THE UNEMPLOYED 3: A Consultant in Kuala Lumpur

it was the wet biryani

a virtual account unlocked for the seeker's liberation of a hostaged last pay as PR 527 poured two cans of beer into a bento box of half-burnt kretek butts  

but online check-in won't budge from a confusing arrival procedure to manage five paid sessions at the Ramada Hotel

and review the Bangkok framework

that was the red shirt

daylight for a night tour 

royal guards throw bolts of wet shoes at a spire and the minaret while the rain waltzed with the twin towers to warm a cold haram dinner in Bukit Bintang

 beer, kaoliang and whiskey

a duel of fish skin and roasted chicken in honor of a departing keisatsu who traded a salted egg shrimp for the mountie's poached fish and a Sarawak love song 

Hanuman is not a beer

she is a proud uncovered breast herding monkeys from Batu Caves into guardians of the Putra Mosque who cover Chinese tourists with the Prime Minister's maroon robes 

a Saturday night fever

it was the masked lady who absorbed all the pheromones in PR 528 for a white lady in the bus who summoned the virus to Baloc with a case of Red Horse on a Sunday night...

THE UNEMPLOYED 2: A Houseband in Bakal 2

The Ironman versus The Waterboy

frozen kappukan, a mummified bluefin tuna, two ancient gurami fused by ice

they melted like beer in the ricefields, like dead heroes after breaking the fast

a duel of software updates for draft application requirements

The Chef is The Dishwasher and The Sweeper

nucleared pinangat, pinapaitan boiled twice, kinilaw embalmed in soy sauce

recycled like a contract for Kuala Lumpur, like an updated CV and Cover Letter

juggling funds for an aircon replacement and credit card payment

The Laundryman and The Marketman

withered amaranth crushed,green brandy canned twice, a job advert goes live

morals and dogma from the checkerboard floor, tales of coitus on a Sunday night

seven portraits of a Phantom Biker in a canvass of creamy tofu and pasta

THE UNEMPLOYED 1: A Volunteer in Bangkok

What I will miss are the paydays
so I settled power and credit card bills with the last one

leaving just enough for a facilitation in Bangkok

   

before the Leaver gets paid, before the KL budget is received, before the lotto jackpot is won

after fixing a leak and a broken gentlemen's agreement. 

There was PITX and failed registrations

the distracting massage parlors in Huai Khwang

but I came for the guilds and homesters at The Palazzo 

for the smoked pork ribs, for the fried crispy pork, for the grilled pork neck

without compensation, with love, and with thanks.

Two more Amaranth shirts disposed

those that wafted of kretek with hints of Hong Thong

like sleep twice crushed by an Old Hag

salt crusted like broiled fish, savory like pork and noodles, tangy like grilled beef 

and the love story of Marx and Lenin. 

The crowd work but I did not shop

the garments are not mine and should be trashed
for a fee of 1,200 baht, for the price of $128

for a glass of tarty white wine, for a shot of spicy whiskey, for three cans of smoky beer

for a bus seat in Pasay's Friday rush hour.

The Shinobi slept before midnight

fridge ransacked, Saturday deleted, and I am free

fifteen good years and one more left for the Grim Reaper  

Red Horse cold as ice, wine red as Chilean blood, kinilaw bitter as goat bile

we will live long and prosper.