And once again I am, I will not say alone, no, that’s not like me, but, how shall we say, I don’t know, restored to myself, no, I never left myself, free, yes, I don’t know what that means, but it’s the word I mean to use, free to do what, to do nothing, to know, but what, the laws of the mind perhaps, of my mind, that for example water rises in proportion as it drowns you and that you would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.”

-Samuel Beckett

choking tropics

waiting to depart                                     the room we arrived,
uncertain which gate                                 screens won’t update.
she said it was                                 not a cultural experience,
the maids,                                       the service with a smile,
the menu,                                          prices in U.S. dollars.
excess                                            overflowing the absence
washed-up onshore,                                   discarded at sunrise.
you can have it all      on this island       in the middle of everywhere.
cloaked women                                              sweep our trace
inhale smoke                                                 blown oversea
what a miracle it would be                        to make it out breathing