IV.
Zombie Kabuki in Seattle.
It’s all the rage.
They love their coffee in this city,
But she recalls the snakes and bombies,
And dilapidated dinosaur museums of old
Savannakhet
Whenever she idles through.
“How many battles did it take to write The Art of War?”
She debates with the foxy lady
Who’s secretly a black magic woman born to bewilder
Like a bard’s imperfect actor upon the stage
Who’s secretly a black magic woman born to bewilder
Like a bard’s imperfect actor upon the stage
Or a stone-faced troll beneath a bridge
No gruff goat has ever known.
No gruff goat has ever known.
The world has its Wendigo, Shoggoths and
Jabberwocky,
But winged Kinnaly remain aliens to a
galaxy
Hammering a new apocalypse
For beautiful children who will grow up
strangers
To the inked page,
To the inked page,
To bricks, to mortar, to boundaries.
If she had kept the first camera obscura
of Mozi,
Ms. Mannivongsa might have changed the
cosmos,
But what is an attachment to memories
But what is an attachment to memories
Or all of these shiny electric brains?
She prefers the dance of the mermaid and
the monkey
Free from modernity.
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