Chronicles (Sunday 9 Jan 2011)

the smouldering tip of a lit cigarette

between fingers

is it the wind, directing
or an invisible vacuum sucking
the fume

a praiseworthy moment,
when we wore our sixth finger
when the slender smoke spiral screen
the living room or another scene.

a praiseworthy woman,
when your figure was either
framed by the dusty and neglected window or creaking door
when the clock we smell to tell our time together is obsolete
now the burning incense could only whisper our minutes
that could not be converted into hours, days or weeks.

My ears are open
the tune playing in the other room that drifts in is well-muffled by the distance
the variety of your voices in my head are songs I failed to forget.

Without horoscopic bullshit from cousins of economists
without generalities or false details – that is
without ‘experts say’ or what ‘public thinks’
without reports of where world leaders are now congregating
without the vulgarities of seeing tragedies juxtaposed to the polished smiles and expressions of models sent to reinforce the jargons of the sales and marketing teams…
what’s your fucking ‘Asian perspectives’ with such an accent.

my laziness is the discipline
my bad posture when slouching on the sofa is another stance
to avoid reading the newspapers like chronic plague.