tet - year of the horse

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.

Hokkaido Fabric

Perfect for each other with no emotional attachment, they jumped in a taxi to Hirosake castle gardens, filled with wide paths, cultivated plants, flowers, 300-year old trees, lotus blossoms in ponds and miles of lilies. 

After crossing wide timber bridges, they passed through large wooden fortress doors into gardens. Ponds near bridges were filled with wild white swans gliding along green banks. A castle sat high above large walls of measured stone blocks with a tiered roof and metal ornamentation.

They walked down a long street to a wooden temple with fresh mythological symbols on archways and roofs. The temple interior contained ornate carvings with sand raked Zen universes. Brown robed monks sat in meditation.

Away from the temple, distant valley mountain peaks were covered in snow. High white gray clouds covered and protected peaks from sky. Fields of rainwater lay in small furrows of well- manicured attendance. Tight blue bundles of feed, grain and potatoes rested as a solemn oath to diligent pastoral life in the mud and meadows of reality.

“Come, I show you fabrics,” Akiko said, grabbing his hand.

The Yukara Ori Museum specialized in hand loom woolen fabrics of Hokkaido. Their brochure read, “When Hokkaido is mentioned, people think of long, severe winters and heavy snowfalls, but when the snow season ends, Hokkaido turns into a colorful world of greenery and flowers.

"An outstanding feature is that our weavings are based on such themes as ‘Ice Floes,’ ‘Lilacs,’ ‘Sweet Briar,’ ‘Lake Mashu’ and ‘Swan,’ drawn from the natural beauty and climate of Hokkaido.

"All of the work is done by hand - from the initial spinning and dyeing of the yarns into hundreds of colors - to the final weaving on the hand loom. It may take years to design and complete a new piece."

Colors ranged from white to black. Themes were ice, villages, cranes, meadows, rivers, mountains, land and sea, and combinations of extremes in clear intimate creations.

A woman at a large handloom gently worked threads creating a growing design. People watched in fascination, until, bored by the simplicity of her Zen, scattered.

She twisted threads into a balanced weight and line before pulling and pressing them into a pattern.

“I know her,” he said to Akiko. “Her name is Little Wing. She weaves old stories into life’s tapestry. I remember a dream she created. Would you like to hear it?”

Source: A Century is Nothing.

Dream Sweeper

A Dream Sweeper contraption manufactured in Ha Noise, Vietnam remembered evolutionary and revolutionary Communist nightmares and B-52 bombers dropping millions of tons of ordinance on Laos, Nam and Cambodia with hallucinations and bliss evolving from a point of light traveling at 186,000 miles per second.

The efficient Dream Sweeper Machine collected unconscious talking monkey stories. From deep narrow Ha Noise alleys where death worship was a constant reminder of rapacious ancestors eating incense, dreams arrived crawling, flying, dancing, staggering, singing, laughing, weeping, and sighing into The Machine.

Dreams begged for mercy, pity, clarity, understanding and interpretation. How did I get here? What if I die here? Who will be my unconscious role model? Who will save me from ultimate absolute reality? Who will feed me in a Peoples’ Communist Paradise dream world where everyone shares toilets, kitchens, spoiled whining children and education is a waste of time and money?

Bored Asians existing with an emotional level of -7 exchanged drab artificial lives playing on Fakebook, a glorious electronic frontier of equality, equity and endless hi-tech distractions with firewalls, barbwire and rusty window gratings. Dark. Silent. Black is the night. Cold is the ground.

free speech

Grill your usual suspects
while eating chicken with shredded
lettuce not have this conversation in the abstract.

Loudspeakers resembling Lenin Park in Hanoi blare in Giresun, Turkey.
Attention Comrades!
Journalists, lawyers and acti-visits in Turkish jails, prisons and poems file your briefs.
A woman speaks about behavior control systems designed with sparkling syllables.

Children memorize grammar rules. Pass the examination.
Life is the BIG test.
It is multiple choice.

Silverman polishes red stones
semi-precious hands whisper secrets 
a baker removes loaves from ovens 
fish hawkers wash ice
life sea streams.

Bread aromas float past women selling cabbages bigger than lost children. 
A beautiful mute-deaf woman in Cambodia scrubs foreign laundry.
She dances until she dies.
Her life dance is a slow meandering death of loneliness and heartbreak and silence.

It is the dry season in Khmer civilizations as leaders across a porous border
sell forests to Vietnam furniture and toothpick factories.
Chinese developers purchase the country for $16.9 billion and counting
The National Museum in Siem Reap is 50% owned by Thailand.

Buy a ticket.

Black Sea is green and blue.
Eat dreams with fresh yogurt minus anxiety. 
Cultivate silence

Amazon women live on an island off the Giersun coast.
They visit the Turkish residency permit authorities.

If you want to play you have to pay, said Authority.
They cut off their right breast.

Arrows of time.
Bullseye! 
Everything is permitted. It's already happened.