I stand edged

                  on the northern corner

       staring at temples gleaming white.

   A walled city tuk-tuking flower children

  enthrones me, for a fee, above the fights.

  Tendrils wend through hostel windows.

Buddhas, mountain-perched, impassively

 peer down upon the steep river valleys

  filled with lonely paintbrush-shackled                                          elephants.

    All the experience-addicts in fractaled harem pants collect their story-fodder.

      Train-tracked leagues lead to busy streets canopied in neon lights flashing love

    and money. Hip hop beats bounce a cadence to lyrical elites both tonal and vowel-

 shifted. Games of poker pass the time until seats become beds with lullabies of chug

chugging. Disembarking chaos is a movable feast too rich to be digested, only savored.

A gilded funeral chariot lets me write its story. It yearns to relive its mournful procession.

   The city’s heart holds a peacefully crowded park with dozens of sunset aerobic dancers.

        Their music fades with the sun, replaced by the bubbling of catfish lapping at popcorn.

         The evening calm is sweeter than condensed milk billowing in my tamarind-orange tea.

            I sleep in the gated city of angels, secluded.

             Bus terminals                   and long delays.

             Double decks                   halt twice daily;

             speakers blare                   the regal Anthem.

               This Sliver

                Peninsula

                    tiptoes

                       lines

                        knit

                         by                     

                         a

                    few

                miles.

              Road

            stops:

          quick

        meals.                                      

     Palm oil

  plantations

 stretch in green rows.

Crags of clinging flora

Jut      from clear water.

             I hear a Buddhist

              chant mingle with

                The Call to Prayer.

                      My story-fodder

                          shapes me as I shape it,

                              barely nibbling the corners

                                                     of a country as

                                                     rich as it is long.