tempest

When it rains, I'm not here. I'm thousands of miles away and wishing that my corporeal being was with my wishful mental state. I am in Tokyo, bewildered by the time zone and wild lights as my jacket catch dew drops. I am in New York City, taking the stairs from the humid underground to the drizzle of Chinatown. Berkeley where the moon hangs so low and wide that I want to swallow it whole so I could blanket the city in darkness, like a leaked ink pen over paper. Prague, where the rain streams through the cobblestone and I'm crippled by the trek across Charles Bridge, up the castle, and back to Wenceslas Square.

Sunshine, clouds, and windy days still my heart as if the smog of LA has captured me in a vise-like grip. But when it rains, I'm swept up in the wistful past. Each droplet is a reminder of my traveling feet. I'm somewhere else. Somewhere older, somewhere happier. Saigon, and the rivers I ford from my aunt's store to the Nintendo gaming parlor. Saigon, and speeding through the back roads on a motorbike. Saigon, and the drumming beat of rain on plastic tarp.

I'm never here. Always somewhere else.

One day too late for love? Hardly.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Harbor/Fortress

Now would be a good time for you, me, and the Velvet Underground. Ian Curtis can come, too. We'll lay on my living room floor so that our hearts will thump along the bass beats. We'll discuss Nico's merits and whether she or Lou Reed had the bigger coke problem over bites of mango jello and sips of green tea. Pleasant company and warm afternoon sun, let's channel some of that bliss.