E-MOTION

 She says she is angry and he finds that easy to understand.  He as given up on anger, he finds it too exhausting and ultimately of such little value he has moved permanently on to cynicism and disdain.  She says she finds little benefit in either, and having a certain amount of faith gives her the only premise she has found for moral superiority.  He claims he has never felt to superior to anyone, and he knows it is a lie when he says it, for he feels superior to most, except her, for he fears that would anger her.  He has felt the passion and heat of her anger an it is not a place he wants to be, but he cannot be away from her for any length of time or he finds his cynicism replaced by longing and that borders on real emotion, which is what he most dreads.  Well that, and Brussels sprouts with cheese. Almost any cheese; the thought of loss of love, and under cooked asparagus.

WRISTING

I used to think
that the key to a great crepe
was all in the wrist.
That was before my wrist was fused
by a doctor who explained
that no motion was better
than endless pain where motion
ceased to practically matter.
Now I realize that the forearm
is capable of so much more
that that for which it is given
credit, that the elbow is a joint
underappreciated, and that when
the crepe slides off the pan
and onto the plate,
the forearm can take a silent bow,
giving a wink to the crepe pan
for its nominal contribution
to the effort lying on the plate.

ANGRY, BUT ONLY A LITTLE

You want it spicy, but just so that
the tongue remembers it a moment
after the mouth has moved on, a lingering
sense of having been present.
It should be a mantilla, a shawl,
not the blanket some claim, gently
caressing, lighting up the plate.
Its host, freshly from the rollers,
was born for this moment,
and welcomes its friend, and
the teeth of its visitors, accompanied
by the grapes carefully pressed
and aged for this occasion.
The tomatoes sigh as the last
of the arrabiatta is consumed
and evening slips quietly into dreams.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

It is Independence Day in Seoul
and I am sitting in my room
in the Ritz Carlton looking
out over closed shops, traffic
moving along the streets
watching CNN and AFKN.
The shops of Namdaemun
are closed, you can walk
the small alleys as vendors
hawk jeans with mis-sewn
Guess labels and T-shirts
from the University of Michigan.
Pietros is crowded
with Koreans waiting on plates
of spaghetti with clams
and shoyu sauce.
A group of police
in starched gray uniforms
nods as we pass, then stare
at thin plumes of black smoke
rising into charcoal clouds
northwest over Yonsei University,
they lift their riot shields
and long black batons
and briskly walk onto the bus
to quell the traitors
for whom unification
must be more than a dream.
Lotte World is silent
in the summer heat.

INCEPTION

Morning arrived as usual today
and we shook ourselves slowly
from sleep to greet it.
As we rose and drew open
the curtains and blinds
all that morning had to say,
and said rather imperiously
was “where is the coffee —
you can’t expect a damn thing
from me until I’ve had
at least two cups,
and brew them strong and black,
like the night I
chased off to get here.”

SUSHI

We sit around the Tatami table
thankful for the leg well
redemption for aging knees,
and socks without holes.
We drink the sake warm
and cold, and the Sapporo
from the oversized bottles
each pouring for the other
as a proper host must.
Several recall nights
on Roppongi, or earlier
on the Ginza, moments
lucid in drunken clarity.
One remembers a hostess
with endless legs
but little more,
although it still brings
a childlike smile.
Empty bottles
are quickly replaced
each at increased decibels
until the final uni
ends up on my plate
alongside the quail egg.
The night air
is unsteady
or is it merely
the sea urchin
exacting his revenge.

AN AFTERNOON SPENT

We sit around a small table
in the YAK Coffee and Beer
on the edge of Namdaemun
listening to loud pop songs
on tinny speakers.
The Hite Beer bottles sweat
dripping on the Formica table
down our backs
the dankness of the subway
clinging to us, bathed
in the smoke from the couples
hunched over coffee, giggling
conspirators plotting the overthrow
of ancient ideas, of hanboks
hung in closets, rice cookers
and kimchi ever present.
We walk past the pig’s heads
arrayed next to slowly rotting fish
and all manner of peppers
and breath deeply
of the bouquet of Seoul.