from "Corea"

A poem from sometime past; from a collection of poems written in a number of places.

Hide from the Faces of Clocks

A chair, a table,
a clock ticks the second
    hand around its face,
persistent like a baby having nightmares.
An airplane flies outside the window
and mopeds and flash cars
        mirr and purr by.
Chatter of walkers
down at the street,
    slow passing.
Sirens flash on in the distance,
    then off again.
Fluorescent light.
The light glows. 
The room is stuffy.
Gnats move in mid-air
    and make no sound.
Just the second hand ticking and the night-fallen town.

Eclipsing missionary stars,
the city floods the sky
    with neon buzzing
    flickering
    flash false senses of glam and fortune.
Westward living.
Fly by square currents
on circuit boards.
Flow fast
    with other electrodes
    going from point A-spend money to point B.
Collide and continue,
with antennae outstretched
    so as not to get too close.
Tongue stays tucked behind teeth,
    afraid
    like a shivering child under bedsheets,
    scared to open his eyes,
    scared to speak.
Shot glass, Soju, pilsner,
booth for one, snacks for one,
silent in the darkened bar
    under black lights
    behind the curtain of smoke from his nostrils
he sits alone beneath the sounds of pop culture
    and chatter
        and falling glass and laughter.

He tries to smile,
    but is silent,
noticing that glances ignore what has no chance of understanding.
Language; philosophy; principle; helplessly misunderstood,
so he laughs.
A man can get away with laughing at helplessness
    more than he ever could cry.
The ember burns in a damp cloth ashtray.
His lips are moistened by another sip of his boredom.
It comes down to understanding.
Do you understand?
If this was written in Farsi, would you understand?
If this was written about making dinner with a best friend,
    about building a fort out of blankets,
    about lost love, would you understand? 
If this was written about floating down a river,
or about a forest of giant trees,
    would you understand? 
Will you understand?
The short circuit that blows the neon tube;
    the misspelled word to alter doctrine;
    the dropped call;
    the house on sand;
he has been patronized to death by polyester promises.
In red burning; yellow, pink, blue glowing; stay open late to sell until you drop; buy because you have nothing better to do; or, drink because you can’t afford any more things;
where alcohol plagues men
    and hope is blinded by manifest destiny;
in a chair
at a table,
he listens to the second hand,
a baby trapped in nightmares.