As athletes from around the world begin to compete at the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympics, debate still rages over the possible health risks facing hopeful medalists - particularly those competing in longer events such as the marathon or decathlon as a result of the capital city’s pollution.

“I don’t think any world class athletes interested in keeping their bodies in peak condition welcome the thought of breathing that filthy air for two weeks.” said Abyssinian racewalker Noaim Knottakhat last Tuesday.

But Wu Xi Ling, a spokesman for China’s Olympic Committee claims that the haze is not caused by toxic byproducts from the large number of factories surrounding the capital city, but from “oriental mystique.”

“We realize it may be difficult for the rest of the world to understand, especially young countries like the United States. But when a culture has been cultivated for thousands of years, it gains a power of its own. Our ancient traditions literally blanket the land. When the incense smoke from millions of Buddhist and Taoist chants rises to join with dust blown from the armor of the vast terra cotta armies, it gathers in the skies to protect the Chinese people from invasion. This is what you see. Not your so-called smog”

“Notice how it balances harmoniously with the mountains, rivers and roads in accordance with the principles of Feng Shui. This is no accident. It shelters the jade dragons as they fly among people endowing them with luck and prosperity.”

“Our rain is not laced with acid as it is in the west. It is infused with the sublimated essence of Chi Gung practicing hermits and the elixir of the eight immortals. Such miraculous qualities explain why the water here is in high demand. We look forward to several world records being broken by athletes swimming and diving through the rarified tears of the goddess of mercy, Guan Yin.”

“In fact, the Oriental mystique should allow athletes in all events to perform super-human feats. Surely people from around the world have watched in awe as Chinese actors and martial artists have flown effortlessly through the air and fought for hours on a slender stalk of green bamboo. These movements are not the results of wires or trick photography. They are a natural ability granted to all who walk upon this land. That our great nation would invite outsiders to share in our spectacular gift is truly a sign of our benevolence.”

“However we cannot be absolutely certain that our eminent culture will not reject the Olympics. Boxing, wrestling and even the accursed fighting style of those who perpetrated unspeakable crimes upon this land, Judo are recognized events.  Meanwhile the noble art of Wu Shu is denied a chance at any medals. The spirits of venerable Shao Lin monks may not look favorably upon this. Synchronized swimmers will take to the stadium, while Tai Chi masters remain in the city parks. We fear this may ultimately unleash the mischief of the monkey king. We have tried to appease the shadows of our glorious past by petitioning the Olympic Committee to allow the nunchaku as a viable apparatus in rhythmic gymnastics. But even this small gesture has been rejected without any hint of compromise.”    

Spokesman Ling urged the world community not to fear the environmental conditions, saying “We have done and will continue to do everything in our powers to ensure the world of an Olympics of extraordinary magnitude. The legacy of the yellow emperor lives on in the yellow skies above Beijing.”

The crow can wait for man to fill
his pockets with the shiny thrill
of progress. Never will he eat
or drink these burdens to his feet
and flightless fingers. Never will

he hold them near, except to spill
them on the road when harsh winds chill
his skin. Upon a branching seat
the crow can wait

for man’s voice to cry out a shrill
unbending howl when heros kill
his sons. A bloodless torment beats
within his chest. He prays to meet
them on an unfamiliar hill.
The crow can wait.

For longer than a hundred years,
Jack prayed Atropos stay her shears
and fair Lachesis measure thread
until he died asleep in bed
but never asked that Clotho spin
a day that wasn’t frayed and thin.

The orchids bloom, yellow and bright.
There are no tears, no insect bites,
no wilted edges curling low.
Symmetry thrives. The petals glow
like keyholes full of morning light

as they creep edgewise up a slight
gray trunk. Roots reach between the night
wide gouges. And where no leaves grow
the orchids bloom.

The lifeless branches crouch in tight
bundles of stumped expansion. Might
emerges. Buds must spread, must flow
through hollow spaces where a slow
release of emptiness ignites
the orchid’s bloom.

One day 6 invited
her friend 5
over to eat lunch.

They had not
seen each other
for many weeks
because 5 had
just returned
from a trip to Asia.

“How was your trip?”
6 asked.

“First I traveled to Japan,”
answered 5,

“I saw the cherry blossoms
and went to Mount Fuji.

But the people
didn’t seem
to want me there.

No matter where I went
everyone kept
telling me go, go, go.

So I left and went
to Thailand.”

“I hear that Bangkok
is very nice.”
said 6,
“Were the people
friendlier there?”

“Yes and No.” 5 said
after thinking
for a few seconds,

“Nobody told me to leave.
But everyone just
laughed at me.”

“Why?” 6 said
with a look of concern.

“I don’t know,” 5 sighed,
“No matter what I wore,
no matter what I did,
wherever I went
they said ha, ha, ha.

“That’s terrible,” said 6
“I’m sorry
that your vacation
went so poorly.

But I suppose it
could have been worse.”

What do you mean?”
asked 5.

6 smiled and sipped her tea.
“Last year
I went to Germany
for a few weeks
on business,
and no one wanted
to talk about anything
but “sechs.”

The moon is full of stories told
in grandfatherly rumbles as it holds
night in its crescent lap. You heard
the tale before, although the words
were different then. But eyebrows rolled

above the rising dawn bold
and gray the same as it unfolds
today. The arching backs that purred
“The moon is full

of shit.” now lick at their assholed
dissatisfactions on an old
concentric oval rug. Obscured
by dust on the lampstand, a blurred
photograph stares beyond its golden
frame. And as the stars grow cold
the moon is full.

My name is written on a bare
scratch in the ground. And it is there
I shed this husked identity
of slithering symbols – under trees
that form time-solid. Declare

me dead. Intone a tomb. Prepare
to chant my name in air
where it may wither silently.
My name is written

by lifeless hands. The words now tear
their essence from the earth and share
the brutal strength and savagery
of Nature. I died. And the me
that once was weak is buried where
my name is written.

You trust your eye. A circumspectrum balls
radiant distances from the ring around
the rosy fingered dawn of time. You all
fall down. A watch-spun sun bounces beyond
the farthest lash of peeled orange skin to lawns
a knotholes reach behind white picket peaks.

The bleached rim of a Frisbee glows upon
tarpaper eavening. You hide and seek
the it (no tagbacks) and ready or not
here you “Come in for dinner!” Mother blares
from the screen door – Valkyrie loud with hot
spoonfuls of dusk and clean-your-plaited hair.

Two pies are sliced on the squared table top
but you can’t sit until the music stops.

Another day unwinds and you
must thread entangled moments through
your fingers once again. Your skin’s
still sore from yesterday. Frayed, thin
fragments tug at the flesh a few

days deeper down. You hold time too
ungently. Second chances chew
your rigid hands. But you begin
another day

desperate to catch each hope that blew
away before. Strength can’t subdue
the sand. Rage can’t repress the rain.
Force won’t forbid the flame. And when
the stark night passes, you pursue
another day.

You bend your body down. The world below
flattens against your open palm. A marble
spinning in your mind wobbles and slowly
staggers off knuckle horizons where
that fool Columbus disappeared long since…

(right now) you touch each golden truth of diamond,
pebble, thorn and melt them, mince
them, mint them – tail over head. Some will sigh
and nestle. Some will cry and nettle. Some
(most) will fall wafer thin through fissure fingers.

You might try to bribe a secret from
the sky when/if you think your stack of coins
towers enough. But all the roundless frown
of rainbow says is bend your body down.