One man

Greetings,

One morning after noodles I wander down an alley. I make an image of a man, maybe 60 - hard to be precise - in an alley sitting alone, sharpening an edge, redefining the steel. His labor, simple tools. No left foot. He curled his leg stump back to rest it on a boot. He went to work.

In the afternoon I'm sitting along a sidewalk near the market. He walks past with a shuffling gait. He's wearing a green fatigue shirt, hat, motorcycle helmet, carrying his red plastic bag with his simple tools.

I watched him walk. Knowing his truth, not knowing his story. Perhaps a land mine or a stray bullet. His left boot is an old combat boot issued to soldiers. A discarded war object. It is splitting down the front.

It is brutally hot. The sun is behind him. I wonder how he feels? Where is he going? Home for lunch and a rest? Looking for more dull edges?

I am surrounded by amputees here. They come to me on their crutches, their hands out. They wheel themselves down the street on little trolleys. A one-armed young man wears an old blue baseball hat. He sees local businessmen approaching. They are wearing white pressed shirts, leather shoes and shiny silver bet buckles. He takes off the old hat. Holds it out. It is empty. They ignore him. He puts it on his arm stump, runs his one good hand through his black hair, puts his cap on and moves down the street.

The legless, armless armies of physically wounded humans. They know you and you know them.

Metta.

Burad Badeed (sea bandit)

Dear Sea Bandits, burad badeed in Somali.

We are gathered here today to discuss our plans, options and future. Our ancestors, the great, magnificent, wise, and amazing visionaries were blessed with the ability to see and write the future.

They came from the vast deep interior. Wind swept dunes on shifting grains of sand. Time and water and boredom was their destiny. Their vision extended past mud, water, sand, gravel and volcanic sediment. They reached the churning violent sea of foaming blue. They fished. They repaired nets and roasted camel meat on open fires brimming with stars.

Sea became home. They worshiped currents.

Then, one day, large space ships invaded their coastal domain names, tribal connections, village dialects, identities, and simple way of life. The space ships plundered deep long and wide, cutting a swath of exploratory hatcheries.

Tuna, blue marlin, sharks, sardines, turtles, goldfish, squid, salmon, trout, octopus, sea snails, whales, manta rays and millions of minnows named Nemo departed their aqualung existence destined for plates and bowls of greedy capitalistic eaters.

Our children, wives, and families went hungry. They ate desert dust and deserted dreams.

Our council elders gathered. "We have lost of way of life. We are suffering. We need new delicious decisions and directions."

"Yes," agreed the young and restless. "Let's take to the high seas and become pirates and bandits and heroes. We will save the human race from extinction, from the space ships. We will intercept and board foreign vessels. We will hold the crew and cargo hostage. We will demand huge sums of cash."

"Cash is King! Long live the King!"

They sailed forth on their quest for adventure and booty led by Captain Hook and his merry band of pranksters.

"Ahoy mates and a bottle of rum, ho-ho heave ho here we go." They sailed into eternity's sunset.

Metta.