10/18/91- Room

                                        10/18/91
                                Guangzhou,China
 
 
                 Room
 
 
         The act to turn a chair 180 degrees
         From introspection to looking out over
         Foreign sights
         Sitting on a gilded pedestal
         Not of my choice,of my being
         My platform so elaborate in appearance
         Built of the same mortar,water,sweat
         Fear,imperfect as are all things man touches,
         As the buildings that surround me
         As they are not the same washed out pale pink
         Of another place,corporate choice,dream,
         Gray government pourings for the many
         So new the ribbon not yet cut
         Facilities and furniture missing as the scrambling,
         Hammering,how many hammers,hail on a glass roof,
         Storm front with a lunch break,rhythm
         Never recorded,what are they doing,hurrying
         Can not tell them from a knock at the door
         Interrupting,apology,forgotten accessories
 
         I smile inside and out
 
         And I,American,visitor,intruder,looking out and in,
         See the people pointing,smiling,wondering why
         A massive different thing with bright multicolored legs
         Would sit in a backwards chair,watching them work
         That there must be something,anything
         For me to do,be,elsewhere
         And I then agree
         
         As the wind blows the new flags around
         As the fire's tail turns white from black
         Bamboo scattered beneath my lazy feet    
         Clean and waiting for an assignment
         The pipe cutters and muck trawlers go on
         They commune with the Earth as I spin
         Inside my head
         I wish I knew what they were doing
         Will I ask,will I explore...no,
 
         Not today,
 
         I feel as if I am by the river
         Dirty,wet,wrong,sucked into the mud
         Trapped,frozen from action,not by politics,
         Or pain,illness or thought
         But by the subtle jailer these people know
         That we all know,all of my selves know
         Who is choice
         Where man is divine for a second,deserving or not,
         And the path remains the same
         The muddy footprints always the same.