SALLY FORTH ON
MY ANTIQUE HORSE
The journey here needs a journal, for sure -
something by which such records are kept. I
wouldn't otherwise know a thing nor remember.
Where it is I am, and was. What the name of this
section is - raggedy town of slumlords and geeks,
strange foreigners now trying to get it to work.
The Vietnamese guy with the sliced tongue, the
Malay who practices his kick-boxing in the morning
street; creating on some days a melee himself; and
that teen-aged kid he practices on, or with. Either way.
as I watch, it's a nasty ballet. The worn shop windows
of the ebony Gods; where they sell African clothing and
incense, while their wives read cards : fortunes, Gypsies
and Arabs and old kings and queens.
Before I was this rich, I was that poor. Before I could
talk good, I talked like them. Before I could write, I did
their scribble. In so many other ways, they represent me
in my image of Past : that bent, antique horse clopping
by, the one with the arc in its back.