Haiku for a king

The court poet

Overthrew the king

A hia-coup

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Ink finger

The ink on my fingers,

Sent to me a memory-

We sat by failing cinders

With a sky full of wonder.

We told stories, made cleverly

About what you never see

It felt heavenly;

Maybe it’s just memory

But it’ll always be

Like the ink that lingers,

On my fingers

That I warmed by dying cinder-

Voluntary,

Like a glass of tea.

Red phone.

Sometimes you feel things that a language can’t word, so the best I can tell you is this evening-I feel Red.

Red like anger, red like the commie I am. Red, red and red repeats my head which rhymes with the Redmi* I write this on. It’s funny how cool phones used to be back in the day. The cruder they were the more popularity they had. We’d sneak those heavy bricks into school and stare into the tiny screens where we played snake. Later we’d mash our clumsy thumbs on colorful flip phone after we downloaded games off shady websites. The games were generic and ripped off movies and better games on PC’s.

Eventually the phones lost all their buttons and we were tapping at screens. It was a  long time though before our phones were more than phones. I don’t remember when they became platforms, when suddenly something that had your entire life on it was just a disposable hunk of plastic replaced every year.

The phone in my hand feels like a red button I’m used to slamming. Phones take you everywhere and this one is taking me back. I’m not a materialist I don’t feel attached to the phone but I can’t say the same for the memories that come with this one. Someone offered to trade me a Note 4 for my Note 3, they need a back up phone. What’s a single number to me anyway?

I run my hand over the cracks on the screen and my blood feels red, as memories rush back. I remember slender hands that ran over it and announced “Only red china for you comrade?”. I remember voices that came from within it, I remember what I told it and the people on the other side, I remember conversations written. I could ruin those memories by rereading old message, reviewing what actually happened. I could map myself along everything that was on it, every friend or someone more I have or haven’t talked to. It would rhyme like bad poetry.

Somewhere on it there might still be pictures of who I was but ah! It was just a phone, just a year or so, just a girl or two, just a city or two, just some friends you no longer know.Give it away, give it away. Hold onto the red but not the phone.

 

*A Chinese made phone

Treasure hunting

In my cousin’s backyard we dug for buried treasure. We dug till the sunset and till our parents voices called out for us. We lost their voices by digging. We found a rusted bullet from long ago, we found a broken arrow from longer ago. It was too early to stop, who knew what else we could find?

We found campfire set by ancient men, we found tusks and bones. We dug deeper to the terrible feathered monsters, we dug through the time of lizards and found the ocean floor. Further still we went and drowned in the molten earth. We dug and burned till everything turned to dust. We dig through the universe, a knife cutting through god to see what came before.

Hotel match

I keep a photo of two strangers. I rescued them out an old match box from a hotel, brought home some 3 decades ago. On the matchbox it says “Mountain View. Visit Again.” Both box and picture are yellow and dirty. You wouldn’t watch to trace your finger along the inn and mountains drawn on the box, the paint is so aged the mountains might lose the inn.

The remaining matches are frail and could never dream of working. One wonders why no one gave in to the temptation to strick a match a burn the picture. Why was it there anyway? Maybe it was supposed to be burned, the two grinning men without a harsh work between them.