make it new

Blindness exchanged blue ink for a dark shade of forest green.

A hand-held dryer waved hot air over a recently shampooed head.

A mirror whispered secrets.

Elements of silence said farewell.

A series of eyes investigated decompression while swallowing fresh yogurt with peach slices near afternoon's languishing empty promises intent on discovering new, make it new day by day, make it new, explanations have to end somewhere.

Explanations are a well-dressed mistake.

In her village she threaded new beginnings as her loom waited for the pressure, the tightness between notes.

Feeling sunlight dress saliva beads blend a weave, texture, design. Hello Beauty.

Deal - TLC 39

Downcast broken Turkish females wearing too much foundation makeup portrayed a beautiful face above a big behind tomorrow as merchants hung Ottoman carpets, caressed friendships, soles, heels and leather working tools.

A one-eyed Bursa shoemaker sharpened his utilitarian knife. One blind brown eye reflected Winter Hawk’s wings in rods, cones, a retina, iris, and cornea. He heard unemployed grizzle-faced men in a nearby teahouse slap cards on a green felt table.

Shoemaker in his small blue shack threaded uppers to lowers. His steel Blade Runner revealed reflections. He smashed his left hand on a window sparking conversations with a wealthy barefoot beggar seeking alms.

Another day dead he flicked a yellow switch extinguishing a single bulb. Carrying his bent arthritic back he shuffled across fresh packed sticky asphalt into a diner for rice, beans, coarse bread and brown tea.

A silver teaspoon tinkled glass music.

A player shuffled a deck.

Your deal, said Omar the blind.

Wind-spirits turned a page.

keep it simple

Everything is vague and uncertain.

The Cambodian brick factory blues. 2500 Real ($.60) = 4 hours after school.

397 kids. Primary school. World food free breakfast. One family - 10 kids. Brick owners encourage DEBT.

Live in the present, in the eternity of the instant.

He absorbed reflections, it was a small village in SR. Attracted by no tourists, partly cloudy skies. She slowly undressed. In her silent beating heart she knew he, the old foreign man couldn't, wouldn't, save her. She was happy with him. Not for the money he gave her when their hour was complete rather for his playful kindness.

She signed. He seemed to understand or attempted to understand. It was her willingness to accept, sharing their intimacy. He was a slow patient lover. She trusted her instincts. After knowing him for nine months she'd eventually relax accepting soft passions with certain conditions of intimacy. No kissing. No cunning linguists.

One-eyed blind.

He said, Yes, I prefer doubt to certainty. I am more interested in the traces than the object. I love the fragments.

Where do I place it, this story?

What country on what continent, in what city, village, town or heartbeat?

How do I keep it simple yet moving like a breath?

She asked him, Do you like small? Skin on skin? Yes kneading her shoulder muscles, easing out tissue from her supine sublime spinal chord erasing tension. Her smile said, Yes. Her relaxation exhaled.

She spoke with her hand wings. Short, fast and deadly.

She dreamed of writing a short story, perhaps flash fiction.

Nervous, she selected a pen. She unscrewed the black ebony summit. She opened a black notebook. She made a pot of green tea. She started with flowing calligraphy letters.

My life began in a village. I don't need to leave my village. My village is the world.

She drew a picture. It looked like this. 

real eyes realize real lies

i am a fake person
selling a fake reality
to fake people
where the sound of speech
has no alphabet

creativity has no rules
said a Yangon crow
the end of the world
is down a long labyrinth

without a center 
filled with staring voices
a blind man on a train
clicking clacking to Pan Yar Lan

uses a bamboo staff
carries a cup
staff signals pressure
walk slow
trembling through life
blind

Yangon primary students.

Flower's Hands

“What do you recall during the one-hour full body massage with blind Flower at Seeing Hands?”

”Her hands were all. Her hands were water, air, earth and fire. Soft gentle sensations. Learning, sensing, feeling her physical sense. Engaging her senses. Touch was her essence. She knew all the pressure points.”

“Soft, medium or hard," Flower asked.

During her therapeutic touch and go he discovered ideas and structure and form and literary vulgarity. He slowed down inside the labyrinth.

A writer is a dwarf, invisible and must survive.

Flower whispered, “I don’t like sleeping alone. It’s boring.”

It’s easy to remember loving Flower’s soft, deep real tactile sensations. She knew how to please a stranger’s skin. She lived in the middle way. Her middle way was breathing, and awareness. Her middle way was acceptance and loving kindness. Wisdom, patience and gratitude. Non-attachment.

“Eat the world with your blind eyes,” she said.

“Yes my Flower, yes.”

“Dead or blind, there’s no difference," Flower said. “People who cause you difficulties, you should think of them as very valuable teachers because they provide you with the opportunity to develop patience.”