Clay exchange

Na. They met in her village on the outskirts of town down a lost long red dust road.

It’s a miracle not to save anyone. Not to be a rich foreigner in her dead hopeful eyes, who will marry, save, rescue, support and maintain an 18-year old Lolita nymphet.

A brief transitory relationship. Money and time. Passion with the mature knowledge of a young waif’s dreams of a boy, a man, a local seismographic approval allowed by parents. Is her father alive? Men and women tongue desire.

Her form, angular face, soft skin, touch yes she is experienced in the act of love, this cannot be denied, her movements, her sense of touch tactile indicates practice perhaps a moneyed man. Local boys in the dark.

Her beauty and technique allowing her new potentials, not so much about her pleasure as taking care of business in a soft slow way before rushing from bed to douche. Dressing quickly, shyness wraps its arms enveloping her. Down a lost long red dust road.

Inside light with slow fingers and long thin ivory nails they turned clay into pots. Spinning circles danced, turning on a Wheel of Time. They finished throwing them, used them for tribal ceremonies and smashed clay pots to earth.

Clay exploded into air creating volcanic ash coating everything in a fine dust. 

secret

Shhh. I have a new secret short term lover while Thorny is home in OZ.

I am easy going with a willingness to share honest emotional connections. 

No commitment is a temporary abstraction. My passion is immediate truth in my brown eyes. My eyes are complete sensory awareness. I see voices.

I am a voiceless one, quivering lips and tenacious touch with my secret lover. I am a tiger trusting the darkness of respect where my sexual joy is shy and mutual. I dance a tactile tenderness in a silent breath. 

My unfinished symphony lives with visual touch, holding his small kiss along my spine. I do this because I love it. It is my destiny. A wild swan feels air lifting its wings. A flower opens its petals to sun, warming my heart-mind. It is my fate. 

My tender lover comes to me in the heat of the day. I welcome him with my eyes, gesturing a finger on lips, shh. He is kind. My passion is deep and strong. My languages speak eyes, smiles, hands.

Gestures create us in space. 

  

Yak mouth

Namaste,

Hey Hominid, how's it going?

It's a fucking jungle out there. Predators. Yakking fools.

Idiots with a larynx. 

They grunt. They grimace. They fight. They steal. They kill. They kill, question.

Yeah it's eat or be eaten. Law of the jungle.

Short fast and deadly.

Do they breed work and get slaughtered, question. 

Yeah ha. Ha ha. Laughter saves the day. Where's the tool fool, question.

Over there. (points toward the jungle) Sex. (rubs body parts)

Ugh. Whoopee. Coitus interrupted.

Show me your tool. Fool.

Shit puke thunder and lightning.

Light my fire.

Erectus said to Neanderthal, Give me your tired homeless cave painters. Your electronic mice.

Let's get the hello out of hear.

Metta.

Maybe 20

Namaste,

The demanding accusatory tone of voice is always an admonishing attitude of voice how reality is. Shanghai commands are simple and direct. 

Heels strike cold hard pavement in darkness. The sharpness belongs to a girl escaping from family for the night. Muted voices of an old couple walking through narrow concrete canyons echo as heels fade.

An elevator door opened on the 11th floor of a five-star business hotel in Shanghai. 

A beautiful Chinese girl, 20, in a white dress clutching a small black purse stared at a scuffed marble floor. Small puddles of rain water gathered around her shoes.

She raised her face from the ground. 

Deep dark brown rings circled old, tired, fearful eyes hiding her heart's knowledge, revealing her soul.

There was no place to hide, no magical cosmetic concealing the truth of everything she knew. The woman and witness instinctivily understood each other. Passing toward another temporary hope, another ethereal reality.

She was on the wrong floor and pressed another number. Doors closed. She was moving up in the world. Up to the room of a foreign businessman taking her through night into morning.

Everyone in town was making money. 

Billboards shouted, “Making Money in China is Glorious!”

She carefully folded hard earned hard currency into her black purse after a long hot shower and took the elevator down. Gliding through a revolving glass and brass door, she passed a deserted dark empty Japanese restaurant and negotiated gray stained industrial steps to Nanjing Xi Lu.  

One million serious adults in blue industrial clothing practiced Tai Chi with controlled balanced concentration.

Every methodical movement had meaning.

Dawn's collective mist breath crashed around her well worn heels skipping over cracked stones through shadows. 

Metta.

moon room

Namaste,

Nepalese people live in your pocket, ala small Donegal villages.

Get a room. Water and electricity are extra.
No electricity? No problem. Have more dark erotic secret sex. Produce more children.
They will light up your life.

Here is a bucket. Get in line.
Here is a pail, an empty water bottle. 
Why pay for plastic when you need water?

Elicit electric.

Here is your cage.
It has a wheel. Get on the wheel.
Begin running. Run forever.
How long is that?

Run until the green light comes on.
What does green mean?
It means stop running.
Rest.

Metta.