the day i first smoked

i remember the sun was setting the day i first smoked. we hid behind the water tank and i thought the ivy curled around its corroded poles never looked as pretty. i remember how the basketball court next to where we sat seemed as serene as a swimming pool and the damp walls glowed pink and orange and your shirt smelled like cloves and your eyes flickered every time you flicked your jonkoping matchstick. yes, you were already a chainsmoker and you chuckled when i choked. but i best remember feeling like i had acquired all the wisdom i needed for life after our p.e. teacher made us run like deer with his shrilling whistle and we threw our cigarette butts like scholars’ hats and you were rooting for me all the way.

i don’t think the sun ever fell for me that day.


under fake parissian lights*

renga

after a grievous disturbance of the senses
she thought of fairy lights she still kept on her dying christmas tree
and the waitress tap danced with him
la veuve joyeuse a la javanaise

*this little poem was written on the back of a paper mat by iain bamforth (1st line), me (2nd line), ney (3rd line) and richard oh (4th line) at oh la la djakarta theatre on wednesday, april 2, 2008. after he wrote his line, iain folded the paper so i couldn’t see what he had written. he only hinted that i should begin with a subject. the rest of us then repeated the method. iain jotted down the word renga, just to point out that our poem was similar to the japanese form of poetry. as for the title, ney is the one to blame.

what happens after you wait until it rings ten times



you were in my dream last night

i wasn’t even in it

do you know what’s worse than profundity?

lack of profundity

you’re aware what you’re feeling is intense

but somehow it simply refuses to surface

you twist and turn believing nothing

ask more questions speculate manipulate

drink more to dream less i guess

deciphering is as brutal as




redialing