Cu Chi tunnels

there are tunnels down at Cu Chi

that reek of a morbid, dizzy,

deep down drift of air

that suffocates the mind.

the tunnels down at Cu Chi

are a sliver-space that despairs

all that visits and remarks

at that utter madness, war.

shady memory of a spiky

sad legacy of who was right

or wrong. visiting on the

morn of iraq’s harvest

when the grasses smelt a

special sort of musty, i

wondered when our

contemporary moment will also

become a destination of

young people seeking

the adventurous unknown.

sitting on top of the monster,

the tank, for a simple image,

a frivolous keepsake to show

friends. to show that we have

been there – that our knowledge

of there was complete in the

simple, single visit.

the images also glisten

with a glow of humanity’s

absence in the museum.

wandering the halls because

the book told us to.

we are travelers

– not tourists –

we gleefully exclaim.

we seek the route

of the ‘real’ experience.

intense presence

“The persona…is the individual’s system of adaptation to, or the manner he assumed in dealing with, the world.” – Carl Jung

she felt an intense presence

sitting at the edge of the crest

she saw many shadows in

that glassy smooth white sky

she felt a knowledge of the real

and sensed the only imaginary

she experienced a pressure

not to perform but be in the moment

she felt moments of a person

moving behind that staged mask

adjusting, transitioning herself

to a fantasized expectation of self

she felt him moving to build and

take on what was there and then perhaps

push beyond, for,

the intense presence was only imaginary

at weston park

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

i sat with you

at the

cafeteria.

after

walking the

exhibits by that

poppyseeded

garden.

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

walking up

those stone steps

into

a world

of possibilities,

where pharaohs

met hardened steel.

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

you helped me

when

i was

frightened

by

the bear, the bear

oh the bear

and the

polar bear!

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

always an inspiration

and a grounding.

oh that day we saw

the stargazers

only a distant memory

now.

that day we saw

my first monet,

and i cried.

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

i tasted my future

and it tasted

hard sugar sweet

the metro

flying through the station

situated in an unknown

city where

the sky sits a lonely bright,

raining down warmth

of evening

to the men with weary eyes

staged and reflecting on what

is expected

of them as the flight

gathers strident light ghosts

stirring around


marking soft colours.

Julia

i had you, Julia.
i had you, and then

i lost you.

you were a vision, apprising
a mere mortal

like me.

a young woman marking the terrain
of her given reality.

all for you,

the salt-kissed fair ringlets,
the perfect curve of your areola

oh Julia.

you bewitched me with
your hasty enchanted absence

like a stranger.

that night you were there,
by morning, you were gone.

i had you,
i had you, and then

i had lost you.

the ivory tower

the ivory tower looms behind me on the horizon,
say the horizon line holds that tower of plated ivory;
with a knowledge of what was left behind,
and what was taken away from me.

that tower, that bony fortress of unrealistic dreams,
the ivory tower held my fairy tale dreams;
dreams which had no bearing on the real,
for nothing is quite what it seems.

the black tower on the city’s horizon is unforgettable,
my memories of that tower are now unforgettable;
i have a box of photos which carve my mind out,
manipulating me to the aerial.

those menacing money-rich days seem so far away now,
those black and menacing rich days seem so far away;
all that money that was meant to show
our vows – our dry, emotional essay.

the ivory tower still looms behind me on the horizon,
the horizon line lingers like that dress of ivory;
with a knowledge of what i've left behind,
and what i have removed from me.

national theatre, cairo

unpublicized, unknown
they will no longer
bow to you
(those greats
of an age
expired)
for the twisted
memory does not
bow down.
a gesture, a
curse, on the
patterned gravel
(knowing
of your existence
is a must)
in the spectacle
arena
of the street.
"barter my soul for a
penny
of your time"
(said
the first
to the second)
"know my insides out
for a
penny of your time."
oh the stabbing
silhouette
knows no limits
(says
the image
to its counterpart)
knowing the
beauty of a moment:
where the late sun scatters pledges.
we will not forget you
national theater,
ancient greats,
(mourning
the blazing
loss).
oh no,
we will not forget you.

osamadawod.com

electric chair

spring array, ochre peanut pressed,
salty, fresh, blessed flesh;
spring headed south, electrifying pushing
harshly against the silent floor.

midnight drive

soaring down into town,
not wondering, just going;

wheels pummeling on tarmac --
for no great a cause as this.

bottle green and yellow sour
shining and blurring souls,

symbols, signs -- indications
as the white lights advance.

nocturnal passage plans to take me
far away from the known,

and angels crave more attention
than the darkness out the door.

curve of concrete, blast of shine --
acid quickens to a sure split.

developing a dark progression,
it watches as the journey unravels

on my midnight drive.

reclining

reclining on the ground,
my toes braided into the
surrounding red.

i take a glance upward
into your lens, intoxicated in
the moment of simplicity.

palming the fur as i imagine
harmony, nectar
on my mythical horizon.

singing in the street

we went for
singing in

the street.

a rising up of
spontaneity
and the

innocence of the evening

caused by a pursuit
of poetry.

two laps of
16th and mission,

did nothing for
our quest,
and everything for,

togetherness.

all the while,
the winds calmed
to an amplified

sway,

as we continued our
browsing and arousing

on valencian streets,
past clothing, fittings
and musical

outpour.

you improvised lines
and, i, wondered at

the night.

until the bookstore,
where,

sitting on the red floor,

we stared caffeine dazzled
and love

dazed.

sitting in a perfect
frame

between
keats, wordsworth and

yeats.

we sang the
innocence

and daunting

beauty,

of it all.

Anaïs, Anaïs, French translation

je t’ai trouvée Anaïs Nin,
je t’ai trouvée et je refuse de te laisser partir

je sens ton souffle chaud sur ma joue.
je sens le sang se déplacer en ton coeur tandis que

je caresse et palpe ton sein.
j’ai rêvé de toi la nuit dernière—

je t’ai aperçue du coin de l'oeil
,je t'ai fixée du regard,

je t'ai fait rougir j’ai joué dans l'espace de ton âme.
je me languis d'utiliser des mots qui feront battre ton coeur.

je sais ce que tu penses, ce que tu ne penses pas,
Je vois aussi que tu réfléchis trop

je veux te tourner le dos, te laisser te mettre derrière moi
je veux - oh Anaïs Anaïs - je veux te laisser me trouver aussi.

Huka Falls

Waikato invites

the wanderer
to wonder

after Oruanui’s
majestic
outpour.

Hukanui.

turbulence
climbs the narrow gorge,
the dense foam
shifts,
slides,
pulling and pushing
through the acid
volcanic
rock.

i stand
on the bridge,
looking down,
taking in
the sublime
magnitude of that
milky blue
stain.

Huka Falls.

nature’s beauty
made into
tour bus fare.

it has taken
one day
and a half
for us to
get to this point.
via Aratiatia
after the yellow
belch of Rotorua.

and here
the black war
looms.
the hostile
treads through my
head and
i hear its
roar.

and now,
you are gone.
and now,
you are long
lost
in the green
hay grass

by Huka Falls.

heroisch part ii

“Any ache or pain or sadness or guilty feeling
was completely flushed out”

in the West,

he watched the sun hit upon
Eucalyptus trees. he stared
into the eyes of others, charting

their beauty and their weaknesses.
like so many before him, he marveled
in the hope of this city, and

managed to gather his abilities to
heal and protect. his selfless self-sacrifice.
he met another wandering figure,

she was as lonely and trapped as he was
over-virtuous, they followed each
others golden paths for a short time.

but the beat hit and hit again,
as the voices and footsteps sounded.
imagining painful rejection

he gathered the strength
from an internal power, praying to
Jung, Nietsche & his personal deity.

the pride was infecting,
but the realities debilitating,
as the past continued to move

within his veins, and the present
longed for a stability but only came
in bites and chunks like a fairground ride.

he fought with the actual,
pushing and persevering though the
city seemed a bitch, and a whore.

***

so he decided to return.

back to the coldness, as his feet
seized and ran – still chasing to find
what he has been looking for.

back to the coldness, like the
Prodigal wandering back, the memories
more wrong than first imagined.

back to the coldness, where the
snow dances in the light at dawn
whilst he stands alone.

he knew, deep down, that he had to
protect and defend himself. he knew that he
needed to push past the negativity

and try once more.

for home is where the mind and
heart are, and his home was no longer
the place he originated from, but here.

ariel strums

vocalist
in the wilderness
of the acoustic
mic

the simple
disappointment
first cuts me
quick.

ariel strums through neon

flames on bead with corduroy shirt

mario brings on highway speed

glass crash smash over wine

moth swoops, turns and touches.

i turn to
a place where
i can no stronger
see

i plan
my attack
on the stage
bound and

fingering froth.

the familiar

the familiar made unfamiliar
through distance
through
time,
creeping back in to

those fields that flow
to the
valley,
to the
brook.

those trees that know
my past,
those which
i walked
beside

for eighteen long years.
i always
imagined
beyond
the grey skies;

beyond
the green
that seemed
so dull,
always

reaching for the unfamiliar.

yuppies

The top dogs --
With their pot of gold --
have all the luck,
Without even knowing it

without

my fingers tap

a rhythm,
a melody,

without any place to go.

i feel a deep loss

to be,
away,

from my love.

from

my passion,
my strength,

they linger,

without.

light over tar

light
over tar.

reflecting shadows

in the noon air.

flight
shines red.

orange, and white;

whilst
the insects

bounce back

in the breeze
to the trees.

bilingue

a horn sounds in the mission
waking the morning up,

as
the men go to sit in the streets
waiting,

on césar chavez,
on Harrison,
by the Salvo.

as
the women go to look after kids
that aren’t theirs.

their parents wanting to save,
and like the idea
d’être

Bilingue.

Bilingual, like the
neighbourhood itself

mixing and diversifying

the real mission
from
the fake mission.

the artists and the poets
think it is oh so hip

d’être
une partie
de la communauté.

all the while--



a horn sounds in hayes valley
waking the afternoon up.

in hayes valley,
in the marina,
in SOMA,

as
ladies and gents
with
more money than sense

ignore the reality,
of any given situation.

in favour
of good fun,
designer clothing,
spending each meal.

they favour,
a Cosmo over a Tequila;
they favour,
Armani over the Salvo;
they favour,
Chevys over Taquería Cancun.

they walk in their heels

as
the people in the streets are stepped over,
by these, their wealthier neighbours

but deep down they know
it’s their city too.

they know
they are
Bilingual.


a horn sounds in the mission,
waking the evening up.

as
the kids
in bright clothes

leave their
fancy loft apartments
head off to the bars
to defina

as
the families sit down
to eat,

grandmother
with grandchild,

their flauntas,
their papusas.


i know i don’t even
begin
to understand

the complexity

of this situation.

i know that this
may
be the most

naïve thing

you’ve ever heard.

i know that i’m
an
outsider

looking in
at the thousands
of residents
of this insane city.

in this city
in this country.

i know that i’m
a
foreigner

a green card holder
through
luck,
and a failed marriage.

but still

i feel as though

i bilingue

(though maybe that’s just
a fallacy).

but --
anyway --

whether its right or its wrong

i can spend a hour
of my time

marking

a sight/site

or two.

je t'aime

je t'aime,
je t'aime,
oh ouais! je t'aime.

mon amour,
mon ami,
mon destin.

used books

i used to love used.

digging around
in the bookshelves of
thrift stores, goodwill;
wandering around
Valencia St.

i used to need used.

the history of a book,
that familiar smell
that lingers on the fingers,
a faint flavourful
mustiness.

i used to want used.

now, that simple pleasure
exploited and removed
by a capitalistic tendency
to make good,
and suddenly.

i’m used to feeling used.

des beaux arts

Le monde entier
regarde des beaux arts
comme une tristesse

my imagination wanders

a burning
a scorching
a singeing

deep into the soul.

(the imagination
wanders)

a freezing
a restricting
a controlling

the acid kiss
of jealousy

goes deep,
deep,
into

the pensive void.

the coldness
pushes its way through,

right to the heart of

the addiction.

rocky place haiku

Stuck between a rock:
Knowing what I feel, not
feeling what I know.

suspended

suspended,
in space,
between the
iridescent glow
and the chilling
fog.

suspended,
in time,
the clocks
stuck in the
moment
whilst I tour.

suspended,
in place,
feeling the taut,
brittle,
tightness,
of the solitude.

suspended,
in phase,
looking over
the edge into
the future
as the past

suspends belief,
and the wind
reaches over
for the cold,
crisp,
water below.

Valentine's Day Poem

In August
I fell so Deeply
Richly
Soulfully
For you.

My
Unspoken feeling
Flooded
My Inner being,
To the point

Where the spark
Engulfed the main
Almost
Blazing
Too bright

And a strength
previously
Unimaginable
Lovingly
portraying

A lunatic
Lost in your
Purity
your Luminous
Inner beauty

To show a Completeness
(that can never happen),
a Construction
Moving,
Progressing.

You know that a thousand
miniature moments
beats a single
gesture

(we are much more than amateur)

Although the Fragileness
Founded with
Potency
Of mind And body
Is pounding.


Still.

so deep

That look you have,
That look that stares deep
Into the soul

I can’t help but wonder
What you are thinking
When you stare so deep

Trying to make contact
With something, or nothing.
Anything that might suit.

she had never felt

She had never felt
So lost and so found
In the same sitting

Reality seems far away
When is seen and what
Is heard are

So diverse

Lost, in an encounter
With herself although
She doesn’t know it

Yet.

Her wanderlust comes to settle
Away from the ice
And the falling bricks

Found, so alive and so a mess


Wondering

sf haiku

Old hippie, balding,
Redoes ponytail string in
Record store window.

bottled up

A drip.
Of hope that runs back and forth,

Touching
sides

-- Sticking --

In the places where it might count.

It is cold,
Brittle and smooth like a

Sigh.

The screw,
Tightly fitted, not allowing air

To penetrate

That bitter
Taste, whilst the smell is sweet.

Resembling

-- blue --
Hope.

them

those eyes
travel
across souls
meet
lost terrain
expect
vivid futures.

She's an angel

“Angel,” she pleaded
Across the dense whim
Of the machine

As grit fell on the black
the lightning hit hard
Across the broken whole.

“Angel,” she sobbed
as I crossed to save her
But when I went --

Working back on myself,
Like an unrelenting madness --
Oh she was long gone.

heroisch

he came from the Second City,
its broad shoulders nudging him
forward onto the longest journey

they said that he were wicked,
but never listening to them (after a while).
just exploiting the offerings of a

rather cold place. The cold cut him,
with toes he couldn’t feel anymore
he left, but burdens go wherever

the wanderer takes them.
tied onto the back from suburbia
wondering what would become of,

eventually he took to rebuilding himself,
from the top down, learning to grow whilst
terrible burdens remain upon him

the community without the Kaas,
like the city, (all about reinvention),
cold cutting the feet, toes not felt any more.

he had a warmth, a dream in his heart
and a song in his ear,
he knew realities too advanced

for his years. his next turn,
a reverse migration. mapping the railroad
on the wanderings south.

he went for independence, and for a love
that was supposedly selfless
but when that developed into obscurity

he continued to dream,
his nomadic journey brought him
to the idea of the west.

the truest fresh start available
in the young, innovative state,
where flesh meets organization.

detachment

detachment

is
a word
that we know a
sufficiency
about

(sometimes)
creating an
emotional
detachment

a distance

you need to
develop
distance

in order to
---and to
eventually
sustain this--

survive each day at a time.

you need to
give people the
freedom to be
themselves

(needing to
give yourself
this freedom
as well) in order

to become well

but this here
word –
-should not
create the
other subconscious:

emotional unavailability.
this must be unworked
from within,
but without losing
sight of

detachment.

him and her

him: i have never felt such

anger,

and been so
scared--

both at the exact same time

how could you?


her: if i knew that, wouldn’t i be telling you?

Yes,
well,

i sort of had to.

Coping

isn’t something that I had been

good at

(for a while now),
and with everything,

it pushed me too far.
Far too far.


her: it is time to end the emotional distance.

Love

is all she needs,

love
and support.

Comfort.


him: do you think this has something to do
with

gender?

(why she took them?)

perhaps we can look towards the sky,
at the birds.

Birds provide solace, and a contemplatary silence.


her: doesn’t seem that much of a good idea to me.

Look --

look at me,
no,

look

at

me.

i am not going to do that again.

i wouldn’t do that again,

i promise.
(but I still don’t know how and why)