Metro magic

The Chinese government spin continues in Tibet and now Xinjiang. First the Tibetans and now the Uyghurs. Han economics, heavy handed military police state and repression of human rights.

Here, you are sitting in a blue plastic chair in the metro. It is zooming along above ground through a gray raining morning - the mountains are hiding in clouds, fast moving white above green and down along rocky forested slopes.

You see mosques, spires. You see out. Passengers are, (except for for two cheerful talkative women close to you) cold, distant, lost, bored, going somewhere important. It must be important or else they'd be home, asleep, dreaming inside their magic.

Then, suddenly the metro track slopes down and edges of concrete blur, as the trees disappear and the sky edge becomes indistinct, sliding into darkness as florescent light becomes quick and natural sliding flashes of light
on steel tracks with a long stretch of black
click clack then the station immediately with tiles,
a machine holding bagged sweets.
Women in scarves, eyes downward, heavy territorial shoes,
gripping plastic bags;
a green and yellow uniformed man with a broom
pushes everything
in front of him and the metro automatic voice calls out a place.
Doors open - people in, people out. Doors close.

Enjoy the ride. You're only on it once.

Peace.

Hello Talking Animals

The logic of pain. Pain tolerance. Pain loss, pain's memory, pain's fascination. The awareness of pain, how it dances, how it begins, creating itself, developing the heavy lidded dull, perhaps sharp edge - no, the dull throbbing kind, the kindness, the specific joy of pain down through the nerves - exposed - sliding along invisible blood red threads that you can't, you don't see - these minute tentacles of laughter, however you know they are there. 

The roots of pain bellow well below the surface of appearances, growing down into cold hearted tissue. It needs a biopsy. What's that? A lab tech's evaluating, analysis under a microscope - sterile environment, free of dust, germ free; tissue and a semi-colon; all in the same sentence which, after five days of blizzards is the perfect opportunity to be sitting outside with an iced coffee at dusk near a water fountain pen resolving the pain issue tissue, yanking it out after inserting 3-4 needles filled with antiseptic solutions into gum tissue, so soft, so pliable, how they massage tissue preparing it for a needle, one of those heavy duty stainless steel syringes made in Finland probably, with a perfect circle for a finger so the downward thrust of pressure is constant and now bewildering.

This is what happened and it didn't take his well trained discernment eye more that a nano-second after the partial was removed to see the tooth, as witnessed from inside near the interior monologues, dialogue, red stormed flesh dancing with pain ( a sickness leaving the body ) how now the birds fly, free from pain winging one true sentence.

It would have to come out, how the old recalcitrant reclusive tooth had served it's large print purpose dancing with food, clicking gum lined stories (some never to see the fine print) never the less dazzling to the extreme pleasure of pain, how it was a vast comfort, this pain and it was well worth remembering and nurturing, hearing "18 Musicians" by Steve Reich Ensemble speaking as the heart beat out it's death defying rhythm pulsating along beating faster than shadows leaving themselves in the labyrinth of love. In theory.

Zen Diamond Bowling

You will be happy to know the Zen Diamond company is near the Cosmic Magic Bowling alley. No lie butterfly.

So, you set up your cosmic pins made of diamond dust and roll the dice, I mean roll the heavy orb of planet Earth along a wooden incline inside a spiral galaxy. Strike!

The diamonds explode into a sky wearing a full moon. The healing energies manifest themselves into wisps of sage cleansing a small room where a sick person once lived. He suffered greatly and we won't go into his neural nervous neuron condition here except to say he was ill. So we saged past schizophrenic lives away, out of the room opening winter windows allowing full moon light to mix with embers from a Kiva ceremony.

We have serenity, sanctuary and simplicity evolving into new space place, teaching, - learning, helping others realize their language potentials, while spashing ink on paper. This gentle kind transition welcomes peacock feathers, mountain visions, snow, clouds and elevations.

We enjoy Snow White blizzards cascading from a bright blue sky.

My Name is Winterhawk

Now you are in a train dining car rolling to some glorious ancient city near a sea and snow covered mountains seeing wide open snow covered fields stretching to infinity. Inside, on the table are wild yellow flowers with pink and green stems. Click, clack.

Shine the light. Be light about it.

The train passes through memories of a Starlight domeliner and C.C. reading your palm - head line and heart line - rolling metaphorical memory. Sweet contamination. Dancing elemental rivers, sagas and oral transmissions near empty bright cold winter fallow fields as children stand bundled, waving goodbye at a station.

Long ago and far away in a language of land, ancestors, wants, needs and desires lived a heart filled with soft eyes and a wisdom mind of intent. 

Wnterhawk wingspread read air above winter's glide. I am free to live wherever I want. My only small imaginary fear is leaving the sky. As long as I stay below it I am safe. Do you remember flying when you were little, like now?

When, once you let go, how the air filled with wind welcomed you, how the calm air created endless space because you had no memory about it? How it was all instinct and feeling,

this bliss, this sensation

of being in the air passing through a long black tunnel and how a small white light waited for you and it was easy this glide like a smile or an echo

sensing the crisp vapor of rising steam off a river, the blue-green liquid of your dream landscape zooming over rising red rocks inside winter groves of tall quiet Aspen trees singing their bark, branches wavering

as your quick flick of strong delicate wings brushed their knowing, their patient reflection

dancing inside star trails because in your vivid Winterhawk reality you are destined to remember everything as the sky welcomes your wingsing.

The Formula

Greetings,

Red star flags catch wind above golden dragons nestled near crude rough red brick home boxes. Red balloons trailing yellow slips dance, trapped and held by rusting iron wires leading to a basketball hoop waiting for a net to catch a delicious fish

swallowing dust as sad-eyed freshmen drag their suitcases filled with dirty clothes home to mother where, in her undying love, she will scrub them on the 14 gray cement outdoor sink steps inside a cold reality smiling, knowing, feeling her daughter inside her again, inside her womb, her throbbing music of calloused hands scrubbing dreams

dreams of a simple day and time hearing melodious silver tubed chimes and a violin's laughter forming a voice, distant yet clear, forgotten yet remembered as the mother slows down to examine a thread - dancing colors blend her blood, speaking in long babel tongues as a soft morning wind greets star flags, singing new sensations...

Peace.