Bursa Hammam by Z
Share Article Crows cackled at sunrise. Bamboo Nomad opened the blinds at the TLC teachers’ apartment in Bursa, Turkey, riding the blinds a metaphor for rails, a cryptic railroad life of drifters and literary outlaws hopping a freight out of town, rolling.
Light particles streamed to a pink and red veined orchid in a brushed silver container. Tibetan incense curled in white light. Red gladioli, oh so glad, petaled their beginning. Piano Etudes tinkled by P. Glass.
Fear, a handful of dust in an urn labeled Gratitude, celebrated laughter.
A piano fell silent. Violins and a cello picked up the slack hemming their garments at intersections on life’s loom, said Devina.
In the new world order all the police and security forces are children they know how the world works. Kids have a shock proof built-in shit detector.
Storytellers agreed.
Elegant cirrus clouds swirled around pachyderms and Staunton pieces fighting to control the four center squares.
A quixotic knight errant with a curving silver scimitar followed by Panache on a donkey waving a red one-star Vietnamese Communist flag sailed through Russian thongs and throngs driving a Turkish turbo-bus near Hanoi hair salons where women trimmed Winter Hawk’s talons.
Bright yellow coughing taxi engines heard Arabesque musicians fingering Ouds lamenting loss forever as percussionists hammered goatskin drums ...
Turkish silver merchants sang, Lucky sale, First sale, Cheap, Make my day.
In a Bursa hammam built by the Grand Vizier Rustem Pasha in 1555 filled with blue and green geometric tiles and vaulted ceilings, steam rose through rusting bars to locate a Wi-Fi signal from the private Achebadem Hospital emergency room staffed by stressed out C-19 doctors looking over thin shoulders with lost bewildered aimless fear in trepidation toward lost bewildered aimless fat ugly white idiot tourists named ATM dragging their lives and dusty packs on tired shoulders through Asia as hungry heartbroken wolves paced tight narrow cages lamenting loss of freedom howled the blues.
Humans are wolves in sheep’s clothing, said Tran.
Chekhov said there are three paths. Choose one.
Turn left wolves eat you, go right you eat wolves, go straight you eat yourself.
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