A circle of deflated quwi surround this extended rat-faced snake, yet not a single one pierced—poisoned, yes, bitten, no.
And now comes the farmer, machete wielding, farm communityjustice wielding, standing swinging over glutted serpent which
raises an wishedfor hand, sly smiling – my teeth are clean –
Quwi in hand, no marks no teeth, I should say but
obese ophidian?
I have just read somethingorother by soandso that has me thinking suchandsuch, and I wonder if it is worth writing about.
That which was read deals with the value of writing on topics of the prickly sort, while indicating way(s) of exit through gaps in the thorns – clearer yet: how one can cheat human obligation,
Life in Bolivia, no, better life in with poor Bolivia’s poor, has a tendency to slice at the conscience of the welltodo, like a double of té de sen before bed. The only way to avoid this uncomfort is to hide – in the non-reality-box, in like-unminded peerdum, in out.
So, to write here about this, or even that, I cannot help but painting a door on a wall offering up some illusion of exit, for me for us, just in case things get too hot. But this doorofpaint dop is, as noted, just illusive elusion, elusive illusion, a run at which would leave us with a bend nose and certainly confused reason.
So this is my inquiry:
1. Prickly Place with Escape
2. Prettily Place with Prick
3. Reality Unto Madness
?
She is a flower that nobody wanted,
receiving more in her days of death
than the ten thousand in which she lived
hidden beneath the world’s most beautiful weeds.
We try, we do, to see the sun rise, the azaleas yawning against the new day, the waters gathering like cocaleros hovering over the valley’s rim, but eventually and always our eyes turn to the dry, cracked ground, and the deep pink succulents crawling from underneath the devouring centipedegrass.
Why did it take this woman’s death to give her a moment’s fleeting voice, already more dissipated than last nights dreams?
Click the link below for a full sized version. My son, Nehemiah, has taken to drawing comics of late, at least a new one every day. I am just amazed at the creativity of this little 6 year old – and I TOTALLY dig the ending. Enjoy!
Sample of Nehemiah's Comic Art
Where we find ourselves, this place, this land, this people, this suffering, this happiness, this revelry, this dying.
It makes us love and hate, whereas before, though leaning close to such an emotional precipice, we remained safe, untouched, untouchable.
We have tried throughout our brief history to act without being acted upon, yet this has kept us away.
Away from the violence, the painful words, the rape, the isolation, the disease, the emptiness, the hopelessness.
Even standing here, we are tempted to set around us walls of glass.
We want to see, but not feel.
We will feel enraged, feel violated, yet in truth we have felt nothing at all.
The most difficult part of living in the midst of such manifest suffering, is knowledge.
Knowing that there exists enough food, enough water, enough resources of all kinds, to offer freedom, but there does not exists enough Compassion; this knowledge tortures our mind, the only escape being the rest of ignorance, of selfish distraction, of turning away.
Each time we sit to write, we ponder first the beauty around us, that is so present is the constant song of the birds by day, the opening expanse of stars by night, yet we tend to turn away from this to the pain set in this ring of joy.
It is pain that draws our attention, that makes us such as we are.