love is a blind whore

Do you remember what you said when you were dying? Yes, I said a lot of things like, I  almost wish it were true...and fate played a joke on me.

Laughter is a design.

Once upon a rainy day in Cambodia, Whisper paid attention to sensations.

Whisper paid Now.

Whisper is Now. Not Later.

A heavy deluge increased the density of murmurs.

Ideal idea voices meditated.

Voices heard rain bouncing off recycled Asian war PSP sheets in sheets.

Steady yellow Agent Orange rain hijacked a life jacket.

He shuddered with the sensation that an entire life had ended that day.

Another unpredictable life was beginning.

Inside thematic variations.

Echo recalled speaking memory hastening a chill dance.

Cinema expression without wasting ink.

Gestures of silence washed clothes by hand.

Family loss. Personal joy. Simple pleasures.

Mirrors, weight scale, madness of blind whore called love jumping over the abyss.

Smell rain. Hear leaves rustle.

Extraneous Motivation? Fear? Greed? Poverty? Gratitude? Kindness? Love?

luminous essence

Tourists find, travelers discover.

A dreamer with controlled imagination.

SLOW CHILDREN...words, lightning bolts - blue butterfly, white sky, green flowers, red leaves, songs of invisibility, piano shadow.

How do you spell loss?

What I called "memory" contained and entire world.

A blind painter paints from memory. A blind writer. A blind poet.

The 6th painted words of yellow laughter.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

A little voice.

a - the old monk friend in the shade reads to his 95-year old blind sleeping friend resting/dreaming in a hammock

b - the crying wailing infant gets a job as a siren on an emergency vehicle.

All an illusion of a mirage - "the soul filled with silence, an abyss in which the whole world disappears beneath the pressure of a single thought, memory, look."

Meaning and sense: meaning shows itself at once, direct, literal, explicit, enclosed in itself.

Sense cannot stay still radiating out in directions that divide and subdivide. The sense of every word is like a star hurling spring tides out into space, cosmic winds, magnetic perturbations, afflictions.

What does it mean to be human?

How did I grow?

What is the ultimate reality of nature?

Welcome to the freak show.

I am someone else - Rimbaud

Dancing in the ecstasy of divine madness.

Science: systematic observation, precise measurement, disciplined testing. (quantifiable statistics)

Photography: facts, subtleties, nuances...

Outer light = luminous essence, the energy of all things through the inner eye in mind. Before form is essence. After essence is clear light. In light we dissolve into our primordial nature, touching all things across time and space. These are the truths which makes us human and divine.

The world is complex and meaningless.

Hyohakusha - "one who moves without direction." Basho.

Conversations with a ghost and ghost-to-be.

keep it simple

Everything is vague and uncertain.

The Cambodian brick factory blues. 2500 Real ($.60) = 4 hours after school.

397 kids. Primary school. World food free breakfast. One family - 10 kids. Brick owners encourage DEBT.

Live in the present, in the eternity of the instant.

He absorbed reflections, it was a small village in SR. Attracted by no tourists, partly cloudy skies. She slowly undressed. In her silent beating heart she knew he, the old foreign man couldn't, wouldn't, save her. She was happy with him. Not for the money he gave her when their hour was complete rather for his playful kindness.

She signed. He seemed to understand or attempted to understand. It was her willingness to accept, sharing their intimacy. He was a slow patient lover. She trusted her instincts. After knowing him for nine months she'd eventually relax accepting soft passions with certain conditions of intimacy. No kissing. No cunning linguists.

One-eyed blind.

He said, Yes, I prefer doubt to certainty. I am more interested in the traces than the object. I love the fragments.

Where do I place it, this story?

What country on what continent, in what city, village, town or heartbeat?

How do I keep it simple yet moving like a breath?

She asked him, Do you like small? Skin on skin? Yes kneading her shoulder muscles, easing out tissue from her supine sublime spinal chord erasing tension. Her smile said, Yes. Her relaxation exhaled.

She spoke with her hand wings. Short, fast and deadly.

She dreamed of writing a short story, perhaps flash fiction.

Nervous, she selected a pen. She unscrewed the black ebony summit. She opened a black notebook. She made a pot of green tea. She started with flowing calligraphy letters.

My life began in a village. I don't need to leave my village. My village is the world.

She drew a picture. It looked like this. 

life is a palimpsest

I acknowledged kairos - the shuttle passes through openings in warp and weft threads, making things happen, creating new forms, new fabrics inside my word loom. The shuttle voice allows me to recover, preserve and interpret tales.

I'm one of those people who’s learned through living that there is nothing and nobody in this life to cling to. An open hand holds everything.

There are no metaphors, only observations.

I feel free to move away from safe familiar places and keep moving forward to new unexplored areas of life. Drifting some said. If I had one coin for every time someone asked me when I’d settle down I could afford a world hypothesis.

Settling down was not an option.

I am a compass without a needle.

Yes, I could bid on blessings. I’d sacrifice pre-linguistic symbols and create silent metaphorical abstractions. My linguistic skills would evolve into love, into discursive logic.

26,000 year-old Paleolithic iron and copper paintings created a secret symphony of ancient stories in a Spanish cave. I was transformed there. No past, no future. Present.

No lengthy drawn out off-the-wall abstracts explains my small empty self to anybody anything by virtue off who I was, am, and will be.

Life is a palimpsest. Have ink will travel.

Han Shan

I follow my impulsive feet

wherever they might go

my body is a pine tree

surrounded by the snow

sometimes I simply stand

beside a flowing stream

sometimes I chase a drifting 

cloud past another peak

- Han Shan Te-Ch'ing (1546-1623)

Translated by Red Pine