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Fine Art America
Podcast 2019
Middle Kingdom Podcasts (2005-2017)

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The Language Company
Timothy M. Leonard's books on Goodreads
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The Language Company The Language Company
ratings: 2 (avg rating 5.00)

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Ice girl in Banlung Ice girl in Banlung
ratings: 2 (avg rating 4.50)

Finch's Cage Finch's Cage
ratings: 2 (avg rating 3.50)

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Entries in market (9)


Banlung Poem

Her New World Order
t-shirt danced past...

a woman with basket of bread
a woman gently slicing then chopping bacon
a woman scaling silver fish

a woman dividing coconuts
an old woman negotiating passages with her begging bowl
a man carrying bananas on his thin back
a woman fingering REAL notes

lost humans inspecting hope despair laughter and song

girls doing a pedicure
a woman polishing red apples

shadows dancing with impermanence
spoons stabbing ice
glittering silver stars on a headscarf

reflecting elegant universe

Grow Your Soul



Meditation breath
Diamond mind wisdom

Women lay out golden chains
Men yak in phones
Gleaming significance weighs potential

rubies, sapphires

Glittering like a million stars

Path leads past mannequins
Wearing fashionable silent plastic splendor

facsimiles of prayers flow from a woman's mouth

Answer stirs ice

formless form

Shy beyond description
    a girl weighs lettuce hills
    cucumbers whisper adjustments
    cell phone eliminates an old man's loneliness
   a sharp hatchet congratulates bloody meat
   a woman stabs ice memories

Ice coffee is bitter sweet my sweet
Hammock infant swings high/low
Contemplating an old woman
Stepping through puddles carrying a plastic bag

two tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, daily bread

Eye contact dissolves in the wake up


Mandalay Mingalar Market Fire

To the west a dancing sun burned yellow-orange. It filled the sky shading orange and blue.

The rough dirt street paved in places by jutting stones was crowded with residents staring east.

A billowing black source cloud swirled high into gray wind whipped smoke. Spectators gawked, gasped, and yakked. Speculation, supposition, myth.

Down below, out of sight, out of mind, flames spread from rows of makeshift food zones near the west entrance of Mingalar Market.

A spark? A moment as charcoal embers flamed cloth and wood? An errant signature glowing slow and steady.

Near the narrow food area were fabric shops and plastic food in plastic bags – elements of combustible material.

Women with organic fruits and vegetable piled into mountains scattered screaming grabbed children heading for exits. Two children died of smoke inhalation.

Flames bolted into around and through wooden stalls filled with cloth.

Colors exhaled in the heat.

100 sewing machines glowed red.

Flames indulged their fantasy. Fruits and vegetables fizzled, cracked, exploded. Frenzy of fire.

Street 73 was packed with cell phone amateurs, beeping motorcycles, police cars, fire engines and ambulances all trying to get through…night fell, crashing into waves of volcanic billowing smoke floating north, gaining speed at higher elevations.

A full bone white moon witnessed the spectacle.

Water cannons extended from fire trucks directed streams of life over exterior stonewalls and shuttered shops into the center.

Red flames leaped, licking black clouds.

Firemen scrambled with hoses seeking more H20. Flashing emergency lights illuminated shifting crowds flashing strobes on phones.

White helmeted men yelled instructions to firemen. Sirens roared down streets looking for a source in a sewer drain.

The morning after – lines of police down the middle of 73rd and adjacent streets. Squads of orange vested street cleaning women huddled in groups having tribal discussions.

Fire trucks lined the street blocking off the market.

Vested women hauled out bamboo baskets and lifted them to men in garbage trucks.

Gawkers lined streets.

Firemen rolled up frayed hoses – police cadets marched in formation.

Trucks with armed soldiers left the scene.

Gutted shops, debris, and memories danced near boys leaning against a fence staring at burned mattresses. Salvaged hair dryers on a sidewalk reflected puddles of water.

A medic in a white Red Cross helmet waited for no one.

Two tired firefighters lying on top of a truck closed their eyes.


slow down the world

Women laugh, cut, cook, stack fruit, chat,
Gossip, feed fires with kindling and charcoal,
Chop meat, caress greens, forget their troubles,
Remembering families far away near mountains and rivers
Under a sheltering sky.
I don't know and I don't care, said a laughing market woman,
Pouring batter into tin cups for baking
Confections and coconut balls above her fire.


A jungle story


Once upon a time in the long now there was a continent, a land mass floating on water. It was labelled Asia on dusty maps by white people. Deep inside Asia were vast lands, rivers and mountains.

Overtime, a historical bandit with a reputation for laughter, magic, fear, superstition and an insatiable appetite, people of diverse languages, customs and cultures lived in jungles and forests. Others preferred living on distant and remote mountains. 

Jingle, jangle, jungle. Using natural materials they created musical instruments, simple weapons, homes, fish traps, snares and tools like looms. The women had babies, wove cloth and prepared food while the men fished, planted crops, domesticated animals and the children played and learned life lessons with extended families and from nature. 

One day a boat filled with white men sailed down the river to a village deep in the jungle. They wore shiny clothing, spoke a language the people didn't understand and carried weapons which made a lot of noise and scared the people. They pretended to be friendly by offering gifts. The leader of the village welcomed them and they had a party.

Every day more white people came down the river on boats named Destiny. They were on a quest for gold and slaves. Owning, using and discarding slaves had proven to be an essential part of their historical evolution on other continents. Their mantra was, Cheap labor, Cheap raw material, Cheap goods, many Cheap markets and much Profit.

They said, We are civilized and you are savages. We have religion. It is called Wealth. We are on a mission from the great chief. We control fire. We control time. We control people. We control nature. We have machines. We take what we want. The village gave them hospitality and shelter. The white men were greedy. They took control of the village, the people and part of the jungle. 

Every day the white men marched their slaves deep into the jungle singing, We control Nature. We shall overcome.

They spread diseases. They planted fear. They planted envy and jealousy. They manipulated villages against villages. They divided people against people. Against each other. History had taught them well. They harvested wealth in the form of people, precious stones, rubber and every raw material of value. They were never satisfied. Their appetite grew and grew.

If we want to survive we move to a new jungle forest tomorrow, said the shaman. Far away. This is the story they told the people one night below stars singing with their light.


The house is built by a single male to impress a prospective bride.