PENKNIFE

-the wind was seething, heavy.
-after waking, and gazing at the pummelled window
-i pulled my patchwork desert gear into a bag.
-i borrowed some sandals, a bike,
and ate a healthy bowl of noodle.
-then peddled scowling at the wind.

-in the town, in the open maze of buildings,
-the sands were kept at bay.
-but i rode out: north and west and then south after a bit.
-i pushed through the stinging screaming,
-past great shallow rivers, dust roads, donkey carts, snipped and snatched dialogues.

desert gear:
-a cloth cap pulled low
-sunglasses
-a palestinian chequered scarf

-on the night bus out
-we stop and i leap out for a spliff and a piss
-the night wind so much more terrible
-it bit down stubbornly (i’d stupidly left my desert gear on the little bed).
-and pellets of rain added mockery to the situation.
-the line of shiverers excited to get back on the bus is slow and quivering
-so i let the cold become a numb cool
-so as to stand it
-and when the doorway appears to me in a dark warm glow
-i leap again; this time in,
-then dig myself deep in the cosy alcove.
-just then, my brain slowly/grinningly explodes.
-the short little fat man across from me
-is a picture of pleasantry.

i love the ocean, i love the trees, but i really love the desert. the idea of being a small dot crawling across endless sands has always been appealing to me. i think the seed was planted with the little prince, or maybe other aeroplane writing by exupery. this was the gobi desert, with the takmalakan desert stretching out to the west of it.