Tracking Treks

click
       click
  clack   clack
heels on
marble floor

I hear my
   walk of the town
I am
   talk of the town
with my
   inability
   hesitancy to
blend like a smoothie
banana and strawberry

who is which
I wonder
I know I ain't pink

perhaps red
rather fruity
sweet like my
big brother and
a dozen other dates told me so

dates shriveled up
dead, dried dessert
for the woman who
can't get enough of
being a girl
of being a
  faded out
sexy sort of nerd
brain quite literal
body quite physical

petite
      little figure
a gay gal
jolly dolly's folly
one letter play
at the end of the day

perdone
that was a curve ball
threw you off track
while I wrote on these
           electric tracks
a record, broken,
playing over and over

no wait, what I mean is
I am on a subway train
filled with
a thousand lives
a thousand realities
none of which I know
None of which I know

The isolation I live in
the introvert
   quiet shadow that
sweeps the halls of
literary pages
                   and
boyish dreams

a nomad by forces
and by choices
spirit floating on moving vehicle
       traveling into abyss
where no permanence etches
in your memory
and none dwells in mine

residing in lands
of the good old prairies
or
the youthful discovery of
Sir Stanford Raffles
(I don't quite remember
the story behind his knighthood
but well aware of the rumor
about his sunken statue in
the canal they call river)

                        accentuated images
     of teenage frolicking at Sixth Avenue
              of child's play on bunk beds
         of mohinga and moat lone yay paw
         drenched in cleansing April water

                        forgotten memories
     of shorts, slippers and hawker stalls
        of girly gossips on bus rides home
                    of the one teacher who
                  believed in what I wrote

am I so great enough now
to leave those histories behind
just because
                I speak of
Fromm, Freud and Faulkner

am I so great enough with my
   Lisa Loeb eyeglasses and my
      San Franciscan scarf and my
         hippie inspired bohemian dresses

I am no gypsy of the mind
no bellydancing
no poetry reading
no fiery debating
can erase the beginning of my journey
in a city that calls itself a country

so why do I?

click   clack
   click   clack
subtle reminders
of the roads I have trampled on

I wandered this far
only because I don't
turn my head back
to watch my steps
and regret

So I wrote this poem a while back. It’s really about my Singaporean background. Yes, I didn’t mention it in my about me section. I don’t usually identify with it so much as I’ve ‘moved on,’ I suppose. Nevertheless, at one point and to a certain degree currently, I am aware that this background has probably influenced or effected me somewhat in my development as a person. So I decided to acknowledge it by writing about it. I might read this piece at Dalva tomorrow night. I’m trying to keep my promise to myself to do so. I usually always change my mind, but I think I owe my history this much.