blind music

Once upon a story lived a tribe of kids. They laughed and played all day.

Poor ones collected cardboard and plastic water bottles along a red dirt road.

Kids with money went to school.

A blind man played his flute on the street. Memory answered as notes disppeared into the void.

A bird whistled. Poetic interpretation. 

A man without hands, a landmine survivor, blind in one eye stood near a cafe. His one eye smiled, he nodded his head, thank you after a well dressed man gave him money.

The rich man smoked a cigarette as friends discussed new business opportunities. They invested drug and prostitution profits in new glass and brass tourist hotels.

We have to put the money somewhere, said the rich man.

Yeah, said another man, we can't put it where our mouth is.

You can say that again, said his friend, giving a beggar child old notes.

defrost

Here's what may have happened with his friend, the V woman.

One requires sex when there's no electricity. Quiet, all the humming power is down. 

It was mid-day and hot. Humid thick tropical heat.

Her first class open door and windows were covered with newspapers to prevent strangers from seeing in. 

He parked his bike and entered. She was defrosting the fridge. Smiling, they hadn't seen each other for days. They hugged speaking languages. Grateful to know their needs and passion.

They showered, soaping each other down. She gave him a towel and a swig of mouth wash. They spit in the sink.

She climbed on, kissing his nipples, moving to the statue of liberty, salivating, stroking, kissing and sucking. Yum-yum. He spread her red lips and slowly brought her to nirvana. They took care of each other before, during and after.

They showered, enjoyed a long cool drink of water, laughed, smiled sharing an embrace.

Life is big and we are small, she sang. Life is found in a desperate situation.

He pedaled into heat. She finished defrosting the fridge.

freeze a memory

vote for me. i have power and money.

wear a sad i am lost and angry face. in public.

life screwed me. 

i had no chance.

well i did but i didn't know what to do with it

so, i succumbed to my family and social

lack of inner strength and self determination.

my secret name is passive, beauty and gratitude.

i am a character in an asian play.

A story for Grade 4

“Many world tribes love to look back. It’s all passion and illusions of suffering. A genetic molecule of fear, doubt, uncertainty, surprise and adventure. A childish innocent curiosity lives in the present. As people age they want & need the past.”

“Living in the past is time consuming,” said a genius 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.

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. They forge new futures with cold, detached logical intention. They create an assessment on process in a data based star cluster.

moon metro

Moon Metro subterranean subway car sped through optical tunnels.

Outside, an old Turkish man wearing a crumpled white hat walked with his wife.

She is his noun. He is her verb, her action.

Just get to the verb, he whispered.

Their language is filled with autumn browns, yellows, greens, golds, sparrows, blue jays, and love’s doves.

Far away on Memories Street, a street of regrets spilling potential, Passion danced with Death.

Moon Metro picks up speed hurtling through space-time.

Silent, salient passengers wear sad eyed desire.

They crave sleep in a tyranny of sheep-less-mess.