Lost in Saigon

"Here in Saigon; nothing rude."

Saigon makes Hanoi look like a quaint village town.  If Hanoi's insanity is one you can sink into, Saigon's brand is a rushing torrent that you jump into and hope you can swim.  Here the question is not why did the chicken cross the road, but instead; how the hell did he make it to the other side?!  Motorbikes flood every inch of the streets and people criss cross in every concievable direction.  Street vendors pass bar to bar selling sunglasses or bracelets or photocopied versions of Catch 22, Lonely Planet guides, and Bukowski.

New Orleans

Here, in these old streets,
ancient voodoo has been sold off as a souvenier,
mysteries manufactured for foreign money,
and magic, it seems,
has seeped out the banks of the levies,
lost like so many silver rings to the muddy Mississippi.

But wise eyes know how to look.

Skyscrapers

"Here,
right here,
in the heart of it all,
where skyscrapers stumble over one another,
and everywhere you go is somewhere they don't want you to be.

There are spots though;
there's the library on 2nd,
the scaffolding down on Orchard,
and the Starbucks on Broadway (when the fat manager's not around)."

In a Time When We No Longer Think, Feel (Or Even Hate)

In a time when television sets wipe clean the mind’s slate and we no longer think or feel or even hate- our brains now completely blank, as we sink into super-sized sofas holding 3 liter drinks and watch our digitized selves burn in the new reality TV show starring you called the midnight news. and later at night when the windows fill with artificial light we laugh ourselves to bed.

Internet Reporting: Almost as Legitimate as This...

       Have you heard of meat water?  Yes, it's true, water made to taste like meat.  It even has a website, check it out.  And you can believe me because I told you.  But if for some reason you don't think I'm a reputable source of information (I don't know why you would...) you can check out the AOL.com article.  Take your time, read it...  Now do you believe me?

There is a window...

       There is a window on the seventh floor where a writer sits and stares. His seat is sidled up close to the wall, where he can rest his arm and his coffee on the windowsill. Beside his hand is a simple black pen which sits quietly as he smokes his cigarette, waiting patiently to be picked back up. He is staring slightly downwards, towards the building across the street.

The Price of a Soul

The Price of a Soul

He sold his soul in china
and then again in France;
bought back from a child sailor girl
for the price of just one dance.