Thought Catalog

Wayan The God

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Twenty 20

He is standing wearing a red shirt
stitched with porter
I have a double board bag that weighs more than Zeus’s left leg
I never use porters
porters are for rich assholes
I pay my driver
give him a handsome enough tip he probably thinks I’m a rich bitch
he has a kid on the way
he’s working hard
and he’s worked hard
to get me where I need to go this month
the porter
stands there
how much is it?
I ask
however much you want boss
and that cheeky smile
I’ve heard that line
I don’t know how much it costs
45000
roughly 5 bucks
Okay
he loads my things
I hug Yoko
what’s your name
Wayan
and then he whisks me through the airport
as if we are dancing
and he is so light that he has no feet
and I have no feet
we breeze through the airport
like fucking weightless chipmunks
or ballerinas
or tinker bells
to China airlines
see a lineup 40 people deep
did you check in online
fuck
no
no worries
come with me
and he whisks me through it all
drops my things at the counter
no one blinks an eye
I pay my right leg for two surfboards
looking bewildered at the man beside me
who so charmingly won the system
won me
before I know it my oversize is checked
and he is leading me to the security gates
I stop at an ATM
grab a fistful of money
equivalent to a 1/3 of a months salary
and put it in his palms
I am convinced he is God
choose that line
it will move the quickest
it does
bye janne
he shouts
come back to Bali
remember my name
Wayan
smiling he disappears
fucking god. TC mark

Janne Robinson

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Essential Poetry For Enlivened Souls

This is for the women who are first to get naked, howl at the moon and jump into the sea. This is for the women who seek relentless joy; the ones who know how to laugh with their whole souls. The women who speak to strangers because they have no fear in their hearts. This is for the women who drink coffee at midnight and wine in the morning, and dare you to question it. This is for the women who throw down what they love, and don’t waste time following society’s pressures to exist behind a white picket fence. The women who create wildly, unbalanced, ferociously and in a blur at times. This — is for you.

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