Delicious red dirt

Greetings,

A tennis club near Bursa. Three red clay courts. Overcast. Delicious red dirt. Tall pines, fir, green oasis. A fish eatery.

The red clay is rolled, packed, watered and swept. Maybe I will have a chance to play, run and feel the flow. It's about footwork, timing and energy.

You dance with the ball. It begins to snow lilac petals. Bird shadows dress red for two hours in one minute. You slide and glide; a quickness cat in your element. Get it back, get it in.

Variables: in, direction, depth, spin, power.

Playing dirt ball with the ferocity of a jaguar using stealth and cunning.

Make it new day by day. Make it new.

Peace.

Magnificent

Greetings,

Here's a picture from my room.

I live in an old village where three religious guys met to talk way back when, perhaps 1,000 years ago give or take a century. They were lonely, bored and at the end of their known world. So, they used straw and mud to make shelters. At the end of a glorious day they sat around and invented some new ideology.

Here is a picture from their album.

They were a long, long way from Roma-homa so they could do anything their little hearts desired.
However, they were passionate about maintaining power and control over the less educated masses so they created artificial time machines and so forth.

They got real smart real fast and learned, if they wanted to be in control they could manipulate the sheep and rule them using fear - fear of a higher spiritual force, economic poverty (nothing to eat), lack of adequate sanitation, no education etc. This really got the job done and everyone lived in harmony.

Peace.

In my silence

Greetings,

"Watch out if you meet an alien, you could be infected with a disease with which you have no resistance," said Steven Hawking. This is reported speech where the sound of speech has no alphabet.

One of those overcast broken spine
too much foundation makeup
beautiful face above a big
behind tomorrow where men hang Ottoman stacks,
their dignity intact, friendships and soles, heels,

leather working tools as the knife sharpening man with one bad brown eye reflects wings from a pigeon in light, a retina, iris, cornea;

sitting, patient, waiting down at an old corner hearing,

hearing men slap playing cards on a table beneath leaden skies threading uppers to lowers threading steel knives lying sharp reflection.

You hear a slapping sound. He is smashing his old upon, outside, a window into conversations. His right hand turns a yellow switch extinguishing a single bulb.

Carrying his bent back he shuffles through today's history across fresh packed asphalt into a small place for rice and beans. Bread and water. Brown tea. A silver spoon.

The wind turns a page.

Peace.