Desire   Bangkok, and even the name reeks of it. The girls in the girlie bars on Patpong Road, they know that smell, they sell that smell — shit, cum, curry, poontang, bodies at play, songs they know you know, dances they know you know, the English words on their bikini butts, twinkling in sequins — WINK. FOXY. GO-GO. The smell of dollars, baht, dong, roasting nuts — they’ve known that aroma all their lives, who the hell doesn’t? Really, weren’t we all born knowing that smell? The monks, they know it, too, silent, single file, first dim light of morning, bearing their bowls, a little day-old rice, a bit of fish — want reduced to this. It still smells of suffering — in the folds of their robes, that whiff of death, saffron, bliss.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2010