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Entries in impermanence (17)

Saturday
Jul172021

I am the arrow

Kampot river market long ago and far away

Where the bad people hung heads as a warning 1975-1979

Hungry ghosts

Old haunts discover language light zones

Paint with light

Familiar stranger

Vocal chords produce conversations magic music

Laughter’s labyrinth

Meditate on emptiness

Self directed kid

Zen arrow

Talented people hit the target others can’t

Genius hits the target others can’t see

Want

Need

Market light energies

Golden chickens

Silver fish

Lost and confused simple kind locals

Noodle mama mystery buy / sell eye candy

Shuffling teddy bear pajamas sing voice wind

Intersection of Durian fish gold fabric

Blind string man creates haunting music

His daughter leads him by pulling his shirt forward

They wander broken cement market paths

Echo lament notes drift into / through ears

Unconscious ice melts

Dead kind eyes stare at a stranger

Scribbling non-sense data...laughter's memory

Japanese tourists wear black and white cotton elephant pants

Cheaper than ivory tusks

In heavy carry-on emotional baggage

Rain quality

Market energies dance light

Community flow excellence

Relationship b/t you and your experience

Empathy

Fragments

Live a meaningful life

Hunter with optics

Breathe and squeeze

No form or substance

Excellence

Non-duality

Singularity

You are a stream-winner

Raindrops

Samuel Beckett minimal absurdity

Your begging bowl

Wanders floating world

Memory market hum

Her New World Order

t-shirt danced past...a woman with basket of bread, a woman gently slicing then chopping bacon, a woman scaling silver fish, a woman dividing coconuts, an old woman negotiating passages with her begging bowl, a man carrying bananas on his thin back,

a woman fingering REAL notes, lost humans inspecting hope despair laughter and song,

girls doing a pedicure, a woman polishing red apples,

shadows dancing with impermanence,

spoons stabbing ice, glittering silver stars on a headscarf reflect elegant universe

The world is illusion

Just sitting

Experience

One day = one year

One year = one day

 

Author Page

Thursday
Oct012020

Process

Foreign couples wearing polarizing shades of ignorance incredulous doubt and wonder stroll sand staring inland at strangers staring back.

Walking eyes survey tables, chairs, people and eateries.

Strangers all. Scarce few see sea.

No drugs. No weapons. Leave your ego at the door.

Sweating runners with pulse armbands tread grains.

Workers set up beach lounges, switch on espresso machines, fire up kitchen stoves, hack ice, replenish beer supplies.

Waves erase footprints. Sleeping canines cur into sand.

Beach orchestra builds its daily tempo.

A young Italian woman unfolds a blue towel on sand. She lies face down. Pushing up with her arms she assumes a yoga posture eyes straight ahead on a blue green sea. Her spine weaves vertebrae like a wave. Calm centered grounded and focused.

Visitors stagger from beds, walk foam, eat, stare at waves evolving from a flat lined horizon holding green island hideouts. People plan to sit or go. Yes go. Go for a walk, a swim adventure.


1) kick boxers attack mangoes, chop ice while shifting gears after school in the wind

2) six month cradle infants wail at the hospital for a blue placebo pill

3) oven fired waffles scrapes a boy pedaling his bike seeking recycled trash before wicker baskets say hello

4) spare change searches for user value collecting cardboard images in a squall

5) red ink meets onion paper at an intersection whispering secrets without speaking sparrows

 “I want to know the truth mother. Living safely is dangerous.”

“The truth,” she said, “is that life is an absurd comic process. If you laugh you last. Our illusionary insecurities and real authenticities evolve. Life is a celebration, a dance and process of becoming. It is a beautiful harsh short messy dream come true. It’s magic. We adapt, adjust and evolve. There’s no rhyme or reason. Life is not a career, it’s a game.

Sunday
Jul192020

Impermanence

Dirt path yellow flowers
Kids collect plastic bottles and cardboard treasures
Resale value
Slow Sunday in a random universe of unlimited potential
Energies

Enter the zone of stone
Machines, street food sellers, LOVE balloons
Black and orange butterfly lifts into air from stagnant water

 

Composure present grounded with music curious eyes
Pregnant pigments
A new Joker card complements
Old Joker discovered on ground inside Lao market
Near the Plain of Jars
4,000 years ago
Pocket talisman

Little red house over yonder

Where my baby used to stay

PSP music from sleeping room

Razor blade coagulates in water stone 

Two dogs sleep in sultry shade

Old woman with broken teeth curls into hammock

Destined to be

Silent

Wooden red dusty 2x4 entrance planks small ditch

Littered with plastic bags bottles and shy language

Acquisition

Curious kids ask what is your name? Sky.

Market laughter congratulates broken light silhouettes

A girl on a wooden platform

Fingering green leaves, condiments - her radiant smile

Adult children play rocky feely tag

Green girl yawns

 

Ah the sweet smell of garbage this human accumulation

Tangy spoiled fruit aroma gift-wrapped, bows tinsel moldy memories

Smiling familiar stranger wanders from spicy bean curd noodles

2 ice java

Imaging fractured light

One-armed old beggar man sitting down at the crossroads

Smiles “hello uncle” give him Real notes pass by

Let’s have an adventure

Rhythm of sunlight

Broken tattered umbrellas

Red dust path

 

Haiku impermanence passes through

Senses are limited

4:55 sunset heavy motorcycle traffic on red dust shoulder

Antiquated dump trucks rumble toward solemn flags

 

Play the 125cc thrill like Mars in 200 years

Children walk life choices and destiny’s decision

Quality of life torments

A child in a sling (first human vehicle)

Perched on a young girl's hip...

Grow Your Soul

Monday
Apr062020

Ghost in exile

After 364 days an officer pinned red and yellow campaign ribbons on me. I caught a freedom flight from Saigon to Alaska, ran across a frozen tarmac in thin khakis for java and flew to the City by the Bay.

“Anybody want a steak?” said a sergeant processing arrivals.

“Screw the steak. Give me a new dress green uniform. I’m out of here for a flight to Colorado.”

I became a ghost in exile. No one spoke to me. I understood their reticence, fear, guilt and awkwardness seeing me in a military uniform.

Passengers were anesthetized by their life and media propaganda and TV images seeing the dead come home in black body bags. Prime time madness sold soap.

I remembered Samuel at the 265th, “Better than going home to abuse, derision, scorn, apathy and unemployment.”

I’d seen things they would never believe. They averted their eyes with social indifference and I understood. They’d remained static in their work, eat, and sleep routines.

I’d shifted my consciousness with quantum precision. I survived a transforming life experience.

You die twice. Once when you’re born and when you face death.

Surviving a year in a macabre police action zone where an imperialist government tried to impose a Catholic leader on a Buddhist people gave my life new meaning.

It taught me impermanence.

One life - no plan - many adventures sang with clarity and awareness. I create or destroy my freedom.

In my dream I hike past a crude sign hanging from rusty concertina wire at a deserted firebase:

Normal is a cycle on a washing machine.

I locate normal in my portable lexicon.

Normal is someone you don’t know very well. Like yourself.

I used to be somebody else but I traded him in.

ART

Thursday
Mar262020

Riding Rails

The trapped mother realized her ice reality. Concise crying crystals reflected clarity. Suffering from fate and free will she danced in flames seeking her SAVE key.

Hearing a child say, “I need help,” she received a blessing.

A child whispered, “The ending is the middle.”

“The middle is the beginning,” said a child. “You can start the story anywhere.”

“We are all orphans sooner or later,” said Rose. “We bury our successes and failures in the same grave.”

Death and the gravedigger agreed. “Everyone comes to us.”

Rail music sang click, clack, click and clack.

In a dome liner, children ate watermelon and spit seeds into sky. A red haired female magician made poverty disappear. Passengers formed quick intense transient relationships between whistle stops before, during and after industrial wastelands.

We zoomed past small town wrecking yards with cars and trucks collecting rust, abandoned swings, toys, dishwashers, gardens, guillotines, baskets of severed heads, shredded tires and water soaked concave fences collapsing into community soil.

I hammered word spikes while waving to strangers stranded in their present perfect tense seeing trains carry perfect continuous tense strangers into new futures.

Down the line riding the rails. Further along the road of iron deficiencies.

At a remote train station, a furious man with his shopping cart home and a whiskey bottle in a bag sagged against a brick wall yelling at his slumped wife.

Her old sad eyes stared far away wondering how she managed to get herself in this fucking mess away from social services, respect, dignity and love. Her heart knew if she had any common sense (not very common) or any strength or power she’d get up and start walking.

Her dilemma was to find a way out of the quicksand swallowing her life. She was conditioned to having someone save her. She loved being a victim and needed a martyr.

Clear cold thin Rocky Mountain air quickened blood streams. We’ve enjoyed rail’s clicking clacking trestle music exchanging laughter and awareness. Visions of starlight sky blends with engine headlights shattering blackness. We arrive at Union Station in Denver.

I know the field behind the station where the headless homeless heartbroken hoboes, drifters and transients exist, hide and run for their lives.

It’s a tricky place at night. It runs north way up to the stockyards near the old Coliseum, not to be confused with the one in Rome where they fed you-know-who to you-know-what. Where every cold frostbitten February, cowboys, cowgirls and plain old city folk put on the Stockman’s extravaganza awarding prizes to animals and the field runs south past the main Post Office Terminal annex and westward toward immigrant hopes and dreams up to Federal Boulevard on a rise with a church and laundromats and renovated upscale posh neighborhoods overlooking a gleaming screaming downtown Silver City skyline. The killing field is filled with tall weeds in the Platte River flood plain.

There’s a fine view of the Rocky Mountains from the field amid random acts of pre-meditated violence around small fires as drifters pray to stay invisible long enough to ride rails out of town away from the mean old street.

In the summer, children scream on the roller coaster at Elitch Gardens up on 38th and Tennyson where my aunt and uncle ran a drugstore and pharmacy after WWII. They worked their fingers to the bone, sweated their lives out and never asked for a thing. My aunt was so scared by the Depression she maintained thirty-seven folders budgeting the cash flow by counting every penny every night.

It ain’t no field of dreams in that big lonely weed choked undeveloped tract of real estate where freights and Amtrak dome liners blow long sad whistles as buttoned waiters serve blood red Colorado tenderloin down wind from the smell of meat grilling at Coors Field where boys of summer play hardball.

The Coast Starlight sliding toward Kansas curves into a space-time bend.

Moon drinks rainwater.

Walking rails I sing with Robert Johnson…“Woke up this morning and looked around for my shoes…I got them walking blues.”

I savor impermanence. Cool blood decorates hot black keys as I bleed words.

ART