted into a taco truck. I stride up beside to send good spirits and he insure me he’s serving the best tacos in Korea; I give him a pound and left/right myself down the strip.

An aged pimp grabs my arm and states she wants to have a word.  Her English is exceptional for her age and her line of work. I can see years of struggle in her wrinkles; her broken eyes; 1/3 pimp, 1/3 beggar and 1/3 lonely (dying for the warmth of conversation)-but her three sides are now intertwined till infusion; no longer an act but a masked persona- only one studying the sagging ripples on her face could peel her layers and find a woman.

I gently pass her and genuinely wish her well and farewell- hoping she rests next to the beating heart of a lover in her next lifetime.

Now at a fifteenth till two- I embrace the homestretch now in sight. I feverishly ascend the welcoming grade and pass a group of Moroccans playing cards and listening to uppity music; Africans resting tableside at the loins of an alley intercepting the often underappreciated runoff light; The Aussie shop owner rapping with a few customers on the porch; and nocturnal paper men loading their scooters about to set off before the sunrise.

I run across the street avoiding the underpass and witness the Namsan tower lights drift to sleep- something I am much anticipating. As I approach Phillies Ari is getting up to leave and Mark rides up on his scooter- all reuniting after going our separate ways over two hours prior.  He comments on the energy of the night- I chuckle walking away, knowing that the number on the die has been rolling in my favor.

6/24-25/09