Smuggler
We stroll into anarchy where cameras are forbidden
and decaying gypsy wagons stretch from impressionist
embankments to glimpse the rampart of Christianshavns.
A hallucinating feeling of time warps through our path
as money changers and whoremongers from the Temple
wink and gesture for our naïve interchange.
But there is no Jesus screaming in Aramaic, no Western
media coverage to sensationalize the lack of law, only
a straw hat seated Van Gogh, his south facing easel splayed
with pastel stipples, documenting moments unfolding
in Skagen greys and muted umbers to a cacophony of voices
basted in hasheesh and tobacco, his eyes catching mine
through remnants of setting rays trying to steal some light
leaving the landscape photo-bleached as I turn to escape.
ky li
1.27.16/9:10am
©2016 Tortuga Press
