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

on going nowhere

Our driver arrives exactly 4 hours late, at 10 pm, after the Spanish couple had flaked on us. We regretfully inform the man that we must cancel our trip, and pay him 500,000 rupiah for one day's car rental even though we never set foot in the car. We are greatly disappointed with the Spanish, who were the whole reason we agreed to go on the trip, as we could have split the cost between 6 people instead of just 4. Our driver says he will shower and change and then send us text message so he can lead us down to Kuta for make party. As soon as he leaves, we realize he had left the front gate open and allowed our host's new puppy – Kaya – to escape into the night. Exhausted from waiting hour after hour in the heat, we comb the neighborhood on foot and moped, calling the dog's name and searching rice paddy, ditch, unlit homestead, and trash-heap. After a solid hour, the German next door pokes his head over the wall and says, “Are you looking for a dog?” What joy, what joy, the prodigal pup has returned! We call the driver, tell him we go make party after all, and follow him to a lush compound down the street, where we quaff drinks and make friends with local surfers, Putu and Awi and others. At 1 am, our convoy of 3 bikes heads south-east, taking back alleys and flying between ancient city walls, our scooters low on petrol, running on fumes. In Espresso Club, I sing backup vocals on Paradise City by Guns & Roses, elbow-to-elbow with the Singaporean headman. For an hour, a wasted-drunk New Guinean aboriginal man with long dreadlocks rakes his fingernails across my sunburned back, grabbing and pinching Martin's forearms so hard they start to bleed, screaming in our ears in his native and incomprehensible tongue. Security tells him to calm down twice but does not kick him out, even though Martin has already sworn at him in Czech and very nearly knocked his block off. The aboriginal realizes how angry he is making us, and so for a while he tries to appease us with gifts proffered from a small black hand, cigarettes and crumpled 2000 rupiah notes, warm beers and handshakes, scraps of trash and an empty packet of rolling papers. We finish eight rounds of Jungle Juice and then head for the local surfer hangout, meet girls, talk and dance with them, fall in love, meet different girls, and deal with the ensuing jealous confusions. The lights come on in the dance club and I realize with horror that I have dropped my keys. I turn to the first broom-wielding employee and ask him if he found a set; he pulls them out of his pocket. The other workers start chanting “100,000! 100,000!”; my friends join in, and I hand over my last big note, which I will regret later when the Malaysian professional ballroom dancer with braces on her teeth tracks me down on the street but won't ride back to Changgu with me, as she feels I am too drunk to drive. For what it's worth, I am a millionaire in Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

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I retreat to warmer climes will update this when there is time

on Early Spring

The days they grow longer, the evenings wane, and outside the winds now grow warmer again. We've just had the festival of Early Spring, at which we the hopeful did dance shout and sing, and frolic and wrestle and fall into heaps, and tear through a banquet then go off to sleep. Our numbers weren't many – attendance was low – we worshiped fair Oestre in spite of the snow, we bathed in the moonlight and sang out in verse, we shook off the cobwebs of our wintry curse. Now off to our regular lifetimes we go, with bright beaming smiles that aren't just for show, all merry of spirit and buoyed with love, feasting on manna that falls from above.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Cїĥī×-ш.ĦƸǂƟ¤ȱ¤ƟǂƷĦ.ш-×īĤЇƆ

enamored of flavor he increased his heft, and after his serving there was nothing left

on the calfity

Trust in your ears and believe in your eyes, this fine hollow leg is made solely for spies. It works best with persons, who are one leg down, if not though our surgeons are the best around. The risk it is worth it, the rewards are vast: imagine not having to just use the ass to hide and to contraband things of import, through dim vacant harbor or bustling port. The mission is crucial, as is its success, our products get ratings like Super and Best, they won't warp or splinter – this we guarantee – so order your very own new calfity. Its shinbone is hollow, so slide in some files, then walk on it for a good half dozen miles, then stuff some more goodies where no one can see, a flexible and fillable cavity, located right there on the leg's backward half, where most homo sapiens paw at a calf. Come in for a fitting, please do it today, our supply of calfities dwindles away. Impress your enemies, confound your friends, make every moment a means to your ends, but know that we only take serious guys, not persons whose stories are founded in lies. We do not take credit, just cash hard and cold, gems and stones and of course metals like gold, we're allies and confidants in the spy game, Darkmaster Outfitters of Grig is our name.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on being ready

To be wise and watchful, to weather each storm, to keep bellies full and small fingertips warm, to stand up to chaos with confidence large, is the foremost yearning of persons in charge. They shop with us at one of our many spots, they buy hiking backpacks and flare-guns and pots, they heap up their shopping-carts until they're full, they come to us whose factories are local. We are The Suppliers, or Supp'lo for short, we fabricate items for hunting and sport, our things are long-lasting and good quality, they're made down the road and not over the sea. For all of our products are made here at home, they're cut from our forests and raised in our loam, and mined in our mountains and cured in our air, we're insured and bonded and pay wages fair, so don't get goods made in far Nigeria, or rely on gas shipments from New Russia, but come view our line of goods, then shout Huzzah!, and support our bountiful Grigovia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

whore-o'-scope

Some men grasp and tickle, others paw and grope, the sly ones however use a whore-o'-scope. They boot up their laptop, they go lock their door, they massage the hollow tube under their core, they squeeze and they fondle it, until it's spent, they wonder aloud where the daylight has went. Some women prefer it, when men stroke alone, that way they don't have to endure lusty groans, or look upon mountains of moist manly meat, or pleasure boys only to watch them retreat. I download and stream it, I fill up hard-drives, it quickens my pulse and makes me feel alive, I wish to escape it, its contents forget, but nothing so far has been able to let me stand up and leave it for good far behind, through each waking moment it laps at my mind. What looks like The Answer is more like a slope, please help me get rid of this foul whore-o'-scope.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on stellar beauty

Behold ye the comely and paint-less visage, of our local beauty, the lovely Tahlahdg. She comes from a proud line of capable tarts, her sweat tastes like honey and she never farts, her timing's exquisite, her knowledge is great, her skin looks like parchment and she's rarely late. She's been groomed and fitted, her outfits are neat, her training has made her a person complete. Her eyes how they sparkle, and light up the night, she's not had a drink yet but finds this all right, her passions are oil paints, hacking, and cars, she's almost too perfect, as bright as the stars. We find her quite lovely, we know she'll excel, at all the activities she does so well, we'll fête her and make a big deal of her gifts, until a young stallion should conquer her rift.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on useful undies

Our garments are more than just stitching and thread, they obviate duty and hassle and dread, they cover the body, not too loose or tight, make water from urine nearly overnight. They don't absorb feces but feel free to pee, whenever the urge to should overcome thee, your fluids will enter a sandwiched-in pouch, that flexes whenever you bend walk or crouch, which uses osmosis and deep filtration, to produce fresh water from human urine. After 30 hours the filters are done, from foul wasted fluids clean moisture they've won, to access it peel back the outer leg-cuff, then flip up the nozzle and pour out the stuff, that keeps all things going, awake and alive, without which we humans cannot long survive. A blow-valve allows you to shoot out the junk, the oozing and noisome and yellowish gunk, the crap that your kidneys had pulled from the blood, which smells like a cow grabbed and drowned in a flood. We put all our garments, through rigorous tests, to make sure we ship out nothing but the best, our products are guaranteed top of the line, so wear them in orbit, surgery, and mine. Thanks for your attention, alas we must go, not off to the toilet but to the next show, good-bye now to gentleman, child, and lady, you're all free to wander and go have a pee. Adieu.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on thermal exchangers

Our thermal exchangers, pull power from soil, increasing net leisure, decreasing net toil. They work because temperatures deep underground, differ from those of the air all around, which causes trapped fluids to move out and in, which makes then a turbine built within to spin. This turbine's a motor, that rotates swiftly, it makes non-polluting electricity. We didn't invent it, but our type is grand – it powers communities across our land, it lights up our cities and hamlets and towns, its ease and efficiency are world-renown. Small ones are built into every new home, buried, forgotten, but never asleep, they recharge big batteries and mobile phones, they cool down our foodstuffs yet don't make a peep. To install them dig up a long and deep trench, then lay in some pipes of corrosion-less steel, adjust for the rate of drop, don't yet back-fill, go slowly and tighten each nut with a wrench. Now drop in a power-box to match your needs, and check every foot of pipe for cracks or bleeds, and check your connections – make sure they are sound – then bury the pipe six good feet underground. A portion stays outside, exposed to the air, built into a crawl-space or under the stairs, to feed precious energy into your wires, without fuel deliveries or noxious fires. Components are costly but tax-breaks abound, it's cheap now to make your own power from ground. So call up your regional government rep – to most this one seems to be the hardest step – then measure an area fifteen by three, an open space made clear of trees and debris, then sit back and watch as your system's installed, tasting of freedom and glad that you'd called.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

swift she sallied

Swift she sallied, sped, and dove, while we few from up above, watched her wrest and pull and heave, quick to save and slow to leave, one by one she dragged them clear, from the wreckage laying near. How they'd come to rest below, none of us will ever know, we just saw their fuel on fire, paused our journey to inquire, if our help they could well need, then with dash and brash and speed, Nuuzstathena did her deed, suddenly she was just there as if she'd sprung out of the air. Each and all she moved away, from the shadows into day; from the long and blessed slumber back to lives of hope and wonder; from a burning, metal grave those forsaken souls she saved. With a light and healing hand, she with joy and love began, to mend the wounds that were sustained, fixing bone and soothing pain, soon the rescue was complete, then she vanished fast and neat, once again into thin air, praise her graceful, golden hair, and the wings upon her feet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on laden grasses

In certain conditions, when snows fall just right, the high wind-swept valleys they suffer a plight, a curse and a blessing, a confluence grand, attracting sight-seers from far and near lands. After a good helping, of light but steady flakes, so thick and dark and insular that bamboo bends and breaks, we venture out and pierce the veil, the surface tightly sealed, with snow and stalk and biting leaves, throughout with ice congealed. The shield reveals, a gate well hid, into the inner hall, we enter quick, our voices hushed, our footfalls too – come one by one not two by two – be still, don't rush, the footing's slick, in this bamboo cathedral.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on brave Yuzsillet

He fought off the Muskov, in 1805, he is the main reason our nation's alive. With musket and hand-ax, with daring and brash, he drove away evil and saved our fair Grig, in many small actions and one final clash; we honor him with the fleet Yuzsillet jig. He poured out his lifeblood, defending the pass, that runs through the mountains, which range tall and vast, which make up the backbone of all that we know, to which we for pleasure and resources go. This hero now celebrate, cherish, and fête, that fine local warrior, brave Yuzsillet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on curable wants

Our doors they stay open, through hail wind and dust, we offer the services that addicts trust. To help cure addictions we delve to the root, we use lots of talking and leave nothing moot, we guide our lost siblings straight back to the light, we do it with love and not insult or slight. We serve up home cooking, we grow our own food, which we use to regulate temper and mood, there's no refined sugar, no soda or junk – these injure the body and therefore are bunk. For persons who wonder if they can get well, if they might escape their own personal hell, we tell them – Come yonder and stay for a while, we'll help you to turn that frown into a smile, to enjoy your life again in every way, to do it not next week but starting today. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mighty Oumbast

Her whiskers now etch at now taste from the soul, her power is mighty and does not grow old. She works from the shadows, she shies from the light, her lives they are many, her footfall is slight. Her texture is moonlight and nightfall and dusk, she smells like rose petals tinged slightly with musk. Her fans they are legion, her cult it still grows, her temples get fashioned from palm leaves and snows. She loves to be petted, and to be picked up, come bask in her glory and drink from her cup. Although she is patient there's no time to lose, so cease with your slumber and strap on some shoes, so come to our party – we promise a blast – rejoice as we celebrate Lady Oumbast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

perv-eyor par excellence

His past-time is naughty, it makes women sore, for he is a shameless and rude perv-eyor. He pervs out while walking or riding a bus, it is a compulsion, to do it he must. It starts with a fleeting glance that tends to linger, he watches eternal but won't lift a finger. It happens at airports and sidewalk cafés, it riddles his dream-scape and eats up his days. He hides his erections, this much he knows well, if he were to show them he'd land in a cell. Now pray for the error and fault of his ways, now hope that his habits don't become a craze. To some he is mendicant, egg-head, or nonce, to us he's a perv-eyor par excellence.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥