China Artist Does The Dead

Greetings,

Adapt, the balloon man lives near the hammam. Yes, mam. He lit a fire this morning under the abandoned stone memory where someone - he doesn’t remember who - lived, worked and died.

The balloon man collects anything he can find for his Sunday fire.

The fire blazes high and strong yellow flames. You see it from the metro window. You remember the balloon man from the other day when he carried his bouquet of flowers filled with air across his green spring field and set fire to the sky filling it with pink, green, blue and purple thin bags of air, his dream violet, daffodils, spilling balloon imagery across eyes, fields and sky flaming majestic canvas.

The balloon man’s voice carried across the rivers, “Create like a God, order like a King and work like a Slave because A Century is Nothing."

And, as he walked through the spring field, only the beginning, his thoughts flashed back to the fine knowing like stars throughout the universe - take a picture of the universe! - it would burn out, his fire, it would ask the air, “Where are you?”

“Where is your depth, insane calling patients," - reminding them of serious death defying appointments bathed in a light room near caged sad singing birds; three Golden Eagles, two males and one young female in the tall grass where two males battle, fighting the female for possession to be her dominate partner.

How she balanced on a strong extended leg, her deep brown lightning eyes, a yellow glint flashing anger, striking out with a sharp talon, it’s curving white tip a point slashing at the males circling her with desire, cunning and stealth.

She dances between the two males, pirouetting on one leg, her back near a fallen tree trunk protecting her flank. Her wings open, creating winds across the plains, reaching green mountain forests.

A wolf pack near her, trapped behind chains and fences numbers twenty.

They live on a worn brown hill studded with boulders. One lone wolf’s eyes are alien - slanting long deep with a unique fluorescent emerald green Aurora Borealis retina patina, rather like a deep slash inside of light, refracted prisms, very surreal and different this one wolf’s eyes.

"I am a lone wolf."

The others have “normal” wolf eyes. Brown, green. This one is an algorithm of DNA.

They are restless. They miss their wild and free nomadic relatives living in untamed eastern mountains near Armenia away from genocide and 1914 snow circling pines beneath fast vast gray skies. They look well fed and hungry. Hungry to get the hell out of their caged world.

Across town near shattered shouting mountains a patient Chinese artist does the dead in his gallery.

Peace.