A Siem Reap street juggler balanced a flaming stick on his nose.
Tourists owed and awed.
A traveler spread thirty watercolor pens on a table.
“Here.”
“Can I use them,” said Lukas.
“Yes you may. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Color your dreams.”
Lukas drew two blue dragons and some red slashes.
“The top one is the dragon elephant. This one on the bottom can fly. Between them is a dead fish. They are fighting over it.”
“Why are they fighting?”
“They are hungry dragons.”
Lukas drew another fish outside the battle.
“This fish likes hamburgers.”
*
"What happens to dreams The Sweeper collects?”
“They are sorted by type, category, allegory, myth, metaphor, galaxy, nebula, genus, species, phylum, irrationality and coherent sublime scientific symbolic meaning.
Word dreams live in vignettes, jazz poems, epilogues, prologues, blog slogs, musical incantations, rain drops, beads of sweat, blood, bleached human bones,
Sumerian script and 26,000-year old Paleolithic cave paintings near Benaojan, Spain
hearing hollow bells ring high ring low as a Cambodian boy in satori clapping with one hand drags his cart along fractured dusty red roads collecting cardboard. Dawn to dusk.
Composing musical symphonies he squeezes a plastic bottle expelling stale air
attracting garbage contributors and hungry literary agents in a traditional publishing casino wheeling and dealing for their glorious 15%.”
The Language Company
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