"this is china."

"this is china"

loud. rambunctious wheels, turning under heavy loads… with driver's legs as unsure as the wood they've been constructed out of. thousand endless days turning on like the rickety spheres, like the sculpted legs. unforgiving and tedious smells, rising and falling once more, blowing in the thick air. attaching to souls of feet and piles of hair. finding homes in colorless alley ways and bright lights. consistently changing, ebb and flow. the comfort in habitual actions that have outlasted generations of looters, explorers, lovers, and fighters. and the heartbreaking simplicity of it all... this is china.

foreigners, westerners, aliens... not familiar. like being dropped, slippery and blinking from a home where nourishment, comfort, and life were forged easily. never thinking, always trusting. predictable successes easily attainable. here we are... waltzing into the smoke of the unknown. twirling about with our ideas of how it all should be. stumbling, coughing when the fog wears, and the world is sideways and screaming. laughing nervously as we attempt to shake the dust and debris. slowing when it declares it's there to stay. growing accustomed and used to it. home is in the clouds, atop dozens of other wanderers, and under even more. commonalities are ordinary like rain, time, and sleep... all other details lost, overtaken by deafening reds and regal golds. this is china.

our mouths are filled with unnatural sounds... lips part in ways that need to be learned. catching phrases that last moments before slipping through cracks between our fingers, gaps between our teeth. tongues tasting, ravishing in bitter liquid and biting food. neighbors glistening with the day, perspiration and faded lines. snapping shells on street corners along side mountains of black, brown, grey, sooty street sweeps. the raging effort of movement, pressing... threatening... to expose you as new. this is china.

cigarette embers blaze while the tails of ash retire to the floor. clattering of dishes... heaped together in corners along with rusted children's toys. bamboo as stability... holding, protruding, guarding. as stuck together as the rich rice pressing against the roof of our mouths. swallowing completely, this life. shot of discrepancies through cores and patching it all up with new touches, new sounds, then feeling whole once more. this is china.

dark nights, hazy mornings... firecracker days. along hard roads, stone walls, and heavy puddles. splashing through and drinking in. paralyzed in moments where everything exists, but the curtain might be hauled up any instance. this is china.