pen fountain

Sublime beauty near and far
golden butterflies
bamboo homes rolling hills golden rust colored
labor in fields waving raving children

urination

copious food sources, roses

Staring at a writer sitting in tea place cold morning
broken lights curious faces, voices whisper
is doing this
being flowing

“pen fountain” said a laughing boy
standing on a cement slope all the men staring at this transit tori process

The market is excellent.
No foreigners enter hilly labyrinth of morning. A source of fascination.
Zen of sitting nourishment. Monks barefoot meditation. An open hand holds everything. 
Burning coals. Tea.  Fractured light flowing energies.

Character is action.
Tell me a story. At the train stop in Hsipaw 24 lost european souls pulled on their acts

wasted the way onto shoulders
descended to the platform
unloaded packs into tuk-tuk for Golden Dragon hotel.

They took self declined fake images and left.

The lone traveler stayed on the train. It rolled north. The conductor walked through the empty car. He stopped at an empty seat, collected empty plastic water bottles, chopsticks, food wrappers, Styrofoam containers, dreams, nightmares and fantasies mixed with rising expectations, desires and needs.
He dropped everything out an open window.

The train rolled through night.