There is no negative space;
only smells and colors and movement.
I am not here.
Every scent is a recipe,
every stranger a secret,
each scooter squeezing through the market
is a mission of an industry.
It all blends at the edges;
Asian spices, with the green of produce,
the texture of the pavement, with rumbling motors.
Burning fuel, and Mandarin in the air.
Dogs balanced on scooters
between the legs of impatient drivers,
Foreign fruit--no, I am the foreigner--
foreign to curb gardens
and unapologetic eye contact,
and long sweaters hanging beside pigs
strung up by their toes.
I am not here,
only space recording space,
an ecstatic breath in that never ends.
This merry go round,
these white knuckles,
these whites of my eyes.
I am standing still
and the present circles me so fast
I can only see it in hindsight,
than any scooter rider,
or staring shopper will remember it.
This is no street; this is a performance.
I am not here;
I'm inside my head,
and maybe a little in theirs too.
There is no eye contact, but there are brushing elbows.
There is no language, but there are red strokes
an abstract painting that hasn't dried yet.
It never will.