Insensate Beings Sans Maps
[4:29AM in Vung Tau on 5/24/25]
Unspeakable tragedy occurred this morning. Snipping a loose thread from my áo bà ba, I cut into the fabric. Though my suffering knew no bounds, I didn’t scream or sob. No longer a chide, I had to suck it up. Even without the smallest injury to our pretentious áo bà ba, we’re already oblivious to all the genocides, wars, famines and natural disasters occurring worldwide, right this second.
Nursing my nick, I’m sitting in the semi dark at new sidewalk café at 4:53AM. A cock, not mine, just crowed. More virile than this declining pussy, he’ll keep at it until this unsheltering sky lightens. Maybe it won’t.
When I arrived, there was just one old man, all gnarly and bent at dramatic, nearly torturous angles, like Picasso’s blue guitarist. Now, there are ten early risers, mostly solitary. Only two are talking. Iced coffee is being stirred behind my right shoulder blade. If peeking, he’s detected my English pecking, so I’m outed.