On the path

Trying to outline my own
shadow at midday,
what I get is
a senseless scribble,
frustration,
a slightly torn paper,
crumpled.
"Why do you even try?" a passerby asks.
I wanted to see my borders
so as not to trespass them.('trespassers will be shot')
"Why imprison yourself?" says a passerby, annoyed,
then passes by.

I throw away that silly paper and
paint the whole path instead.

By Nelden Djakababa

Kupang in My Mind 1

Jakarta.
Almost three a.m.
Silence laced by solitary raindrops.
Funny, how at this moment
I miss
the bemos of Kupang.Those little public vehicles.
Candy-colored, many stickers.
In a packed one, I got my kneecaps
to kiss the kneecaps of fellow passengers.
Our collective evaporated sweat lingered between
our heads. It got recycled in our lungs over
and over.

And then there was the music.
Always full-blast.
Disco. House music. Dangdut. Sajojo.
The heavy hammering drumbeat
took over my heartbeat.
Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump
Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump
Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump
Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump
My diaphragm resonating
tickling my insides.

The number of lights on its windshield
tells you where it goes (count them quickly!).
I only have to remember bemo-seven-lights
to go back
to my hotel.

So I got off there, near the governor's house.
Hand Rp 500 to the burnt-sienna
boy by the door.
Back under the stinging sun.Back into the dark lobby.
Back into my empty room.
With a step further toward deafness.But I can still hear the rain drops.

By Nelden Djakababa