My blind massage.
Strength - points of muscular reference.
Left eye is glazed blue.
In broken hearted silence
A yellow butterfly approached white night fragrance.
Live the questions.
The world is the stage and we are but the players.
See with soft eyes.
You're led to believe a lie
When you see WITH not THROUGH your eyes.
Saved by singing. The heart's compass.
The spirit of the universe.
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.
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.
Greetings,
Turn the page away from morning, away from scattered grains of rice in a broken bamboo basket feeding wild crows. Blacker than faces hiding inside deep dark passages watching the street. Always watching. Staring with hard deep black eyes.
Their eyes, when they lived in the flat countryside covered in lost forgotten patient rice paddies waiting for a drop of water near groves of palm, coconut, banana trees surrounding bamboo thatched homes on stilts and naked children playing with dreams, watched deep shadows.
They watched. They never closed. They watched for enemies, invaders from Thailand, America, Vietnam, wives, husbands, children, strangers, soldiers, Apsara dancers. They were always on always ready to see the smallest cosmic movement across horizens, miles of land mined country or inside thick foliage.
Their eyes danced with waiting. Waiting held their eyes as lovers will, close, feeling fluttering lids, retinas trembling with visual information, data, mysteries. They cultivated patience, a necessary food. They comprehended their essential visual priorities. Watching, a national sport, is their universe.
They had a small vital responsibility living in perpetual darkness - seeing far away with telescopic acuity. Their constant vision burned up 85% of their daily energy. The remaining 15% was used for procreation, eating, speaking and laughing. Laughing burns up calories.
Eyes practice the silent art of being silent, watching past another person during a silent conversation watching each other's back being the other. How they face the other watching beyond where everything matters infinitely. For one moment in their short sweet life.
Metta.
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