close march

let's close march, elf said to orphan.

yes, agreed orphan, march is still a day to go such a hot furnace of yellow laos skies as farmers burn fields 

o my yes indeed, agreed elf, all this sticky humid trapped hot air mixed with flying black ashes permeates pristine air water and soil

such a beautiful mess, said orphan donning a cotton gauze multi-threaded mask to prevent malaria and dengue

what's a dengue, wondered elf, scrubbing for an open heart surgical operation in hanoi

it's the fluid relaxation of intellectual reasoning as a shaman mask proclaims, confessing to the world 

see this face

i am you

mi & mo

orphan said to elf, who's the girl with the rose?

mi. she's a black h'mong girl living in remote mountainous sapa, vietnam. she sells hand embroidered work on the street.

the street of dreams? asked orphan. more like mean life blues street, said elf.

she looks happy. 

she is. we should all be so happy.

she and mo her friend met a stranger. they played, laughed and sang together.

it was winter. they shared delicious noodle soup in the market. the girls rent a room with other kid street sellers for $20 a month. they are tough survivors.

their village is far away. like a dream.

do they go to school?

what's a school? their education is on the street. like a dream.

i love the rose.

yes, it's beautiful. everything we love dies. 

do you learn that in school? 

no, it's something you learn by yourself.

i see.

pee wee play

a kid who had no idea
what was going on besides i want
grabbed for the yellow plastic ball
mine mine mine he screamed in Lao demanding

ball kid gripped tight
grimace
pulling away

suddenly 
four armed pee-wee power stranger rangers
with interlocking plastic
red, yellow, green, blue 
guns entered the fiasco 

hand it over or else
we blast you with our supersonic death ray
grabbing kid looked astonished
distracted
ball owner ran away
laughing, you can't BE serious

 

Taureg

Tuareg Berbers in flowing blue robes meandered through his dream.

A hustler on his bike materialized out of thin air.

“Where are you going? Come have a look at my shop. Only five minutes by bike. Great prices. You don’t have to buy.”

“Why should I?” 

“Great morning prices.” 

Five hundred years ago this guy would have been on a camel in his burnoose tending his flock in the Sahara. He’d be planning to invade Spain, married to a beautiful Berber girl with dark seductive eyes, had ten kids and conquered the Iberian peninsula in his spare time.

Now he was on a 50cc imported European bike wearing castoff designer jeans with slick black hair and grinning with all his teeth, a distinctive character trait.

Used to multiple dimensions and shifting frequencies the wandering ghost was passing through the transition machine being assaulted by monosyllabic well meaning idiots taking him for a fool.

Only the fool and children spoke the truth.

All the hustlers were released on parole for good behavior. They were out. They had no idea who, what, when, why, where and how he’d arrived in their jurisdiction. They lived in an inverted paradigm. He was a hunter gatherer of words and images. Hunting with a singular flair, a cunning intelligence — Metis — a hybrid form.

training wheels required

let's take the kindergarten kids to Nepal, said Elf.

excellent idea, agreed Orphan.

put training wheels on your bike.

it's all uphill from Laos.

what will they experience there, asked Orphan.

Hinduism, Shiva, Vishnu, Brahman, Ganish, a plethora of dieties.

pristine elevation.

let's go.