Story

He told her a story when she wasn't looking.
She was watching contrails in the sky,
Criss crossing the pale blue,
Merging with clouds
And each other
To form foamy, cumulous words.
She would never remember what the story was about:
There was a girl,
And a moon,
And something about tides,
But it came from no where,
Caught her off guard,
And was over
Before she realized the sky was all in Mandarin.

She turned to look at him,
Saw how the vaulted reflection
Turned his grey eyes periwinkle.
"What?" she asked.
"Hmmm?" he responded looking up
(He could read Mandarin)
"It was nothing.
Just the way the sunlight was dancing in your hair."

Thread pt 1

He plucked at the thread of her,
The blue and the red of it;
The wire wound throughout him
Like a faint sinew
Holding all the parts of him together.

It was knotted into him:
Bound around nerves and dendrites,
Coiled through his fingers and toes;
It colored his vision a vivid hue of wonder;
Was so woven into his heart
It couldn't expand,
Contract,
Without sounding out her name.

I Want Another Big Mac

To understand ourselves as appetite. To give over to the dark, hungry parts of our brain as it scrambles over the filters of our intellect, clawing through our senses to the outside world.

To give over to the slavering desire to escape ideas and abstraction, to touch, taste, FEEL the world as though grabbing a live wire and drawing directly on the sensual current.

Here there be monsters.

Tea With Sarkozy and Lou Dobbs

in

“Alongside the already heated debate over the place of Muslim, African and Asian immigrants in European societies, the debate about the Roma could call into question one of the basic tenets of the European Union: the rights of its 500 million citizens to cross internal borders.” - The New York TImes, Dispute Grows Over France’s Removal of Roma Camps

Interesting how when the Western European countries wanted to roam the world availing themselves of whatever resources or opportunities could be found, it was considered a golden age of civilization, but as the scions of empire find their way back to our door steps, sans plagues, and swords, and guns, mind you, it’s some kind of unholy invasion.