My body is a living work of art.
It's for sale but it ain't cheap.
Food is an important part of a balanced diet.
Have ink will flow. Travel makes you.
All the mad ones burning like stars,
Flames of passion and suffering
Savor a visual glance toward endless speculation.
Walk slowly.
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.
Alive is a miracle.
Smile. Hunt with a camera.
Words are dancing airplanes winging southwest with orange balloon morning and hungover Mekong tourists.
Word weave shuttles. Fire. Spirit. Fog, river, a boat, current, mystery wills, orange glow coasting past a flow. A bell.
Japanese sensitivities in a cloud break.
Mekong sings new puzzling futures, passing, pulsating, wearing an umbrella to protect statues for eye glazed travel books gripped by design opticians with lost favorable vacant eyed distrust and disquiet.
The DISQUIET of chopsticks probing teeth smiling tremendous labor unrest as a character,
A wisp of porcelain skin finalities gently lowers her eyes sublime gesture.
Writing down bi-lingual laughter (a sling was the first human vehicle) a mother sang, cradling her infant from eye candy distractions.
Fleeting retinas shield eyes real eyes realize real lies.
Accelerate around a corner of a dream with a lotus blossom.
Yangon, Myanmar
Below shattered shouting Fujian mountains a patient Maija village artist sketched the dead near the university where Lucky and Leo biked through forests along narrow dirt paths seeing black and orange butterflies mate in dust as farmers planted, harvested and threshed rice. Women lugged exploding white cauliflower in bamboo baskets suspended on pliant poles balanced on emaciated shoulders.
Easy riders zoomed past athletic sweat shop shoe factories filled with morose girls and bent-backed forgotten women huddled over clacking Butterfly sewing machines making uppers, lowers, tongues and seamless survival wages until they reached a steep narrow street where they entered a small shop to enjoy high quality Fujian green tea with a purveyor of leaves.
Uphill were red slat wooden home/shops, street noodles, rice, doughy steamed buns, appliances, a primary school filled with teachers screaming Blend In and hacking butchers.
The artist sketched dead people. His stoic art decorated family altars. Dusty faded ancestor images in temples and home altars ate bowls of fresh fruit and burning innocence. Death worship is a cultural way of life.
Many tribes love to look back. Is it safe yet?
It’s all passion and illusions of suffering. A genetic molecule of fear, healthy doubt, uncertainty, surprise and adventure. A childish innocent curiosity lives in the present. As people age they want and need the past.
Living in the past is time consuming, said a kid.
Yes, said a teacher, Focus on your needs not your wants. Your need for freedom and freedom from need. Needs manifest a desire for a memory or a ghost or a regret.
We are all passing through. Humans look back to see if they see in their vivid reptilian imagination their ghost.
A ghost from a family or friend looks for clues at their personal ground zero. They’ve evolved from distant galaxies. Java man was discovered here 40,000 years ago. Accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today.
Oh, and one more thing. Don’t let school interfere with your education. See you tomorrow.
A wandering teacher lived in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They fuck. They breed. They wash one set of clothing and hang it on bamboo. They burn down the forest. They breed, work and get slaughtered. They harvest brooms. Shamans bring rain.
Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. They use faint energy looking behind them wondering, all the wondering and wandering and milling around.
Food is cheap. Let’s eat mantra. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark warung neighborhood food joint near a private school outside Jakarta.
The warung faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage. One woman sits in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair looking for insects, cleaning her scalp.
They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is repeated in zoos, jungles and rain forests. Chattering storytellers play the gamelan, pounding out 40,000 year-old tunes.
Heal people with music. Music is the fuel.
Males wash toy machines and study accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess waiting for passengers. Checkmate, said Death.
They visit the warung to chat up girls while eating spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, green chilies and deep-fried snacks. One explorer creates a Brave New World. Forging new futures with cold, detached logical intention they create an assessment on process in a data based star cluster.
Men know the music. Women know the words.
Creating her dream in Nepal.
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