The Formula

Greetings,

Red star flags catch wind above golden dragons nestled near crude rough red brick home boxes. Red balloons trailing yellow slips dance, trapped and held by rusting iron wires leading to a basketball hoop waiting for a net to catch a delicious fish

swallowing dust as sad-eyed freshmen drag their suitcases filled with dirty clothes home to mother where, in her undying love, she will scrub them on the 14 gray cement outdoor sink steps inside a cold reality smiling, knowing, feeling her daughter inside her again, inside her womb, her throbbing music of calloused hands scrubbing dreams

dreams of a simple day and time hearing melodious silver tubed chimes and a violin's laughter forming a voice, distant yet clear, forgotten yet remembered as the mother slows down to examine a thread - dancing colors blend her blood, speaking in long babel tongues as a soft morning wind greets star flags, singing new sensations...

Peace.

Random Moleskine notes...

After a long steady heavy rain a pregnant woman propped her mop made of strands of discarded rainbows as her solemn dispassionate husband shucked peas and removed garlic shells from their protective casing, after the sky finished crying to wash student street where parades of disenfranchised youth sought shelter from the storm and well after open windows released cello notes as a child practiced sitting upright tuning their eyes to black notes on white pages with a determination to master the instrument as another music student hammered piano keys behind locked doors, flies gathered around brown sticky paste slowly dripping off the edge of a cracked plate with their feelers extending their hope toward a thin white butterfly lifting off a green leaf.

A butterfly translates a few sounds

after completing
a four day fast
and cleansing
water, green tea, herbal tea,
ginseng with hot water

healing from the top down and inside out
the body adjusts in a natural rhythm,
diverting essential chemicals
from digestive to immune system
calm, focused, alert and quiet

he drifted into green
nature zone daily
sitting

a black butterfly wearing
purple on wing
edges
lands close
as he sits
near water

a human is chopping down small trees
in the forest to collect kindling

they will tie it with fibers,
hoist it onto their shoulders
leave tangled memory,
along thick red dust road
toward home

the butterfly translates a few sounds

it dances away
circles over ferns, rocks, slag, abused soil,
hovers
lights
close by
we are both
in a resting state

A Delicious Lunch

He wrode his beautiful dirty black mountain bike over to "old" student street for a 60 cent dumpling lunch. Delicious.

He prefers the "old" to the boring "new" commercial student campus street. He enjoys mature green leafy trees filled with small wild sparrows darting down to feed in garden patches. He savors a wide blue sky and orphaned clouds.

He always sits outside swallowing sky, well removed from blaring omnipresent bland TV soap operas and cell phone addicted youth.

"Text me baby! Reveal your passion in 5,000 characters. Say things with electronic letters and symbols you'd never find the courage to speak outloud. Your silence is deafening! Hold my hand.

"Better yet, when we walk covered in our innocent adolescent shyness, slowly rub your elbow against my skin so I know you care, reveal your shy desire with deference and longing. Our skin pours hormonal activity into the possibility we may eventually dance. Text me baby!"

A boy approached the table.

"May I sit here?"
"Sure."
"May I talk with you?"
"Sure. You talk and I listen."
"I don't know what to say."
"You will think of something. You are developing an English mind."
"Yes, maybe."

"What's your name?"
"Francis."
"That's a great name."
"All the good English names were taken by my classmates. I found it in the dictionary."
"I see. It's a fine and strong name. My name is Nature."

"Oh. What's that for?" he said, gesturing at my worn Moleskine notebook.
"I am a writer. I make notes when I travel."
"Where are you going?"
"Here."
"I like to travel," he said. "I am a hunter of foreign teachers."

I smelled raw instinct. "Interesting. How do you hunt?"
"Do you know the gate near the teachers' apartments?"

This place was surrounded by walls, sleeping guards and gates.

"Yes."
"Well, I go there and wait. When a teacher comes out I talk to them while we walk. Then, when they say good-bye I return to the gate and wait for another teacher."
"You are a clever hunter."
"Maybe. But I don't know what to say."

"Talk about the weather."
"We don't talk about the weather here. We ask people if they have eaten."
"I know," I said, pointing at his noodles and sliced vegetables. "Your delicious food is getting cold."

Silence welcomed two hunters.

voice

voice is content.

where is voice?
it is resting.
does voice dream?

yes.
does voice know this?
yes.

does voice respect feelings more than understanding?
yes.

voice senses imagination is more important than knowledge.
how does voice sense this?
it's a long inarticulate voice of the heart.