Babbling Tongues
Share Article Same-Same But Different screamed from tourist t-shirts. Same-same for miles along shady streets inside narrow alleys babbling Chinese and Vietnamese mixed with grilled meat, ground java and motto cycle mayhem.
Where are you from, said a Hanoi motorcycle maniac at the intersection of Yes, No, & Maybe.
It depends, whispered Devina, a genius disguised as an extra in The Divine Comedy of infinite unlimited proportions.
Dialects of babbling tongues prayed to establish a connection, a bonding through need, want and desire. Tongues played on the sympathy of strangers. Tongues lashed a cerebral cortex. Strangers suffered from spiritual poverty and guilt begging fatigue.
Everyone had their hand out. I am from heaven, said scripter. Mr. Motorman expected a place name like Europe, America, Australia. Heaven? Yes, Where is it, I pointed into a blue sky. There.
It’s about trust here, said a Frenchman with gardening experience. I know foreigners who’ve lived here ten years and they still express reservations about who they can, do trust, it’s a problem, be careful.
A Vietnamese sex worker and money-loving predator surviving in a mean old world with a moist tight vagina in Saigon took her European trick out for a sushi dinner. She said, The perfect world is to be American, married to a Japanese and eating Chinese food.
You can trust maybe 10%.
Her dark eyes contained world secrets. She was a great French kisser.
Where did you learn to kiss like that, asked her exhausted lover escaping a lip lock.
From the French, they occupied our country a girl needs to make a living harvest my bush caveman. Open wide here comes the one-eyed snake.
She knew how to milk a throbbing purple snake. She could read but couldn’t write. In her line of work literacy wasn’t essential. Raising her hips with pleasure her fingers traced an imaginary alphabet on his skin in darkness.
