eyes that speak
of 3000 years
of poetry
of song
the body erect
those slender shoulders
the eyes the mouth
hinting at a smile
there are many
questions to ask
but one talks
of food
chicken feet moon cake
and mouse
am I
dear Fang
supposed to eat
that
is it some kind
of test
to prove
how simpatico
I really am
does it
really truly taste
like chicken
or is that too
a myth
like Marco Polo
and spaghetti
and am I just
another Italian cowboy
lost
in those eyes
in the East

you say I was right
and you regret everything
you want to talk
but somehow never do
always a mystery
even when you’re transparent
to say I’m sorry
is an understatement
but the life you lead now
was your own doing
choices made
cannot be retracted
and the consequences one pays
are on the other side
of the balance sheet
I’ve no idea what you expect
from me anymore
whatever I felt
was used up long ago
and there’s only a hole
you left in my heart
that I’ve learned to live with
there’s no one here
on this end of the line
that you’d recognize
and wherever you knew me
is not where I am
any longer

I pour out a cup or two of emerald wine inside the cabin.
The door swings closed, then back open onto exquisite

ranged mountains: ten thousand wrinkles unseen by anyone,
and every ridge hand-picked by the sun’s slant light.

translated by David Hinton

I was having dinner last night at my favorite hamburger place here on a corner a few blocks up from the Rexx Theatre. I find I crave a hamburger 2 or 3 times a month here, perhaps it being some sort of longing not for my home country but the home I left behind many years ago where my father wearing this silly felt hat I bought in Freedomland (a theme park from my youth that, like my youth, no longer exists) grilled Sabrett hotdogs and these big, fat, greasy hamburgers in our backyard while talking politics with my uncles. I think this memory goes back to about a year before he died and is one of those memories I have where I was filled with love and a bit of awe for the man I almost got to know.
But the reason I bring this up is because hamburgers…

They heard me speaking English to the waiter while trying to understand what peppersteak “easy” was exactly and even after having eaten it, I am still unsure. But that’s getting ahead of myself, as usual, so I’ll get back to the two young women, one smoking a cigarette and holding it like it might bite and the other one, the one who does most of the talking, keeps playing with her hair and adjusting the shawl the establishment has draped over the chairs in an effort to alleviate the cold. And she asks, as I’m trying to locate the pieces of black olives in my Greek salad, “Where are you from?”

“New York,” I say, as I always say, thinking of myself as a NYer first and an American second, then add, “But I live in Istanbul now,” and don’t add that I’m looking to relocate.

It’s then the one…

this is not something
I do very often
much of what transpired there
lies dormant in my memory
except for grad school
and my friends then
and the boy scouts
but occasionally
faces surface
from my undergrad days
and one in particular
came into focus
because the doctor here
thought my inflamed foot
could be gout
which it isn’t
but the word conjured up
Jimmy Burton
who actually was the first person
I ever heard mention it
since he suffered from that
among other ailments
a young man grown old
long before his time
jimmyjimmyjimmy
what became of you
sleeping on the couch
at north grove c-16
playing rod mckuen albums
in the dark
playing old men on stage
being one in life
an usher at my wedding
that brillo hair of yours
almost tamed
how I could crack you up
every time I danced up
and down the staircase