i am a slave

He realizes through my movements I was born to dance. 

My gratitude is stillness. There is a big difference between sitting still and doing nothing. 

I smell roses. I swallow fresh orange juice. I engage all my senses in direct, immediate experience. He cannot save me from my destiny. He can only allow the process to open.

He talks to me with non-speech one overcast day. He brought me apples, oranges and mangoes. He pretends our passion is a glimmer of want’s potential desire in the long now.

Inside my deep eyes, a mischief of strangers comfort each other without discrimination. 

I am a singularity. 

5000

One day she rode her beautiful dirty black Warrior mountain bike to old student street for dumpling lunch. Delicious.

She prefers old student street to boring new commercial student campus street. She enjoys mature green leafy trees filled with small wild sparrows darting down to feed in garden patches. She savors a wide blue sky and orphaned clouds. She swallows sky removed from blaring omnipresent bland Chinese TV soap operas and cell phone addicted youth.

“Text me baby! Reveal your passion in 5,000 characters. Say things with electronic letters and symbols you’d never find the courage to speak out loud. Your silence is deafening.

"Hold my hand. Better yet, my baby, when we walk covered in our innocent adolescent shyness, slowly rub your elbow against my skin so I know you care, reveal your shy desire with deference and longing. Our skin pours hormonal activity into the possibility we may eventually dance naked. Text me baby!”

A boy approached the table. “May I sit here?” 

“Sure.” 

“May I talk with you?” 

“Sure. You talk I listen.” 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

sound

My speech voice is missing.

I make rolling guttural sounds expressing metaphors, similes, intonations, frequencies, meaning, sense, time, ideas, dreams, relationships, secrets, my traditional family values, fear, passion, heart and sadness. Joy.

By the time I learned the alphabet it was late in life toward primordial dusk.

Late in the moment from before now and then. Late in the whisper of silent air singing from the trash collector’s plastic bottle. He pulls his rolling cart. Filled with cardboard. A muscular rhythm stirs sonomulent dust on broken stones. I see, said the blind girl. You can’t step in the same river twice.  

Possibilities and probabilities, chance and coincidence flutter finger fragments. Unknown mysterious sensations fling from my signing hands. Fingers and hands are language extensions. Blossom being. My lover visualizes me in tropical brown skin toned worlds. He imagines I will join a hearing impaired community. He’s a dreamer. I jump ahead in my story. It won’t happen. I am a slave.

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. 

  

rhythm

Namaste,

when I learned the alphabet
late in life toward primordial birth

infinite moment before now and then

air whispers sang
from my trash collector’s plastic bottle
pulling my rolling cart filled with cardboard
singing a muscular rhythm
stirring sonomulent dust on broken stones

in a deep forest

Metta.