Crossroads Generation

by e b bortz


Nothing really changed during the 1960s and 70s until the ruling elite finally realized that the system was on the verge of "losing" the allegiance of an entire generation. Who would fight the wars in the future? What kind of new mainstream would emerge for the bloated commodity exchanges...where were the new fat, dumb, and happy consumers? If there was in fact an "American Dream," how could it be packaged and sold, and more importantly, who would buy it?

Of course there were millions in the streets demanding civil rights and voting rights, bringing the troops home from Vietnam, alleviating poverty, and winning a certain level of economic democracy. But as much as the ruling elite rejected and stonewalled these specific demands, their real fear was more fundamental.  How could they co-opt a generation that had seen the facade for what it was, and had now emerged way beyond the dominant culture?  The counterculture wasn't a demand or slogan, but a deeply democratic, revolutionary and expansive new way of life...or so we had hoped.

What was energizing the 60s movements? It wasn't just a list of issues...but a common reality from a conscious new generation...a new view of the planet and the interconnection and interdependence of all living things. This rattled the elites to the point of relinquishing significant reforms in exchange for civil authority and some level of civil cohesion.

Today, we find ourselves searching and organizing not unlike those early years...confronting enormous institutional obstacles and entrenched regressive political machines. Where is the countercultural yarn weaving through the countryside, connecting and spreading the good news of a new day coming? The "liberating" technology of social media is only a tool...a movement that accomplishes great deeds, needs the power of a generation that leads by example, liberating passionately held ideas whose time has come.

Of course wishing for a countercultural revolution doesn't make one happen.  It grows naturally like wild rice, from the objective social morass commonly called mainstream society...artistic, economic, political, interpersonal. In fact, one could argue that the counterculture has always been alive and that it's a historical continuum. Maybe those narrowly and pragmatically focused on the issues of the day fail to see the revolution in our midst?


No one has a recipe or schedule for social change. But if in fact the arc does bend ultimately toward justice and survival, it will only do so if we see the whole planet, in its multitude of species, and in its multicultural and countercultural revolutionary dimensions. Millions are alive in Tahrir, Puerta del Sol, Liberty Plaza and thousands more squares and common spaces around the world...the music has not been charted...it may even be muted at times...but make no mistake, it will spring from within us all.

(published in opednews.com, Sept 29, 2011)

where's the poem

for troy anthony davis

that got left behind
lost before it was noticed
pulsating below the noise level
unflinching before the unfeeling
the abyss is among us
next time
listen closely
and then respond

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Sept 24, 2011)

earth note 157

small waves
smacking rhythmic like triplets
kayak becomes bach organ

--- e b bortz

earth note 156

a cold dew early this morning
doused september
and september eleventh
covering feet
of human & canine
with an awakening chill
with the idea of moving on
breaking the summer heat
breaking the overload
news noise filled
with mouths detached

the canine finds
a new trail of wild turkeys
we've seen them running
conscious of the avenue traffic
sometimes huddling in the quiet
they tune out
all that's irrelevant
we learn from them

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Sept 12, 2011)

earth note 111, preface

it was a hot roundabout ride
from haifa to tiberias to the hostel
above lake kinneret
every crank motion
a retro adolescent heartbeat
a few more feet beyond the ache
to the quasi serene
full couple days
past
a series of gruff rolling hills
becoming alone
again
still covered in your smile

i tried imagining
how life in quebec
might mesh
with the previous few years:
southern thailand
northern minnesota
madrid
seoul
israel
a certain excitement
in being rootless
at some point
trying to write some of it out

but there were too many
loose ends
that i found some comfort in
maybe just excuses
for staying hidden
near the tree line

i take
my wheels
to the next hill
the dust still restless

--- e b bortz

retreating to pen & paper

rain, the sacred river

is only making a few
designated stops
scorched withered plains
will continue
dry-throated
voices raspy
the stolen lands
require return
to their rightful stewards

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Aug 26, 2011)

wall, turtle creek & porch view

it's been a helluva summer

now
the stink bugs
are poised to come back
in early fall
when the heat & humidity
finally drains us
& we'll take a chance
on a trip to the grand canyon
of pennsylvania
for the changing of the guards
deep brown red & yellows
the river may be drying up
but our spirits
won't let the bastards win
even
in the worst of times
a rigid walking stick
can find the trail

--- e b bortz

earth note 155

the blue sky
is a misleading backdrop
to what grows in the foreground
micro particles
& amoebas
embedding lungs and brains
the weather channel talks numbers
but not substance
i watch the deer
& crows for the faintest of clues
how the algae spreads
into the backwaters
& groundhogs & river otters
stay out of the sun
a heat wave breaks a beaver's tail
a dam collapses
several plastic bottles launch
their new advertising campaign
presto fresco mountain dewy

the humidity
is on the rise again
our shoes become sticky
a riverbank turns gray

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Aug 19, 2011)

assad-gaddafi-netanyahu

there are no offshoots
in the moral high road
if you miss the entrance
there'll be no pay dirt
to break your fall
get used to making deals
with apologists wearing death blinders
an ego bargain
might be a new kind of worship
but it won't make the desert bloom

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, August 17, 2011)

recovering notes from the deep, part 3

i know i'm stretching it
when i impose past experience
on current circumstance
wishing i could still taste 1976 jimmy carter speech
quoting dylan
"he not busy being born is busy dying"
which stuck
in every corner of the old farmhouse
in northern minnesota
as we settled in
& i laid a new electric service cable
for the neighbors
as part of the down payment on the house
we had just bought from them

and then finally getting a phone call
(on the neighbor's phone)
to interview for an electrician job
at the taconite plant
after applying at every conceivable place
across the iron range

the weather & culture shock
of coming to the great north woods
from what we saw as the dying
polluted rustscape of pittsburgh
minnesota morning wakeups
a living silence
like a pair of canada geese
poking about in the creek
out near the pole barn
swaying in the wind

a new beginning
in what i now see as
the pivotal terms
of a restless life
where the offer
is only
for the seekers
without excuses

--- e b bortz

living in the moment

a few minutes before light
equator sun comes out of hiding
flickering below steamy hills
of southern thailand

a perfect quiet
on sri's face
as she makes tea in the urn
we whisper each others' names
so as not to wake
sister and toddler

the street of chongkasem surat thani
is a dozen
rolled down steel door storefronts
a row of light colored stone
and concrete houses
gutters running close
to the front door
a few bicycle pull carts
parked on the sidewalk
the hum of early traffic in the distance
a taste of curry from last night's meal

my memory is the flow
of the river
deep brown green
.....free

--- e b bortz

earth note 154

a robin sitting
on a steel railing
of a fire escape
looking side to side
like as if someone
was coming
to pick him up
too late for work
maybe they were going
to the racetrack
or city hall
confer with the pigeons
(not the stools)
about what the hell can be done
about this heat wave
and the assholes
looking for a sand pile
to stick their heads in

--- e b bortz

earth note 153

there's no running
from the drought
dust storms
wildfires
that eat through
torso & limbs
clearly
the continental shelf
is teetering

appian way models
embody all the pavements
yet to come
severing hands & organs
once connected
in common space
a dark new aura
of ego static & feel-good prophesy
the new gold standard

while the anasazi
built reservoirs
dug out caves cool
in the mountains
designed calendars
from the sun
paths from ancestors
respect
we have yet to learn
  
--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, July 14, 2011)

it may have meant something

to wake this morning
with sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
playing in my head
(don't often have that kind of clarity)
but there it was

"...streetcar visions which you place
on the grass..."
and every recovery
becomes a lesson
a renewal to sing

there were many broken times
when the blood
left its path
when the drug-fired veins
lost all direction

until the inner voice
declared a refusal
to bow
to drown in the pity
of authority

thrift store clothing
lets the colors blend
their soft texture
shouts
survival

--- e b bortz

vile jokes of voyeurs

tell me
that murdoch's implosion
is just beginning
to bore the underbelly
thought to be invincible armor
forged with favors
in high places
and every wall street dollar
that once had
the old & new veneer
is now
just plain junk
hand-jobs replacing what
they used to sell
as ecstasy

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, July 14, 2011)

just before the rocket's red glare

a cloudburst thundered in
& washed out
the sunshine patriots
playing soldier
wooden rifle shadow dance
m80s and roman candles stashed
between shiny reenactment buttons
& the blah blah blah
of a drum major's recruiting pitch

the rain moved on
as quick as it came
the new normal resumed
stage props retooled
for the unexpected

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, July 5, 2011)

metaphors mixed before sunset

off-highway gutters
have become proxies
for capital accumulation
to be written off
just below spent emotions
half-cooked dreams
rustbelt sewer runoff
shakes a menu
of macjob fairs
stolen song riffs
.....a plagiarized phony two-step
.....won't fool yah

watch the on-highway traffic
looks to be moving
smooth and in control
with next year's shiny models
purportedly against each other
we pick up each other's backpacks
unleash the mustangs
to keep our bearings true
in time
get a whiff
of dusty empire
.....last go round

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, June 16, 2011)

we don't always need words

to raise awareness
it was a steep climb
down to the montreal river
northern wisconsin
in water above the knees it was easy
to feel how the river mouth merged
with lake superior
enough to wake up
a young unrehearsed spirit
though i wouldn't have called it that
then

it was too late for the smelt run
i'm happy to have missed it
somehow nets are incompatible
with what i understand
now

sky over herons
spoke
without words
gray and blue
rhythms
iron tinged rocks
the clash of tide & river outflow
a twinkle in the old man's eye
pointing to the upturned leaves
their sign
of rain coming
my sign
.....uncharted

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, June 9, 2011)

puerta del sol

doorway to the sun
more powerful
than truckloads of campaign dollars
imf bribes
neoliberal neofascist oligarchs
spreading poverty landscapes
anesthesia
tongues without collateral
bankrupt excuses
mass graves still hidden

your shoulder to mine
we touch our heartbeats
or as my father / quince brigada
would sing
.....no pasaran

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, June 2, 2011)

when was the last time

you looked away
ignoring the pain
sometimes
a flood
is more than a rush of tears
streets spatter
even at midnight
& the constant hum
of grotesque machinery
chews what's left inside
burrowing deep
at the core principles
some regard
as sacred

--- e b bortz

offering

sri scooped up
a handful of rice
into a red bowl
then up to the altar
a golden glow

--- e b bortz

earth note 152

surat thani province, thailand

when the sun rises
near the equator
heat wakes the bodies
limitless imaginations
with a delicate song
as if to say
you have arrived
in this place by chance
will continue by chance
every being
flora and fauna alike
soil and water
surviving only
by equilibrium
an interdependency
of no excuses
no space
for negotiations

listen for the forest call
land and river
will answer

--- e b bortz

don't seek consensus

with your oppressor/abuser
evil or lesser evil sideshow illusion
acid reflux disappointment
in the morning

authentic flowers
bloom
without directions
& chemical stimulants

it has nothing to do
with feeling good or bad
moaning an idyllic history
that never existed
or finding the buried gem
or magic of 'correct framing'

sweep out the clutter
stop waiting for the perfect moment
you are real
& beautiful
in your original
being

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, May 11, 2011)

earth note 151

water on the roof
collects a mirror image
green maples
shimmer along the avenue

--- e b bortz

earth note 150

weathered leathery face unravelling
rich brown lines
of age and of wisdom
of the land and of yesterday
when men and horses ran free
across the painted deserts
up over the snow capped peaks
voices of
hopi
apache
navajo
hualapai
havasupai
yavapai
spring from the belly of the canyon
do we hear them?
do we love the land enough
to listen?

rocky buttes stand straight up
bold and open mouths
as wind and sand
beat them down
carving signatures
harsh and jagged
across their torsos
are we as brave?

scruffy patches of piñon pine
hug the hillside
make their claim of water rights
elegant ponderosa spacing themselves
in the coolness of the mountain pass

only the cottonwoods
hog the wetland washes
squeezing bullying surviving
are we cottonwoods?

an orange sun burns on the edge of a dust storm
without fear or malice
tempting us to follow its course
and learn

--- e b bortz

(previously published as "wisdom" in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

earth note 149

wild ferns lunge over & up
spread the canopy floor
buds shift across an opening
woodpecker alone hides
green silence falls
to rapid staccato
hollow echo

--- e b bortz

an end to angst

the most elusive
promise to myself
will join forsythia
breaking out
freeing all prisoners

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, April 24, 2011)

Orange Horizon

[Maybe it was my passport renewal application...or maybe because it's Earth Day...I've decided with some uneasiness to republish this old story.  It was first published in 1993 in my early collection of poems and stories, Voices of a Wanderer.
Email ebbortz at gmail dot com if you're interested in getting a copy of the book.]



Orange Horizon

by e b bortz



I didn't feel like a foreigner landing in Surat Thani, Thailand. The bus ride from the airport through rivers of flooded roadways, tropical heat, and grassy isolated hamlets was a shock, but for some odd reason, I didn't feel like an outsider.

Maybe there was a connection between those clumps of farmers and water buffalo teetering at the edge of isolated patches of high ground that I saw from the bus window, and my own predicament at age forty-one. Maybe this was the time and place for me to break out of my own isolation.

The work on the power plant project which brought me to Thailand offered unique technical challenges as I buried myself into the tasks at hand. Designing, testing, and debugging computer-based control systems, particularly on-site, has a way of twisting your brain in a knot, pressing you to your mental and physical limits. It made the short periods of time away from the job precious episodes of complete escape.

My days off were spent cranking out as many kilometers as my bicycle would take me. Every turn in the road seemed to bring me to another spectacular bluff overlooking a strip of palm-lined beach, or another remote river hamlet lined with men, women, and children fishing, washing, and swimming away the hot afternoons. The vibrancy of the land and the people sparked my sense of adventure and compassion for my surroundings. There was no way I would settle into the mediocrity and arrogance of expatriate hotel life.

It was a hot Sunday afternoon as I cycled across a muddy, slow moving river in the Chaiya district north of Surat Thani. A noisy group of teenagers were carrying on a lively game of water tag as a voice darted out over the water.

"Hello. Tarn yoo tee nai?" Where do you live one of them yelled as he treaded water near the bridge.

As I stopped and got off my bike, the natural sun-baked young faces, one by one, emerged from the river to see who the stranger was.

"Surat Thani," I answered and proceeded to tell them I was on my way to Thachana, a small beach town to the north.

It was clear that the group was puzzled but curious by my presence: appearance, language, age, bike, destination, even the secondary route I had decided to use to avoid traffic. But I was equally anxious to find out about life in this remote river hamlet with its wooden stilt houses hugging the winding, silty riverbank.

We mixed our Thai and English phrases until heads nodded with acknowledgment as they told me about the road getting very rough just up ahead. So when I was invited by a sixteen-year-old boy named Chang to go down to his family's house and relax for a few minutes before moving on, I gladly accepted.

The river water nearly splashed up through the front room floorboards as a bright-eyed two- year-old crawled over to mother who was at her loom weaving what appeared to be a small orange and earth toned rug. Her thin brown hands flew over the loom with the grace and speed of a harpist as I felt awkward entering the room and interrupting her music.

"Sawadee kawp," I near whispered as she turned and said "Sawadee kha," through a cautious but genuine smile.

Her name was Srimorn. Chang, her son, motioned me to sit on the thick orange and yellow rug near the wall. The wall was covered with an assortment of colorful woven fabric segments, some cascaded together in a series, others hanging alone and mysterious against the weathered slab board interior.

Srimorn was thirty-eight, widowed a year after her baby daughter Dorkmie was born. Another daughter, Wan, was eighteen, living and working at a textile factory in Hatyai, far to the south near Malaysia.

As we sipped slowly away on the Chinese tea, Chang proudly interjected his Thai and English translations freely. Our circle of conversation abounded into the lives and stories of some of the people who purchased the fabric art of Srimorn. Some were wealthy entrepreneurs from Bangkok who had ventured down in their pickup trucks and hauled away hundreds of square meters of immeasurable beauty for resale to even wealthier Western entrepreneurs and tourists.

And then finally, there was the story of the father of the house, Duang, who had drowned with the eldest son, Korn, the previous year while fishing in the Gulf of Thailand. A sudden monsoon had taken them by surprise before their small open fishing boat could bring them to safety. Exhaustive searches were conducted, but only remnants of the wooden boat and fishing nets were found. The bodies were never recovered.

The unsettling loneliness of their loss flowed into the room and touched me by surprise. The eloquence of the weaver, her gentle lament rolling to and fro between the tapestries, embodied an honesty I was not accustomed to. Her story floated out with images of youthful love, sensuality, creativity, toil, the pain and joy of childbearing, the fear of the future, the fear of being alone. And as we parted company with promises to meet again soon, the small orange and earth toned fabric was removed unfinished from the loom and placed in my hand for safekeeping and future finishing.

In their moment of openness, I felt the essence of the human spirit.

I finished my ride into Thachana with the fabric buried deep in my backpack, and then proceeded to catch the last bus of the day back to Surat Thani for another approaching week of work.

I was still dazed by Srimorn's narrative when a colleague named Bill startled me in the hotel lobby with his raspy voice, apparently under the influence.

"Bob Benjamin, where the hell you been today, looking for something strange?"

"No, nothing strange at all," I answered without elaborating.

There was an unspoken agreement between us to minimize dialogue and thus avoid inevitable confrontation. We disagreed on everything: music, politics, technical issues on the job, you name it. Bill hated living in Thailand and I told him on more than one occasion not to let the door hit him in the ass.

The following week on the job dragged along rather uneventfully. My thoughts were consumed by the previous weekend and the plans I had for the upcoming weekend: a trip to the island of Koh Samui.

The following Saturday morning I cycled anxiously through the busy marketplace down to the Surat Thani pier along the Tapi River to catch the cruise boat to Koh Samui. The boat was alive with Thai, Swedish, Italian, French, and English tongues mingling freely from the lower deck seating up to the jumble of luggage, backpacks, and bodies crammed together on the outside decks. I found a spot on the upper deck to stretch out on, and as we zipped through the blue-green waves on the Gulf of Thailand, a combination of light ocean spray and morning sunshine drained the week's tension right out the bottom of my bare feet.

Arriving at the island pier of Na Thon, I quickly rolled down the breakwater ahead of the scurrying crowd of luggage toting passengers.

As I rode south, even the distinct sweet smell in the tropical hills along the ring road couldn't mask the hollow feeling that came over me as I gazed out at the small fishing boats bobbing in the glimmer of the Gulf. I couldn't help but think of Duang and Korn, and of Srimorn and the unfinished weaving tucked away in my backpack.

A jagged coral reef poked up out of the water abruptly to meet the deserted, sandy and pebble lined shore at Lamai Beach. The view and spicy smell of curry drew me into a bamboo and leafy roofed restaurant near the water. I was savoring the last of the kai lae khao (chicken with rice), when a couple of motorcycle taxi drivers stopped suddenly in the driveway in a whirlwind of dust and noise.

"Pai nai?" Where are you going they asked me approaching the table.

"Chaweng Beach," I answered.

Looking over my bicycle and realizing that there was no fare at hand, they ordered some Singha beers and grabbed the empty chairs at my table.

We exchanged the normal "where do you come from", "how do you like Koh Samui", "how long are you staying in Thailand" stuff before I moved the conversation to another subject.

"Where do the fishermen take their catch at the end of the day?" I asked without explaining.

"You want to buy fish? I know a good place," the round faced driver Khon enthusiastically offered.

"No, I just want to see and maybe photograph the fish warehouse or dock area."

As he was giving me directions to a warehouse a few kilometers north of Na Thon, I began to think about my return trip the following day that would include a stop at the place.

Our chat was interrupted by the loud sputtering of a couple of tuktuks (pickup truck taxis) as they raced down the road empty in a mad dash towards the pier and another load of tourists. My friends quickly finished the last of their beer, and as we said our goodbyes, they hopped on their motorcycles in one continuous motion and sped away in pursuit of the new arrivals.

I stopped for a moment at the top of the last hill overlooking the five kilometer beige sandy shore of Chaweng Beach to soak in the last of the round, orange sun before it dropped off behind the palm covered hills to the west. A lone sailboat was struggling to tack through the gentle winds in the bay as a few sunbaked body surfers floated off the water and were deposited in the sand.

It took a few tries to find the kind of bungalow I was looking for at the edge of the beach. The bed was clean, the thatched roof didn't have any holes, the windows had shutters and mosquito netting, and the bathroom had a squat-toilet, shower head, and sink. One hundred and fifty baht (six dollars) a night and no frills.

Dusk crept up on me as I floated aimlessly in the mellowing waves, reflecting on what life had been like before coming to this place, before venturing out from the security and walls I had built around myself. Here I found myself stripped to the flesh with the basic emotion of rejoicing just to be alive. I was alone, but not lonely, distinct and unique but in accord with a living earth around me.

My mind and body were still drifting when the wailing sound of Bob Marley's "No Woman No Cry" burst out from shore. A flickering rainbow of faces strung loosely around a crackling fire looked warm and inviting. Tentatively, I waded over in their direction and in a sudden moment of confidence, walked up to the group without introduction and crouched down near the fire, rubbing my hands together somewhat nervously.

A downunder twang jumped across the fire, "Getting a little cool, eh?" a rugged blond-maned, surfer-looking character shot over to me.

"Yeah, seems like the wind is picking up," I answered.

"You from the States?"

"Yeah, and yourself?"

"Australia."

Jeremy was in fact a surfer, doing odd jobs on the island to get by, always looking for the perfect wave. He said very matter-of-factly that he couldn't stand a steady job, it was too expensive to live on the beach in Australia, and that he would keep renewing his visa in Thailand as long as possible.

"Might even decide to get married and stay," he said giving a soft squeeze to his petite Thai girlfriend Noi, the manager of the bungalows. At this point, Noi half-laughingly initiated a Thai conversation with her friend Phlawy that seemed to question Jeremy's ability to take such a bold step. They obviously had some things to talk over.

I turned my attention to the discussion raging at the other side of the circle about uncontrolled timber harvesting in the fragile hill country of southern Thailand.

"The floods we had this year have been the worst in our history," Nak, a student from Bangkok explained. "The hillsides have been clear-cut, the rain water rushes down without being absorbed and everything gets flooded."

Nak indicated that it was still dangerous to organize public opposition on this issue in Thailand, but several of his fellow students were doing it anyway. Katerina, a social worker and Green Party activist from Germany said she had friends in Malaysia who were concerned with deforestation there as well and that an Asian conference of environmental activists might be a useful forum to coordinate the many separate indigenous movements. Oblivious to their surroundings, Nak and Katerina immersed themselves with plans and details.

The reds and yellows from the fire created an aura that made the flashing eyes in our circle jump out in the deepening darkness. The beach was calm but with a light mist that rose up from the south seas in the east and limped on to our shore in a quiet, unobtrusive way.

Phlawy's dark brown eyes sparked over to me with a curious, adventurous expression that became captivating as the night progressed. We sat together and talked as I held her warm, moist, gold-brown hand, prodding emotions in me long buried away and thought to be gone forever.

Phlawy had lived on Koh Samui her entire life, and in her thirty years had seen the island evolve from an unknown paradise to its present state of tourist enclave. She had been married in her early twenties, but when her first child died at birth, her husband panicked and ran away to Bangkok, never to be heard from again. She was alone, working as an accomplished gourmet cook and supporting several of her siblings.

We touched each other with gentleness and sweetness as a light, moist breeze from a grove of mango trees on the hill unfurled and blanketed our bodies. Forever young, it really is just your point of view.

By the time I went in for a morning swim, Jeremy was already riding the two meter waves as far in to shore as they would carry him. He stopped and talked for a few minutes about sailing from Australia to New Zealand the following year, maybe settling down there. Noi and Thailand seemed to be slipping away from him. She was looking for a more dependable relationship than he was capable of offering at this time, but he wasn't ready to give up. There was still time to make amends. He was tired of being a drifter.

"Kin khao," let's eat rice, the familiar Thai expression for eating any meal yelled Noi from shore.

Breakfast conversation in the leafy open-air dining room centered on the new air strip that had just been built on Koh Samui. Daily flights were bringing droves of tourists to the island, pressuring the government to relax building regulations for new accommodations. Large scale hotel projects had thus far been resisted in order to maintain what was left of the remote atmosphere on the island, but the speculators and foreign business interests were relentless.

I soaked up the clean ocean breeze and quiet simplicity of the moment --- a fleeting moment at that. A year from now, everything may be quite different --- the cheap bungalows gone, the traffic heavier, maybe my newfound friends each going their own way. And where would I be? Back in the States or on another overseas project? The future was unclear. But not the present. A warm touch and smile, curried rice and eggs for breakfast, an endless orange horizon of coconut, mango, and rambutan --- this was our present, our moment, our dream tucked away on a small island sheltered from the tension and apathy of the outside world.

"I work here with Noi next week. Are you coming back?" Phlawy said to me as we were finishing coffee.

"Yes. I'd like to come back."

Joy and pain erupted inside of me as I reluctantly secured my backpack, hoisted my bicycle on to my shoulder, and walked up through the sand from the bungalow. Phlawy was standing in the driveway near the road as her soft eyes carefully searched mine for the honesty we had been touched with the night before. We burned inside, clinging to each other, as we rocked ever so gently in the approaching noonday sun. It was time to leave.

I rode through the rocky hills to the north with the stamina and speed of a racer on a mission. The deserted beach and high rolling surf at Mae Nam Bay spurred me on to the point of exhilaration. Who knows if this moment of love will continue, will have the opportunity to grow, much less mature? I learned long ago that dreams often hit the wall of reality and shatter, but that the dreamers nonetheless let the essence of the dream grow inside of them, carry them through the lonely times, contribute to their sense of worth, keep them honestly in touch with their innerselves, help make them whole human beings capable of emotional commitment. Love grabs you when you least expect it.

The fish warehouse was a large steel sided building at the edge of the water with a short concrete breakwater and several rows of wooden docks adjoining it. The smell of saltwater and fish filled the air as a few small boats were unloading their catches onto scales, then into large wooden crates that were hauled into the building with forklifts. I watched for a few minutes before quietly walking over to the docks and snapping a few photographs.

In my uneven Thai, I asked a couple of weathered, seasoned looking guys in their fifties how well they did. Good day they responded. Not too hot, the Gulf was quiet, no storms in the area, a good catch of prawn.

On the other side of the breakwater, a gaunt, dark brown skinned fisherman was struggling alone to bring his open eighteen footer carefully to the unloading dock. I came over and grabbed his towline as he bobbed into position near the dock.

"Khawp khoon cup." Thanks, he said quietly, possibly a little embarrassed.

His catch was also good for the day, but considerably less than the first pair of guys. Maneuvering the nets around alone probably had some impact on how successful you'd be. Then again, there was probably some luck involved.

Since my understanding of the Thai language was much better than my ability to speak it, I was relieved to let the fisherman do most of the talking while he waited for his catch to be weighed and hauled away. His name was Nokinsee and he had been fishing this part of the Gulf for twenty-five years, usually alone. He used to fish with his son once in awhile, until a year ago, when his son was killed in a motorcycle accident. His wrinkled brown forehead and lines beneath his eyes showed the many years of squinting into the sunlight and salty wind across the water. I was surprised when he said he was only forty-three.

He asked me about my job and what I thought about his country. I spoke my words slowly and as carefully as possible. The wrong emphasis on a syllable of a particular word and the meaning becomes lost, or even insulting. His question made me think hard about what I was doing in Thailand. The power plant I was working on would soon provide electricity to the remote river and hill hamlets in the south. The possibility would then exist for massive economic development: tin, rubber, timber, tourism. Nokinsee worried that the days of the independent farmer and fisherman were numbered, and that the land would be plundered without regard to the future. It was a legitimate issue for all of us, in all parts of the world, from the Rocky Mountains to the Amazon to Koh Samui. But I uncomfortably rationalized my own role. I reasoned that when you came down to it, it wasn't the capacity for economic development in itself that threatened the traditional ways of life of nations, but rather the priorities that those nations set for themselves, and the powerlessness of their peoples to control or set those priorities.

From my reading of Thai history it seemed clear to me that these people would never sit quietly and let the beauty and grace of their land be destroyed. They were in tune with the living world in ways that we, the descendants of Europe, were not. They, like the original peoples of the Americas, had much to teach us about living, if only we would open our eyes.

Nokinsee spoke hesitantly about his family as if there was a much larger story to tell. He invited me to go with him to a nearby cafe filled with fishermen coming in from the Gulf for a few hours rest before heading back out to sea.

He found it difficult to speak about his son who had died the previous year. As he pulled a woven handkerchief from his backpocket to wipe away the perspiration of his narrative, I could sense his need to tell the story in spite of the pain. The son had died as he entered manhood, with the excitement of first love and higher education before him. His son had things that he only dreamed of as a young man: a good education, a modest but secure homelife, the goal and dream of a profession as an architect. He had everything going for himself, except long life.

We sat in silence for a moment as my eyes drifted over and fixed themselves on the woven handkerchief clutched in his hand. Something was very odd. The handkerchief was an orange and earth toned one with a familiar signature. Was this a coincidence? My hands trembled as I dug out a woven fabric from my backpack and laid it out on the table before us. The unfinished orange and earth toned tapestry of Srimorn.

Nokinsee's eyes opened wide with astonishment. He knew the weaver's signature better than I.

And as he caressed the unfinished tapestry, I told him the story of Srimorn, of her love for her husband and son, and of the beauty and music of her work. Nokinsee was moved as he looked at me directly and told me of his helplessness in seeing his son go down in the raging waters of the Gulf. It had not been a motorcycle accident. It was shame that kept him alone and in turmoil. His inability to save his son or to give his life in his son's place was shattering. He couldn't bring himself to rejoin his family as Duang the fisherman from the Chaiya district.

Duang felt relieved that he had told it all. His eyes were reddened and wet. Orange sunlight bounced off the blue-green waves of the Gulf and beamed through the open windows of the cafe. The sun was beginning to set as a prism of colors jumped in and crossed the deep brown lines on his weathered face. We talked about Srimorn, Chang, Dorkmie and the future. He would return. He would lie with Srimorn in mounds of golden fabric in his house along the silty riverbank. His family would be whole once again. He was still holding the unfinished tapestry as I put my palms together, brought them up to my chin, and with a slight bow, turned and walked out of the door.

I rode through the darkness up to the pier at Na Thon for the last boat of the day to Surat Thani. The evening mist soaked and massaged my skin as a humid breeze of coconut, mango, and rambutan suddenly crossed my face and sweetened my lips.

********

(first published in the collection Voices of a Wanderer,
Out There Publishers, copyright 1993, e b bortz)

earth note 148

bright western wind today
strong enough
to push
ohio river whitecaps
upstream

it all changed again
within a half-hour

even the geese
paused crapping
long enough
to clash
with a nor'easter

--- e b bortz

dance over the barricades of your mind

before the sun whisks

beneath darkness

and you lose

that serendipity spark

a thought

jumping between last night's dream

and the abscess barriers

growing in our midst

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, March 29, 2011)  

is it even possible to have penance

for fallujah haditha gaza?
when the tyrant finally falls in libya
thank goodness
the healing will not include amnesia
for those of us
who survived
maybe sanctioned
occupation regimes
cost/benefit power politics
oil futures
apartheid walls
bulldozers that murder

but penance it must be
and for once
without preconditions

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, March 25, 2011)

earth note 147

grey sky meditation
a forum for cardinals
unpredictable crows
sparrows building nests
spring wind hesitant
and without the force of commitment
if there were lessons to absorb
maybe i missed them

the sound from the avenue
speaks louder than words
an unfortunate consequence
of the assembly line
whatever comes
when the bluejays arrive
can be regenerated
& dispersed

there's murmuring in the flats
floods on schedule
deer and groundhog
stepping quiet
light without sinking
high noon might be
a grey moon
hiding

--- e b bortz

there are the gentle ones

who speak with their eyes
hands
vibrations from their cajun instruments
words sprung from soft moist lips
of life and dance steps
that touch
every movement
of a body
crying out with a spirit of
sisterly brotherly love
passionate love
a love of the beauty
within our grasp
drinking in without hesitation
the joy and pain
of anonymity

for others
the morning brings
violence and death
a refrain as human
as tears

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Mar 7, 2011)

if silence was a new snowfall

there would be a secret
and finally a melting
that would give voice
and direction

by late afternoon
the crows get impatient
the sky fills
with sound

but this is not about
the species
or
looking for excuses

a blue ridge
near the sun
is only
one perception

bare maple tops
dance
crow wings
a background

there are
no revelations
in any
of this

open the window
for any answer
you think
you're missing

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Feb 27, 2011)
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)

no one said breaking conventional wisdom would be easy

first find a flotation device
another body and/or a kayak
then leave the glamour addiction
(publishers clearinghouse lost your address)

mainstream news insight
has the regularity of a good bowel movement
(reluctant hurrah for polyethylene glycol)
ignore them all

empty the mindless comfortable mindset
official lies jargon schemes
to confuse and dismember
if necessary where headphones

find others reaching
throw them a line
grab their hand
we'll all tow together

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Feb 22, 2011)

there were reasons

not understood then
but clear now
of how it was
to be alone
so alone
even mute
among peers

at risk
was my well hidden
teenage vulnerability
a pinsetter with quick hands
hopping between the lanes
squeezed between
turnpikes & freight trains
coughing acid smokestacks
i looked at the many roads
as invitations

we hitchhiked one morning
& crashed one saturday afternoon
in akron
found some couches       unitarians
& upper middle-class trappings
i thought everyone
but the thin man
was missing the obvious
it was prettified as needed
but there were
no truths

and the soldiers
on their way to death
knew by instinct
how the lies
were constructed
to save the bigger lies
& it became plain
that my body
would never mesh

ben got off work
at j & L steel
& brought eleanor
and hash
& zucchini
to my frying pan
and we laughed
at the idea that
friends last
through mornings
& revolutions
even when
(especially when)
no one has
any answers

ben tried his dissertation
in the soot
on the window pane
eleanor went back
to westchester county new york
the summer heat
broke
like an unexpected monsoon
waking up the voices
lost & found
trailing off
neath fires
seeded by clouds
& restless bodies

and what burned away
only
were the phony words
of gray shark-skin suits
the renaissance had speared its own
edifices
seen for what they were
& soon forgotten

but the coal barges kept pushing
heaped on autopilot
past the abandoned and forsaken
sewers overflowing
new models of the same vintage
deconstructed blooming mills
left only with riverbanks
of willows
breathing
speaking
for us all

--- e b bortz

don't reveal your muses or sources

after all we live
on the edge
of that deep dark
fault line
from whence all
words
become categorized
co-opted
by authoritarians
gasping the stale air
of historic irrelevance

let them starve

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Jan 31, 2011)
(published in Trumpet Call, Green Panda Press, 2012)

riding the blind wave

are just words used
(even after a lot of thinking)
to do nothing
but ride

not that there's
a case for optimism

what looks bleak
(after the inertia)
is the motion
that cleverly disguises
submission

don't take my crooked metaphors
you can do better

inquire within

--- e b bortz

sorry things got so dark

i'm no kind of "ist"
"crat" or "can"

don't ever take my word
for anything

no need to be a snoopin
my secrets are your secrets

leave that search warrant
in the trash

when we wake tomorrow
i expect the only surprise
will be snow...i'm just a
patriotic shovelin s.o.b.

hand me the internet
on a platter and i might just
eat it

i wanna start over with
new bygones

--- e b bortz

violence in our bowels

we own it
it owns us
color it
every conceivable
shade of omission
yet it chews like a tapeworm
believe
your gut

football or fatigues
rationalized uniforms are prayed to
the west was 'won'
in fiery
'sacrifice'
destiny becomes
destiny

be honest
those innermost images
are a predictable story
bloodstained heroes
whitewashed cowards
when in doubt
attack & hide
in the gospels

the way forward
becomes cliché
our backs are turned
from history
unclaimed demons
come between us

--- e b bortz

for the democrats who repeatedly vote for the corporate parties

i blame you for the wall street bailouts
for the drones and carnage of afghan families
for the millions of homeless and jobless
on our own streets
plains
imaginations
for the impoverished students
dropping out
remember the fakers who still occupy
the altars of legitimacy
in unions
community organizations
on city councils and in congress
the sell-outs who feign
justice
courage
solidarity

they all hide but you give them cover

if a reckoning is coming
it will surely wipe
every ass-kissing smirk
off your face
strip all the tv-juiced-cosmetics
& hair enhancements
away
i'd love to see your real face
you can look at mine as well
spit in my eye if that
satisfies you

i'm ready to walk the pain
with you
plant a tent
in lafayette park
asylum exists
when we take the first step

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Jan 2011)

have i finally crawled out or in?

for Aung San Suu Kyi

from every identifiable place
darkness lifts or not
inconspicuously
or scarring
every marking has a point

where the colors
have collapsed
a common blend
becomes a stain

rationales
have ended
most without
scrutiny

there are no final judgments
in fact judgments are not germane
a mouth is a circle
is a chant
is a spirit
all its own

--- e b bortz

counterculture

plays a rhythmic washboard
before every honest voice dies
     let the drumbeat lead
inhale the fire of the earth
& use the word culture
as it was intended
to open every pore
release the heat
begin again

--- e b bortz

earth note 146

rivers have a way

of getting even

with those who would

harness & bleed

their very being

an icy smile gets smacked down

wiped off the face

of the 40th street trestle

--- e b bortz