Mr. funny money

Greetings,

Mr. Money talked in the market. He's 30 give or take a day, well fed and garrulous.

When I saw him he was standing near a shop holding a big pile of 500 real notes. 500 real is worth 25 cents. I am rich, he said waving the pile of money at me. I am the President, I said.

He came over. He sat down in a red plastic chair. He put the money on the table. See, he said, I have a lot of money. All the red notes were old and faded. Yes, I said, You do. Where did you get it?

I collect the money from the shopkeepers. It is their daily cleaning fee, he said. But, I am a poor man. I only make $50 a month. Food is cheap. I have two wives and two kids. Wife number 1 is mad at me. Why, I asked. She saw me with wife number 2. I screwed wife number 1 one day and then I went over to see wife number 2. Wife number 1 saw me and now she's angry. He laughed.

I have lots of energy. I can screw three times a day. Do you want to go with me to a nightclub? I can show you around. There are many girls there looking for some action. Their boyfriends are poor at sex. The girls are poor and need money, he said. Interesting, I said, Not today.

It's easy, he said, I know everybody. He waved his arms around the market. People were slurping noodles, negotiating fruit prices, haggling, chopping vegetables, stoking cooking fires with kindling, manhandling blazing woks, wiping counters, sewing cloth, selling gold, trimming nails, cleaning oranges, and hungry eaters were stuffing their faces. Their eyes were either buried in their bowls or scanning faces in a life of distractions.

An old woman wearing white sat alone on the cracked pavement with her silver begging bowl waiting for someone to express their kindness.

Yes, I'm sure you know everybody, I said. Are you really the President, he asked. Yes, I am, I said. He laughed, I think the president is a joke. Many people would agree with you, I said, It's a lonely boring job being responsible for the entire human race. Yeah, he said, Well I gotta go make some collections. See you later.

Metta.

 

barefoot

Greetings,

early dawn streaks orange skies. two barefoot mendicants are walking down the cambodian broken dirt road. one looks well fed. he wears simple tattered white cotton clothing. a red and white checkered kroma scarf is knotted around his head. 

he carries their possessions in three white rice bags on a simple bamboo pole balanced on his shoulder. he is followed on the dirt trail by his friend, a tall gaunt man. they are talking.

man #1. these bags are heavy. i am tired of carrying them. you carry them. 

he drops the bags and stick on the ground. they crash on the dirt. startled birds leave leaves. a river changes direction. he walks over to a large cistern filled with water. he splashes his face. he drinks deep. 

his friend stoops over, adjusts bamboo through twine and hoists the stick and bags onto his shoulder.

man #2. where are we going?

man #1 (muttering to his feet in red dust) down this road.

Metta.

 

Update Makeup

Greetings,

Welcome to another edition of This Is Your Little Life. Your little life is taking on pernicious perceptual potential poetic personifications without a preamble. To amble to ramble and gamble enjoying risks with enormous ramifications. Waking up is a risk. Paying attention requires risk analysis and consequences. 

A stranger arrives in town. He wanders around with optical tools.

 

When in doubt, update your life. Put on makeup. Change your appearance. Get a new identity theory. Reinvent a corner cooking operation billowing smoke from cracked charcoal chips harvested from old trees near a woman sawing ice with a rusty see-saw as children play. Numerous forlorn stressed out drivers in huge SUV's negotiate narrow provincial streets singing their Status. Beep-beep.

The Asian Children's Driving School is open for business. Son, his father said, Someday all this will be yours. Gee, dad you're the greatest. Let's go for a spin around the block, down life's little highway and out into the lush expansive rural countryside filled with amazing green rice paddies, our essential food source. Ok, son, Let's roll. Batteries not included.

The smiling boy walks into his future. He works for a collection agency called Consume and Waste and Recycle. He found a life instruction book and put it in his bag. His bodyguard is a girlie-boy. Not too shy to try with tolerance, gratitude, dignity and self respect.

Somewhere in Cambodia a boy is carrying the world on his back.

Metta.

Dhaka

Greetings,

You find poetry while sweeping. Poetry finds you while weeping.

Metta.

Dhaka

Only five million humans 

Horns for beggars, their arms
Broken and bleeding
Hands extending through cracked windows
 
Floods send them into traffic
Unable to cope with land loss
Daughter sells body, father sells wife,
Son sells self
 
We sell them malnutrition,
Handfuls of rice
As sanitation system collapses
Under strain of poverty
 
Misery is a child
Bloated stomach a hopeless
Jaundiced eye full of tear
Never going to fall
Into streets where holy bull wallows
Next to a one-legged man
His crutch a stench rising
In dust, sleeping in a broken down 
Life

My fake pregnancy begs for charity in China. Save face. 

The Pitch

Greetings,

The buzzer buzzed. Yes? Your 11 o'clock is here, said a voice. Send them in. 

The door opened. My secretary entered. This is Mr. Red Shirt and Mr. Yellow Shirt, she said. Thank you that'll be all, I said. I shook hands with the men. Welcome. I am Mr. Chandler. Have a seat please. Mr. Red looked at Mr. Yellow with distrust and suspicion. It's ok, I said. They put their machetes away and sat down.

You have five minutes, I said. Give me your pitch. Neither spoke. They were waiting for the other one to open his mouth. You have four and 1/2 minutes, I said. They stared at each other. You first, said Mr. Red. No, you first, said Mr. Yellow. I waited. 

You have four minutes, I said. Mr. Red Shirt broke the silence. Ok, he said, here's the pitch. It's a split fingered fastball over the inside of the plate. That's a metaphor. We propose a weekly...NO! screamed Mr. Yellow Shirt, not a weekly, a daily soap opera drama.

Ok, said Mr. Red Shirt, a daily drama. Whatever. It's a series about money, power, control, greed, corruption, love, betrayal, and political and social issues in a country with a king. The king is very old. Younger people behind the scenes with everything to lose and nothing to gain run the show.

Yes, said Mr. Yellow Shirt, that's good, so far. It's a docudrama about the conflict between rich and poor people. Stupidity vs reason.

I listened. You have two minutes. Mr. Red Shirt said, Yes. It's about a Red Shirt hero who works for an ambulance company. He rescues a Yellow Shirt woman who's been attacked by a group of Red Shirts in an urban jungle war zone.

Yes, and then? I asked. Mr. Yellow Shirt said, She comes from a very wealthy and influential family. She has a change of heart because of the violence. Through the daily drama she comes to empathize with the plight of her hero. They fall in love. This creates new conflicts.

You have one minute. Wrap it up, I said. You go first, said Mr. Yellow Shirt. No, you go first, said Mr. Red Shirt.

You have thirty seconds, I said. One said, It's a struggle for equality. We've got the girl, the hero, soldiers, politicians, the Red Cross, millions of extras and direct distribution of television and film rights for Asia.

Good. Anything else? I said. Mr. Red Shirt and Mr. Yellow shirt looked at each other. Just one question, they said, When can we start shooting?

Our people will call your people. Thanks for coming in, I said. After arguing who'd take the first step they left.

The buzzer buzzed. Your 11:10 is here. Show them in. 

Metta.