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Tuesday
Jul312012

Goodbye July

such sweet sensation
dancing down summer days
turning a page, turning a corner
tuning sensitivity's wisdom into

a person's inability to sit still
long enough
to sense or imagine or know
all the unknowing

known to produce
sharp yellow finch trills 
and thrills
in rain's retrospect

one dawn
a floating red flower

 

Friday
Jul272012

blind sex

i like him.

it's a hungry combustionable combination of lust, loneliness and real.

skin is currency. exchange value and user value.

you can trust maybe 10% in vietnam. they are good at sex. they steal your money.

here it's maybe 50%. we are poor at sex. we don't steal your money.

we steal your _____. down at the crossroads.

he comes to me at mid-day. it is sweltering and sleepy. i welcome him him with fingers on lips...shh.

we go upstairs. we dance naked. when you dance you are truly alive.

we explore geography and invisible borders and silent musical interludes.

i am the silence between notes. harmony, rhythm, and melody.

i am his melody and he is my harmony.

my speech voice is missing. i make rolling guttural sounds expressing metaphors, similes, intonations, frequencies, meaning, sense, time, space, ideas, dreams, relationships, secrets, traditional family values, fear, passion, heart, joy and sadness.

he is blind and i am deaf.

our music is not available for download. 

Monday
Jul232012

MK 92

Once upon a time in the long now there was a voice. 

Voice created a podcast a year ago while in Kampot, a sleepy little river town. It's famous for pepper.

Voice missed this immediacy with a touch of pizza jazz. They discovered a new headset and mic. They sat down in a garden. A bunch of European aliens doing Angkor landed near the garden. 

Voice spoke. Voice saved. Voice uploaded to Podbean.

Lend voice your ears for 3:57.

Listen to this episode

Sunday
Jul222012

dialect of love

“I am an old dialect of Kalapuya tribes. I respect the spirit energies. I hear with my eyes and see with my ears. I understand your love for the spirit power guardian. I am an ancestor speaking 300 languages from our history. Now only 150 dialects remain.

“A hunting gathering people, speaking Pentian, we numbered 3,000 in 1780. We believed in nature spirits, vision quests and guardian spirits. Our shamans, called, amp a lak ya taught us how seeking, finding and following one’s spirit or dream power and singing our song was essential in community.

“I speak in tongues, in ancient dialects about love. Dialects of ancestors who lived here for 8,000 years before where you are now. In the forest near the river all animal spirits welcome you with their love. They are manifestations of your being.

“I am blessed to welcome you here. You have walked along many paths of love to reach me.

“My dirt path is narrow and smooth in places, rocky in others. I am the soil under your feet. I feel your weight, your balance—your weakness and your strength. I hear your heart beating as my ancestors pounded their ceremonial drums. I feel the tremendous surging force of your breath extend into my forest. Wind accepts your breath.

“I am everything you see, smell, taste, touch, and hear. I am the oak, the fir and pine trees spread like dreams upon your outer landscape. I am your inner landscape. I see you stand silent in the forest hearing trees nudge each other.

“Look,” they say, “someone has returned.”

“I love the way you absorb the song of brown body thrush collecting moss for a nest. I am the small brown bird saying hello. I am the sweet throated song you hear without listening. At night two owls sing their distant song and their music fills your ears with mystery and love.

“I am warm spring sun on your face filtered through leaves of time. I am the spider’s web dancing with diamond points of light. I am the rough fragile texture of bark you gently remove before connecting the edge of an axe with wood. You carry me through my forest, your flame creates heat of love. I am the taste of pitch on your lips, the odor of forest in your nostrils, filling your lungs. It is sweet.

“I am the cold rain, and wet snow, and hot sun, and four seasons. I am yellow, purple, red, blue, orange flowers from brown earth.

“Language cannot be separated from who you are and where you live.

“I say this so you will remember everything in this forest. I took care of this place and now your love has the responsibility.

“Respect and dignity with mindfulness.”

Wednesday
Jul182012

speaking of trees

A web site, my-planet.org had a photo contest.

They asked for trees. He sent them an Angkor Wat monster.

They said it was a spectcular angle. They gave it an honorable mention. Here it is.

Towering, the tree said, thank you to the sun.