Beatific Shy Lover

Masks hide the consciousness of fear.

Molecular structure.

Reconnected with a beatific shy lover on the edge of town after 17 dazed.

The dirt road is lined with salons, massage parlors brown hearts and shattered dreams.

Her thin gentleness is tempered by the fear of others,

the ugly fat one is disappointed in memory.

No one wants me.

Others eat vegetables.

She has a diamond implanted in a canine.

The two of them stay behind a curtain. Plywood walls.

They have an hour.

She is not impatient. They accept the implied unspoken gentle nature, the infrequent dressing.

All her clothes fit in a plastic box. The mattress is thinner than her. Two pillows.

Her cell phone and used phone cards litter a Boeing 747 used as a table.

O

She is 20+ and rail thin. He considered taking her away to the coast. Another poor girl will take her place. They never go. The coast is too far away.

The absurd human condition is illuminated in a nano-second.

Fire's Aftermath

Mingalar market fire, Mandalay, Myanmar (Burma).

Mandalay Mingalar Market Fire

To the west a dancing sun burned yellow-orange. It filled the sky shading orange and blue.

The rough dirt street paved in places by jutting stones was crowded with residents staring east.

A billowing black source cloud swirled high into gray wind whipped smoke. Spectators gawked, gasped, and yakked. Speculation, supposition, myth.

Down below, out of sight, out of mind, flames spread from rows of makeshift food zones near the west entrance of Mingalar Market.

A spark? A moment as charcoal embers flamed cloth and wood? An errant signature glowing slow and steady.

Near the narrow food area were fabric shops and plastic food in plastic bags – elements of combustible material.

Women with organic fruits and vegetable piled into mountains scattered screaming grabbed children heading for exits. Two children died of smoke inhalation.

Flames bolted into around and through wooden stalls filled with cloth.

Colors exhaled in the heat.

100 sewing machines glowed red.

Flames indulged their fantasy. Fruits and vegetables fizzled, cracked, exploded. Frenzy of fire.

Street 73 was packed with cell phone amateurs, beeping motorcycles, police cars, fire engines and ambulances all trying to get through…night fell, crashing into waves of volcanic billowing smoke floating north, gaining speed at higher elevations.

A full bone white moon witnessed the spectacle.

Water cannons extended from fire trucks directed streams of life over exterior stonewalls and shuttered shops into the center.

Red flames leaped, licking black clouds.

Firemen scrambled with hoses seeking more H20. Flashing emergency lights illuminated shifting crowds flashing strobes on phones.

White helmeted men yelled instructions to firemen. Sirens roared down streets looking for a source in a sewer drain.

The morning after – lines of police down the middle of 73^rd and adjacent streets. Squads of orange vested street cleaning women huddled in groups having tribal discussions.

Fire trucks lined the street blocking off the market.

Vested women hauled out bamboo baskets and lifted them to men in garbage trucks.

Gawkers lined streets.

Firemen rolled up frayed hoses – police cadets marched in formation.

Trucks with armed soldiers left the scene.

Gutted shops, debris, and memories danced near boys leaning against a fence staring at burned mattresses. Salvaged hair dryers on a sidewalk reflected puddles of water.

A medic in a white Red Cross helmet waited for no one.

Two tired firefighters lying on top of a truck closed their eyes.

Trust your intuition

Trust your blazing intuition on a hot Saturday after walking along the green leafy river street. Walk down an old familiar broken unsaved path. You know left and right. Go forward. The road is made by walking.

Thread follows needle.

It's a small self-contained place. A room. A bed. Small kitchen.

She is in a plastic recliner watching tv. He has a feeling. It reminds him of the V woman in Kampot, with the massage sign. He stops. Steps past bamboo. She's maybe 30, lipstick, smile, good eyes. They talk money. She locks the glass door covered in old newspapers. Pulls a curtain closed. Kills the tv. She is not a chicken.

They shower. They scrub each other.

Her naked body is white. She caresses him and goes down slobbering, noisy, sensations - she moves so he can tongue her essence. He eats, saliva, lips, long luxurious. He discovers her need. She moves faster. Yes. Yes. Yes. She shudders, releases. He pulls her closer increasing the desire. She can't move, her passion flows again, again, until she's exhausted.

She turns over. He enters her, moaning her lips, her legs up, over his shoulders, her pain pleasure, joy - kissing his ears, cheeks, and he never comes. It's only about her pleasure.

She gives him mouthwash. He swishes it around and spits it out. They shower, dress and he hands her paper. She smiles. He leaves.

Tropical sun penetrates atmospheric conditions.

Trust your intuition. Yum-yum.

Peasants Day

“We are the only animals who laugh,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “and we are the only animals who know we are going to die. We imagine our death, our mortality. This fills some with dread, psychological neurosis, lack of purpose. For others it’s a release, a joy, and a dance. Freedom is unconditional. I was born laughing.”

“I was born dead and slowly came to life. Are you a clown? Perhaps a clown fish?” I asked.

“Look in your dream mask mirror,” she said. “Not all the clowns are in the circus.”

“Under this mask, another mask. I will never be finished removing all these faces.”

“Let’s dance. Let’s meditate on the process of death.”

My name is Beauty. Death is my mother. I have no tongue.

Your mask eats your face.