portals that point

A feast-day is coming to honor the goddess who keeps our hearts healthy who constantly blesses the whims and the actions of all of us mortals as we made decisions and venture through portals that point us toward riches or into harm's way – her touch is far-reaching, this much we can say. Therefore in the last week of this month of June, shed all of your worries and concerns and gloom, pour out some libations and raise up a song, to that blessed goddess who knew all along, the errors and joys that we'd see on our way, all hail Nuuzstathena, who brightens each day.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on flying kites

Bright kites how they flutter, on wind draft and breeze, they rise to the heavens with visible ease. They serve many purposes, more than just show – they hamper and confound, they disrupt and slow all but those rank warplanes that fly really high, that fuck with our airspace and peer through the sky. The flying of kites started out as a game, it was once just child's play, merely a jest, but now that the Ynki's foul tyranny grows, this pure, simple hobby is serious business. Kites come in all colors, that make the rainbow, they help bring sweet blessings to us down below, for they are an avenue up to the gods, to help hapless mortals who stumble and plod. Join a kite flying club, or found one new, to raise a bright kite is the cool thing to do, you'll defend the nation and coddle the powers that shelter us humans through all of our hours. This is our tradition here in well-planned Grig, hoist aloft a flying-thing, not small but big, and watch as your fortunes and Happiness grow, so long as the earth it turns and the winds blow.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on burning sandals

This footwear's infected, it burns my dermis, I suffer its damaging, poisonous kiss. It's just on the right side, the left foot is fine, at one point I'd stepped on a shiny-leaved vine, or brushed up against a patch of poison oak, that promptly with oils my sandal did soak. I have tried to wash them, with liquid and bar, the next step I think will be clear vinegar, to cancel the compounds that ravage my skin, but if that too fails they'll go into the bin. It is just not worth it, to suffer and cope, to wash and to scrub them with vigor and soap, to try and eradicate chemical traces that lurk in the foam and hide under the laces. Last night I moved into a seedy hotel, these sandals they irritate and itch like hell, the dollars I spent renting a door that closes I could well have used to buy new shoes and clothes. That is in the past though, I have no regrets, I've learned not to hanker or worry or fret, therefore I will change out these horrible shoes, and cease with my endless and woebegone blues.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on crafting temples

There's not much more to it, I daresay I've found, than sticking a bit of wood into the ground, or erecting monoliths, small though they be, or hanging some rolled-up twigs onto a tree. Grigovian goddesses take what they can, knowing that all the best efforts of man do sometimes fall short of the outcomes intended, for they only care that the homefront's defended. The goddesses fancy not churches or pageants, priests droning on and on chasing down tangents, sycophants, hangers-on, gem-stones or gold, groups of new converts or ones getting old. All our fair maidens, the Goddesses Ten, who shelter the lowly and brighten our ken, are simple to pray to and easy to please, preferring us standing to down on our knees. It is hard to battle and drive away foes, when wearing too fancy or delicate clothes, so leave off with fashion and don something that you don't care gets torn, ripped, or covered with scat. To please them be watchful, and ready to act, against us the odds will most surely be stacked, so open those peepers and keep your hand steady while praising their greatness, always at the ready.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on abounding goddesses

Grigovian goddesses, everywhere, in meadows and treetops and under the stairs, so many that even the priests can't keep track, fair beauties who make up for what humans lack. They simply keep coming, and showing up new, which leaves us poor mortals but one thing to do: accept them and puzzle out some of their ways, then set aside for them their own holidays, then keep up with sacrifice, prayers, and chants, while wearing our jackets and cravats and pants. We preen and we dress up, we wear well-made threads, lest goat tractor sibling should one day fall dead, struck down by a goddess, her confidence flawed, whom we'd never worshiped, who'd not left us awed. We labor to please them, we do all we can, we hang fragrant garlands and strike up the band, we hope though that one day there may be enough, that we might get back to our business and stuff. We love them regardless, we're glad that they're here, the new ones and those that have blessed us for years, we'll lift to the heavens vociferous praise, until our last moments, the end of our days.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on making progress

The foodstuff is rotten, the hull springs more leaks, we've been at this voyage for too many weeks. Our compass was shattered, there's no land in sight, the stars help us navigate during the night, in daytime we mostly just jostle about, afflicted by scurvy, Bell's palsy, and gout. We pray for salvation and women in dresses, all made up and perfumed with dangling tresses; the ropes are all fouled and the rudder's a mess, at least though we're making some decent progress. If you find this message then please do send help, the last land we sighted was St. Maarten's Isle, from there to the west we've been drifting a while, at least for a fortnight plus one or two days, through downpour and cloud-bank, through strong winds and haze, we're all sick of staring at waves and sea-foam, and desperate to find a safe way back home.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Amahamor

Hear now of the splendid goddess, she who heals those deep love-wounds, she who cares for saddened brides and likewise for heart-broken grooms. Hers are many charges, she works day and night, to mend and to bandage, to put things back right, to help lovelorn people find solace and pride, to get them back on their feet, looking alive. Find comfort in knowing that things aren't so bad, that you are worth loving (not hopelessly sad), that love comes to all of us, wealthy or poor, that one of its victors is Amahamor. So light her a candle and send up a prayer, and ask that Amahamor always be there, to lift and to shelter you from high above, while you play the treacherous game we call love.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

grigs own aprodit

There is an old story, I know just a bit, about an old goddess, Grig's own Aprodit. Brought up in a valley immune to stray gazing she'd learned about friendship and animal grazing from an older shepherd-girl who stealthily could run across rockfall and swiftly climb trees. (This older companion could easily be, her shape-shifting highness, the fair Athene.) While seeking a lamb-chop swept off in a gale, our young Aprodit left her protective vale, got waylaid by wood-fellers, knotted and roped, abused with foul language and sat on and groped. 'Enough,' she said calmly, 'release me anon.' Her captors they jeered though, made laughter, and fun. She gave no more warnings, she'd treated them fair, she summoned her courage and focused her glare, then with a quick gesture she cut through her ropes while grasping a tiny blade found in her coats, then leaped up and threw off her mantles and norms, revealing to mankind her beautiful forms. So awestruck and smitten were all the men there, that past and amongst them she moved without care. Taking in her new-found station she uttered a proclamation: 'There you tremble, little shits, amazed and awed at Aprodit, she whom you tried to rape and torture, kill and maim, feed to the vultures, who now stands before you strong, cursing you to love her form while night is long and days are warm – know no love from any other, not from sister, friend, or mother.' Cursed they were the foolish fellers to short lives consumed by fits, lost in amour, pining always, for radiant Aprodit.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

consider now Dah'zhou

Consider now Dah'zhou, who tends to the fate, of persons who snooze a lot and sleep in late. Her role is not major, she mostly stays in, for we in Grigovia find it a sin, to lounge and to slumber, to waste away days, to wake up hung-over, all curdled and dazed. Her culture is friendly, as is her one rite (perform it alone, just before bed, at night): clean up your area, tidy the room, then set aside cellphone and worry and broom, and take a few moments to calm yourself down, and start breathing deeply from anus to crown. While breathing and sitting then think of your day, of all of the labor and comfort and play, be thankful and grateful and say then aloud, with countenance lifted and voice strong and proud: 'Today is now over, tomorrow awaits, I'll spend it quite happily manning the gates, defending the homeland and neighbor alike, from mountain to valley, from rooftop to dike, or painting a picture, or writing a song, please help me, oh Dah'zhou, to wake up 'ere long, to welcome her majesty, rose-fingered Dawn, to spring to my labors and never complain, until to my slumbers I return again.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Kloacarla

Kloacarla was her own name, no one knows from where she came, just that she fouled a public pool with yellow squirts and solid stool. Many days have not gone by, since Kloacarla – neither shy nor slow to act – had emptied out her nether tract into a peasant's pleasant hut, with silent moans and door wide shut. Should she wander back again, to shit on us, our town and friends, we'll ambush her from hidden boat and strangle her in foetid moat.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

head held high

It is often that I find that happiness springs from the mind, that slowing down and breathing twice can transport me to paradise; that then I'm filled with oxygen – which buoys hopes and uplifts men – to live in peace then I'm allowed, with head held high and straight and proud, without much need or carnal yearning, abandoning theretofore learning.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

ours is hope

Greetings on this frigid morning, welcome now these solar rays, ours is hope and happy thinking, ours is confidence today. Gone are all the fears that plagued us, they can reach us nevermore, gone as well is discontentment and such things that hurt and bore. May the goddess Nuuzstathena shelter you and yours and ours, basked in morning's golden fingers she calls forth the Springtime flowers as well as bees that hum and sting, keeping balance is her thing. Light tonight at sun's departure many flames – a candelabra – say a word and keep in mind, her highness, lovely Nuuzstathena.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on common goal

Come wander in ocher, come bask in our sol, come join in our culture and share in our goal. It is monumental, enormous, and vast, it is a confounding and difficult task, that we take upon us through daytime and night, that we see as worthwhile and proper and right. We want independence, from intrigue and stress, from envoys and spies coming from the US, from unions and currencies destined to fail, from outside influence and petty hate-mail. We could seal our borders, imprison dissenters, turn into tormentors of soul and body, instead we'll stay open, keep welcoming strangers, while sounding this heartfelt decree: Do now unto others as you'd t'yourself do, get rid of possession but pant shirt and shoe, keep breathing and reading and chew up your food, stay moving, speak kindly, be helpful not rude; a torment is coming, shelter it with us, we mind our own business and don't make much fuss, if though invaded we'll rise up in synch, much faster than even computers can think, and drive out the forces that cause us all harm – our midwives are lethal, our grandmothers armed, our people are ready to fight to the death, until of our foes there are but few shreds left. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in BKK

Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace won't be slowed for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on leaving Kuta

I hold fast till the last day, refusing kids who beg and pray and badger me both day and night to buy a bracelet – brown, black, white? Then comes Mary, eight years young, whose pitch is crass, incessant, fun, who won't believe I'll buy one soon, whose mushrooms, “Take you to the moon”. I give her less than she asks for, I claim that I am very poor, I take her small and flimsy thing, she says “OK, better than nothing”. We leave fair Kuta before nine, our engines haul and buck and whine and drag us through the darkened hills, we take much care and do not spill. A storm has slicked our moon-lit path – great burst of light, a booming wrath – but now the night is calm and cool, a taxi driver hits his brights, can't seem to pass us on the right, we slow way down, give up the fight, I curse and yell that he's a fool. Great mounds of dirt cover the lanes, force us to slow way down again, as if from nowhere they appear, with naught to warn that they are near. Then I spy a red barrow whose owner causes me much fright, who interrupts our steady flow, out in the street – no warning light. We get waylaid by crafty men; they sneak us past the ticket pen; they bribe police and harbor boss; ours is not sting or pang or loss, for they defraud their government to feed their kids and pay the rent. No berth awaits us once aboard, no slightly bowing deck steward, we settle down right on the deck, avoiding many sticky flecks. Bali greets us pleasantly when something drops down from a tree and hits me square upon the head; I don't complain for I'm not dead. We make good time and maintain speed, for hurry there is never need, a road-side cop tells us to slow, I speak his tongue – he lets us go. I climb in through the side window, where only weeds and gravel grow, I have no keys for the front door, we settle down upon the floor, sleep for one hour, then awake, as violent screams the walls do shake. There's spitting blood, hurled accusations, this has been a strange vacation, full of laughs but violence too, oh fair Indo – I love you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on highest hopes

Nearly home but barely there my hopes are highest in the morning, when the thoughts of yesteryear descend on me without fair warning. Swiftly they transport me back to times when I thought myself great, hide from me the brutal truth of what I have become of late. Such is life and such is longing, for the things that cannot be, stay the hand and still the sadness, born anew each day is me, there's no fun in self-destruction or in hanging from a tree. Quick to laugh and swift to punish, is the goddess of the mind, she but asks that I abandon all the things I've left behind – all the moments, dreams, and fancies; all the want and broken trust; all the greatness, heartbreak, beauty; gluttony and complex scheming; petty hatred, wanton lust. Raise the spirit, send it soaring, to the gates that never close, sing about it, paint a picture, craft a poem, write some prose – this one life is swiftly fleeting toward things that cannot be grasped, I must learn to be here – present – to let go and not to clasp. Holding on can deepen worry, strangle life, and breastfeed Fear, I prefer to keep the moment, focused just on what is near. Here now ends this solemn poem, writ for me and me alone, now I sit with heart unshielded, contemplating rock and stone, studying each moment's breaking, deep in blood and nail and bone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in Kuta Lombok

I went to town to look around and took in many things: I saw one cow – don't ask me how – and one bird with brown wings. It sang a song both loud and strong to flee its cage it sought, wreathed in a cloud of burning trash – sad things mankind has wrought. The ride this morn was swift and fleet we slept perhaps three winks, in captain's berth we sampled mirth, the ferry did not sink. Now through this cabin we explored while sleep into our brain-pans bored, we looked in cubby; cranny; nook; as wave and sea the vessel shook. There was the book by Chairman Mao – his lesson, guide, and rule – three fancy shirts, a dead cockroach, some bits of foam, a toilet brush, the AC vented cool. Then through the hills and sopping fields our caravan did wander, in search of places rich in surf from here to there and yonder. We quarter in a spartan room, the basics they are present, my company is quick to laugh – indeed she is quite pleasant. The waters glint with plastic junk, so much it can't be counted; now off to rest, to try this bed, with consciousness dismounted.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

land of Thai

Now I've reached the land of Thai, ask myself – You came here why? – walking down an endless street, wondering just who I'll meet. Pingpong shows and midget strippers, I just got a pair of slippers, so my feet won't roast alive when temperatures reach 35. Women grab me, I say – No, drop my arm and let me go – muscles strain and tug and flex, I refuse to pay for sex. Ladyboys and topless dancers, I call out but no one answers, heart and mind they flee from me, racing back to fair Bali. Now I trod this sweltered turf, wishing I were in some surf, paddling to clear the crests, giving it my very best. Here is madness, here is pain, massive struggle, little gain, I must simply keep in mind, the one that I left behind, hope that she'll embrace me yet, godheads laughed the day we met. Now to have my muscles pounded, so that I'll be calm and grounded, when it's time to test my stock, which is always in Bangkok.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on breaking leashes

Leashes break and hearts are mended, cultures mix, language gets blended. Tides they rise and fall in rhythm, twixt our friendship is a schism, yet we make a fancy feast, dehydration is a beast. Batur rises from the mist, I drive fast when I am pissed, she is silent, gets the gist, drop her off – she won't be missed. Waves are ridden, whitewash deep, drags me down to endless sleep, I shall miss these Bali days, can't begin to count the ways, cherish every minute here, where the breaks are fast and near.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on puppies' screaming

Nighttime comes and puppies whimper, right outside – feet from my head – I give them some milk and water, begging them to go to bed. Morning breaks and I'm exhausted, many trips have crushed my mood, taking care of tiny doggies, tending to a mewling brood. I wax up my surfboards well, making sure my foot will stick, then it's off to Pantai Berawa, scratching though an oil-slick. South of us is naught but water, then the snowy Antarctic, mine are waves that build and tumble, filthy water makes me sick. Bali magic all around me, dogs abound but where's their shit? floating on a three-finned long-board, I just wait and watch and sit. Oh the lovely island women, they take care and treat me well, up the coastline I will travel always searching for the swell.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥