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
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.
