10.24.2012 yes, said confidence speaking with, not to, independent.
you are my bright shining star.
a constellation.
stars sing sang sung with their light.
be light about it, said vocabulary, laughing.
we are star dust.
sun sailed west over a black and blue sea for 4,000 years, said independent.
welcome to earth. hello babies.
10.18.2012 Language of unknowing is big.
What we don't know is bigger than time. Bigger than the time we are given to understand it.
People are more affected by how they feel than what they understand.
Longer than tomorrow, time is invisible, anxious.
Time weeps. Time laughs.
Time offers rice to a Buddhist monk.
Time disappears into lost wind whispering in pines along the Black Sea.
Time paints a picture of a lover in Laos leaving for distant shores where time washes stones.
10.11.2012 Once upon a time and such a wonderful time it was I wore a BIG watch.
Living in the past is time consuming.
Small wrist. Bone, skin, vein.
All the weight. Shake time. Wake up!
This BIG watch was not huge never ending gigantic e normal mouse time. Rather small time. I thought time was big. Life is big. Time is short and small. Time is a mass of white seagulls pirouetting in a pitch black sky. White light fragments flutter by and by.
A woman's long face studies sorrow at her feet.
Another read Turkish coffee grounds. You will experience a personal earthquake. I see a child. You travel many roads. A bird has a good message.
I see a spirit place in the mountains, said another reader. Many people are praying. There is a holy man. It is a Buddhist place. There are many rivers and mountains. I see a man and woman. You will meet a cat. It is a woman. She is a potential enemy. Be careful.
Miracles Revealed! Faith, hope and alienation.
A Trabzon bus lot director in shiny black shoes, orange tie, and white hair with hands behind his back sings Italian opera. His voice is a long distance trans carrier between Georgia and Greece.
Here we go, I stutter.
Language of what I don't know is big. Bigger than time. Longer than tomorrow, a faceless facet of time's ticking, sweeping a hand around a dial. Knowing and understanding tried to communicate without speaking. Zap. Down, done, did, do the do.
I know but cannot say. Others say but do not know. Babbling tongues.
After escaping Persians, 10,000 Greek warriors ran down mountains layered with leaves yelling, THE SEA! THE SEA!
The warrior wears a medal from Korean service. Once upon a time.
10.4.2012 one morning i assembled my tools.
scrubbing and scouring my day away. see my hand.
two men talked in the market.
one said, i lost today.
what do you mean? you made 3,000,000 lira today.
yes but i lost one day.
10.3.2012 Living in China, Leo carried buckets of night soil or shit. It was the price he paid for questioning Authority.
-why, do we have to read Mao’s little red book, it’s mush for pigs, he asked Authority.
-because you are a tool of the state, said Authority.
-this shit stinks.
-here, said Authority. Carry some more.
After that melancholy loss Leo didn’t take shit from anybody. He burned through levels of existence as an exiled ghost. He slept with shamans in cemeteries.
He didn’t suffer from PTSD. He didn’t prowl life’s perimeter at midnight with bandoliers of munitions and Howling Wolf, his M-16 on full automatic. He wasn’t a suicide bomber hijacking ambulances in Gaza or Baghdad or Karachi or Damascus. He wasn’t blowing up cafes in Haifa or Spanish trains of thought watching children and adults fly through the air with the greatest of ease in the Greatest Show on Earth. He did not attend flight training school in Florida on a secret mission of revenge and miraculous destiny.
Being a worthy asset with nonofficial cover he was quieter than a mouse. The second mouse gets the cheese. He disembarked, disabled, distributed, declassified, delineated, discussed, and detonated unconscious trip wires. He was a silent night hymn, a predator practicing silence and cunning with his tantric eye wide open.
I am a camera, he told ice girl. Like you I see the big picture. We are ahead of the future. Wandering storytellers accepted my willingness to walk point. It was the Tao of insight, intuitive friendship and leadership. I don’t sweat the small stuff.
It’s all small stuff, she said. God, the Devil and Allah are in the details. Checkmate, said Death.
In Cadiz a well-dressed bald man with Gypsy blood wearing polished black wing tipped shoes used the financial section of a daily rag proclaiming a 33% unemployed human statistic to collect his dog’s shit off a Roman cobblestone chessboard. He dumped it into a metal trash basket nailed to a postmodern yellow splattered wall.
Five minutes later an obsessive-compulsive cleaning woman in her ground floor flat yelled, “What’s that smell?”
“History.”
