24, hong kong, days slim as postcards, with words flailing like dancers, like breakers and back-flippers, i think, these letters once knew how to fly, they hopped across continents to get here, like paper airplanes from rooftops, or cigarette ash flying across a highway. me, i’m not so good at writing back.
the night is sometimes a coat hanger, a television left on, and maybe an I-Pod running out of batteries, whatever it is, the night’s not the sky or the passage of time or even boat lights seen from balconies, it’s solid, you can touch it, hold it, and wrap a blanket around it. you can bbq chicken wings and steaks for it, and then wipe sweat off its eyelid. the night will also undress you, whether you like it or not. you can kiss its earlobe, but it won’t listen. that I-Pod will still run out of batteries, and it won’t matter so much anymore.
and me, i’m not so good at the things i think i’m good at, and i’m not quite as bad at the things i don’t particularly enjoy. i’m at the beach at sunrise and two officers are wondering how i got there, i don’t know, it’s july, isn’t it? i don’t have much of a routine this time of year, but i guess i was laughing with my eyes closed and somehow ended up here, want to sing bob marley together?
it’s july, and i scoop some sea water into my mouth, and it tastes like sweat, with tiny little crabs juggling in it. i can’t swim so well, but last night we were underwater, in a bar listening to electronica, head-bobbing, bones popping, eyes wide shut the whole time, and by morning we were washed up on shore on some beach, it’s no metaphor, we passed the time with sand and sweat all around us, with the morning pushing us at our necks, whispering, move, move, want to race to the other side?