Suckling Stars

Milk glows off our starlit horizon

Nourishing our suckling stars

The babes drink our light with their eyes on

The veil of sweet night, hiding ours.

For the twelve-hour layover I played some notes between stints of dreamless sleep. One Korean businessman came over for a few tunes and enjoyed clapping or snapping. I too, for I’ve been needing drums or a metronome. “Gam.sa.mi.da.” And he’s gone. Now I’m hardly tired as that cappuccino got me wired that I had to slam before boarding. My tongue is burnt and if it weren’t for my scraping teeth, there’d be no relief (but the water I snuck past boarder-patrol.)

Flying east we are chasing the fleeting nightingale, dog chase tail, orbiting clockwise for now. He snaps his jaws as we cross the dateline, gets a few coarse hairs, but no substance. Whenever I time-travel I tend to cavil the time away in questions I shouldn’t ask, fallacies all too eager to become fact. Striving, in vain, but in their earnest efforts I start to believe them. Yet above the clouds all thought streams toward love. Oh holy erosion, how you weather my devotion and polish the jade core.

And for something less jazzy…

CHINA, my love for you is like the psychedelic phlegm one sees dotted all over your streets. So colorful and absolutely putrid, but in the end the healthy way to go. The honored hundred names of your lands worship a new green (here, red) god. They order the Buddha Special and with full stomachs call, “Fuwuyuar! Check please.” Every twelve-year-old boy under the sun wants to be a boss, because that is his ride to freedom. Ask three times and you shall receive “deconstruction” and “deceive,” words of the foreign tongue. “De” is De-Guo, Germany. We comrades look out for each other. To help you is to help myself. You sharpen my sword, I fight your battles. Clever, bitch.

But now leaving Japan, the land, the sun, we go into darkness and I am fearless.

 

© 2011, Amaya Engleking

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