Laos
It's a walking meditation.
How do you spell loss?
What I called "memory" contained an entire world.
Imagination is memory.
A blind painter paints from memory. A blind writer. A blind poet. A blind musician.
Painted words of yellow laughter.
A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
The old monk in the shade reads to his 95 year-old blind friend resting/dreaming in a hammock.
The wailing infant gets a job as a siren on an emergency vehicle.
Once upon a rainy day Whisper paid attention to sensations.
Whisper paid Now.
Whisper is Now. Not Later.
A heavy deluge increased the density of murmurs and ideal idea voices sat quiet.
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.
Designing the charcoal elements of crisp fire as infants scream at talking heads women drive young ones crazy in out in out their tongues banging like pistons on a desultory 125cc engine propelled by virgins returning home with their unblemished shy dignity intact.
One woman fans skewered buffalo meat to a crisp.
A grandmother cradles an infant. She suffers from diabetes Type II.
Shuddering wedding photos are frozen on a wall. It never turns out like people imagine.
They breed, work and get slaughtered. They trade hands and hearts.
She skewers another hypnotic form of laughter to preserve her conversation.
Fat lost European tourists waddle past.
With an accusatory tone men get smashed on beer Lao.
A mechanic hammers one sharp line of description vs. mundane observation.
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