Symbolic collisions

Greetings,

Welcome to another edition of: Things are symbols of themselves.

People pretend to be exactly who they are. Infinite diversity through infinite combinations. Somewhere in the world a woman is carrying the planet on her back.

It was a Sunday and The Big One (Supreme Deity) rested. They took out their slingshot. They looked at Earth. They witnessed very stupid humans practicing REVENGE. This made them unhappy. They decided to send them a message to stop the foolishness, learn how to play together and how 2 share.

They picked a country at random after analyzing levels of violence, fear and intimation. (Fill in the blank_____) They sent a message. I will give you 24 hours to cease your revenge actions, war and reciprocal suffering. It's a waste of lives, time and money.

If, after 24 hours, I see you are continuing your collective madness, I will send you a little message. I will destroy part of your civilization to teach you a little lesson. Do you read, over?

Naturally, the ego-manics running the country ignored this message. They persisted in war-like behavior with weapons of mass destruction. They persisted in starving people to DEATH. They persisted in their greed and stupidity.

The BIG ONE had infinite patience. 24 hours for talking monkeys is a long now. For The BIG ONE it's a blink. They sent another message.

I gave you a chance. You ignored my request for peace, harmony and equality.

The BIG ONE loaded a rock the size of a small planet into their slingshot, took aim and let it fly toward a specific, particular location on Earth. It flew through the atmosphere at light speed. Meager powerless humans attempted to divert it with ultra-sonic flyswatters. It was useless. 

The rock zeroed in on a city in a country on a continent. It was a direct hit. Millions died. Vaporized. The leaders said it was only a freak of nature. For domestic consumption they blamed their imaginary enemies because they ate and worshiped Revenge. Sweet revenge. Survivors rolled the dice. 

Metta.

Poets & Writers...

Publish it

Greetings,

A new article link and ideas about the world. The world of self-publishing. You write for an audience of one. You write with passion, authenticity and humor. You write with a light heart. You are hopeful. You expect the worst.

You play the publishing game. Every fall you buy a copy of Writer's Market, the bible. You research markets. You craft a query letter and synopsis. You send the query letter, synopsis and first five pages to a literary agent. You wait. You write. 

The agent reads your synopsis. They thumb through the five pages. Their first thought is, "Can I make 15% on this?" If the answer is no, you get rejection letter wallpaper to decorate your room. If you take the rejections personally and bang your head against the wall all the letters become wild word birds and fly away.

Or, you consider self-publishing. This is what I did in 2007 while finishing a teaching job in China. I researched options and purchased a publishing package with iuniverse. It was a good choice. A viable option considering my work was experimental, non-linear and filled with nomadic storytellers and their adventures.

You have many self-publishing options now. Look around. See what meets your needs.

A Century Is Nothing...

Few have read it. Fewer have understood it.

read more...

Metta.

Dhaka

Greetings,

You find poetry while sweeping. Poetry finds you while weeping.

Metta.

Dhaka

Only five million humans 

Horns for beggars, their arms
Broken and bleeding
Hands extending through cracked windows
 
Floods send them into traffic
Unable to cope with land loss
Daughter sells body, father sells wife,
Son sells self
 
We sell them malnutrition,
Handfuls of rice
As sanitation system collapses
Under strain of poverty
 
Misery is a child
Bloated stomach a hopeless
Jaundiced eye full of tear
Never going to fall
Into streets where holy bull wallows
Next to a one-legged man
His crutch a stench rising
In dust, sleeping in a broken down 
Life

My fake pregnancy begs for charity in China. Save face. 

Hello June

Greetings,

May said goodbye. Goodbye. It's been fun hanging out with you for 31 little clicks. Yes it has, said June all bright and beautiful. Now I'm here with the sweet smell of summer. I am filled with destiny and hope.

Hope for what, asked May. See what happens, said June. You are history.

Yes you are, said the Khmer woman with a long dark shadowed shallow lined face slowing crossing the street. She wears a floral sarong, green blouse with a checkered red and white cotton scarf around her neck. She has a walking stick. She hopes for charity. Her hands are pressed together in a sign of blessing, gratitude.

Her age is unknown. Someone gives her paper money. Her dark recessed eyes say thank you. Raised palms say thank you. Her life is a walking meditation. Daily. Two barefoot monks wrapped in bright orange robes pass by. In silence. 

A man rings a bell. 

All the expectations were from the outside. 

Metta.

Tell me a secret

Greetings,

Ostim: an industrial wasteland manufacturing zone near Ankara.

It's time to go a wandering...inside the reality magic show, welcoming the opportunity, the gift as it is to receive, shifting into another zone of influence and experiential discovery. (Bursa)

As they know you are leaving, this distant. Perhaps they have repressed, regressed into their real way. I appreciated seeing, knowing, understanding how it is, how some people feel, O so sad and withdrawn in their personal way. Their Zen: Awareness. Moment. 

As usual my ghost moves through a transparent knowing. Tell me a secret. Screwing up is a virtue.

Sit by the cafe window. Sky, clouds filled with light: gray production pollution, dust, winter icicles, vapor, yellow haze, solitary birds on wing, rolling and tumbling...this small cafe and sky window, the kind Kurdish woman's hospitality, her delicious manta, a sanctuary from the chaos.

Take the 1310 metro to Ostim. Strange industrial landscape where men cannot afford gloves inside childhood's winter. Remove their hats and make monkey groom females in exchange for sex, and all the capital people slog in their struggle

remembering Rumi, how a human being is a kind of conversation, dancing down all the days of early winter clean cold silent

The art and elements of a Japanese folding placemat: shapes, designs, edges, art. Free form, free spirit. Play.

Draw, paint, sing, dance, disappear. Seize the day.

I love the smell of garbage in Cambodia.

Metta.

Human business plan.

Nature's business plan.