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Ukiyo-e. Floating world.

Have luck will travel. A Giresun songbird gave Lucky the all-clear signal. Go.

At 0609 pulling a wheeled bag down 65degrees of click clack Roman stones he met a healthy golden brown dog. They walked to the ULUSOY bus station. The dog picked up a new scent, wagged his tail thanks for the company good luck and wandered away.

Down in the cold BAY piss chamber Lucky played his C harp singing an old blues song, “All my Love’s in Vain...”

Echo passed through: “When the train/bus/plane left the station there were two lights on light was my baby and the other was my mind...all my love’s in vain.”

Today - Bayram is Sacrifice, a national holiday. Make a sacrifice. Write hello my little fear and hello my little anger on pieces of paper. Burn them.

Red, yellow, golden autumn leaves littered ground with sound. O sweet season. Mountains conversed inside foggy forests as curling chimney smoke swirled through bone cold villages.

Ukiyo-e. Floating world.

Sacrifice watched people watching people going to visit families. Someone somewhere waited for relatives to arrive with money and stories. Stories were cheap. Money was expensive. Layered characters using verbs wore leather shoes, new designer rags and carried big time.


Lucky remembered a story about a dignified man in Guatemala who walked barefoot from his village to town carrying his best shoes in a bag. On the edge of prosperity he put them on. Envious eyes followed his every step until he walked out of town. He carried them home. That’ll show them.

In Turkish villages after a breakfast of tea, tomatoes, black olives, yellow cheese, brown bread and thin sliced salami men wandered down trails to join friends at a cafe for tea and talk. Some read newspapers. Others fingered anxious worry beads. Passive men focusing on the idiot box watched a Teflon PM slap a grieving Soma coalminer in the face, No one boos me. Take that, idiot.

One man looked for his name in the obituaries. The grim reaper hasn’t found me yet. My luck is holding. I am that I am.

Men cleaned dirt from nails. They brushed lint or a meandering story thread from suit jackets. A gravedigger washed his hands. Someone evaluated the volume of black ink in a fountain pen before spilling words on paper.

The Black Sea was flat blue. A ¾ moon hearing cellos sang shit puke thunder and lightning.

Turkish citizens texted survivors, looked at big time or yakked their hearts out on cells with anxious intention celebrating Sacrifice.

The Language Company

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