A Handful of Thai Leaves

Brightly glows the living love force:
from the smog-pinkened sun of south central Thailand,
from the ancient cannons that fertilize the fields of Phetchaburi University,
from the nostrils of the scarred bronze buddha as he's revived by peaceful patchouli smoke,
from the half-mad eyes of the captive elephant child (his wandering soul unfed by the river of banannas,)
from the tarantula's fur as he flees from the global warming flood,
from the gleaming tongue of my dog "Friendly"
(who sleeps on the filthy concrete in front of the 7-Eleven)
from the mercury toughened roots of the great pine that push deeper into the heights of a peak near an "important" temple of Northern Thailand,
from the shiny meat of the lichi fruits I savored contemplating his majesty,
from every leg of the colossal ten-piece centipede as he fled from the flying picks,
from the blessed teeth of every framed bat staring out from glass in 1,000 tourist booths of Northern Thailand,
from the yolk of the sparrows egg as father dodges the zooming motorcycle tires,
from the beak of the white egret as he feasts on gnats off the grateful cow's hide,
from the two-tailed gecko as she vanishes into a swarm of tiny ants,
(both she and they more enlightened than New York City)
from the fresh-cut bangs of the fruit farmer's daughter,
from the succulent flesh of the long-faced terrace-finned fish
as he circles the factory-made hook,
of a budding young chosen one (some call him "Tot,")
deep in study of the green desert mountains,
some meaningless maps call "Ganga Jan."