Where motorbikes zip by in streams of light, Passing street life seeping at the seams and boiling over like giant bowls of Pho. Served on miniature plastic tables lining sidewalks permeating the alleys in lime and mint. The west rode into the sunset to the east and now the Hotel California Dreamin' and cowboy swagger decorate the concrete like paper peonies and gold on alters. and the lawless outlaws lay out their wares to hustle for the All-American buck. The off duty rickshaw driver sleeps in his coach; his home. Debt paid for the safe bet, Illuminated carts of dried squid line store fronts like Chinese Lanterns, And towers of copied western literature pile high on small shoulders and begin to tilt like withering ancient pagodas, Give me wild west Saigon where electric lit signs are equal to the darkness they point to. Give me the Saigon that hungers, The Saigon that moves fast and messy Like the Motorbikes that zip by in streams of light.

I inherited an ant farm once and placed it on the mantle in my bedroom. Every night before bed I watched the little workers burrow, build, and lug about. One morning as soon as sleep left I ran to my ant farm to see what new tunnel they created, but found it empty. Just an intricate maze of quiet caves and walkways, as unique as a fingertip, left still in the sand. They must have escaped in the night. I must have left the lid open. Maybe God left the lid open for you. In the bedroom I keep a nightly vigil on my ant farm. Fingering the haunted pathways and still sand. If I picked it up and shook it about would the space disappear? Could I start new? If I picked it up and shook it about and started new, could I forget? Would I shake? Momma tells me to put that old Ant farm at the back of the closet with the forgotten roller skates and easy-bake ovens, but I leave it on the mantle to keep watch, one morning I may wake up and find they've returned with a new tunnel.

This is just about light Nothing more than light Lifting up the curtains And dancing to a mute-like Beat along the wall. Lightness. My nephew's yellow balloon Floating toward the sun Creating two golden orbs In a bright blue sky. Flight. Jet plains, trains, and shuttle Buses connecting continents Taking me further and further From home. Out of Sight. The air is like a secret held By one person, it almost Doesn't exist. Except in whisper brought to light. Nothing more than light.