untitled

taking photos of empty faces makes me feel hollow and brings back high school memories
back then, i was unaware of the importance of being vulnerable
my authentic self just a tiny seed inside the earth
waiting for the moment of arrival
we all hang onto comforting stories
even if they're not worth telling
the years have taught me that experience is confidence
and happiness is not what i want
same goes for you if you repeat it as many times in your head
as it takes a stone to soften into dust
worn away with words and meaning
a friend told me once we tell ourselves stories so we can sleep at night
and then rise again in the morning
he's right, i think
through story, we create reality
and through these tales
learn how to navigate our lives

walking with the minority

missing instant hot water and earl gray in the mornings
but not the nasty commute and forced plans
here on this tropical island, machine guns rage against the minority
bugged apartments lift paranoid aid workers to a new sort of desperation
poverty lurks around dark corners of polluted streets and dusty hotels
empty now that the tourists have gone
tuk tuk drivers ponder their return
and so do electronics shopkeeps
down in bambalapitya
as they break fast and welcome me in their store
so surprised to hear i'm a tourist
it's strange to be a white face that stands out
after spending my youth in homogeneous portland
yet so familiar
to be walking with the minority

negotiating these lines

there are whispers of genocide beneath the recent jubilation
propoganda emerges from that quiet machine gun on the street corner
obedient 20-something soldiers stand staunchly behind green sandbags
wasting their youth on the orders
no one was ever meant to follow
we've become so good at differentiating ourselves
this hatred comes naturally
i left one country
crossed 12 time zones
and met another population maligned and marginalized by the majority
forgiving human nature will never come easily

the start of something

this weekend i walked amongst barfooted buddhists
left my imprint on stones more than a thousand years old
breathed in thick clouds of incense
wandered under the long shadow of white stupas and prayer flags at dusk
passed hundreds of glowing intentions
their owners still an ephemeral presence in the night
the sleeping dogs--with their ears resting upon the pavements dozed easily as tuk tuk drivers honked past
in a frenzied search for 200 rupees
and the next unsuspecting tourist
so many people, all in white
carried lotus flowers and joyful children
the chanting, speaking, laughing echoes in my ears
in a country ripped apart by conflict and the ever-present fear of retaliation
i feel so much peace

colombo dogs

fatigue and hunger color their eyes
a mother with a shredded ear flap
lost long ago in a bloody battle
now healed over with tan hairs and time
a pack of 4 sitting by the roadside
coats thick with grease and dirt
distended sacs of their sexes
clearly mark the reason for this overpopulation
they only glance as i jog past
too tired to chase or play
as i would expect

catching my breath

it's an odd thing
to feel so full of words that 1000 pages couldn't hold them all
yet this electronic page stares blankly back
hungry for a word or two
and me so desperate to share something, anything
but today
there is nothing to say
only the quiet realization
that my life is different now