Only women selling sex wear shorts in this part of the world -
my legs expose me to his desire for me.
He wants me, to climb on top of his motorcycle, for a ride to his home.
We are in the midst of jungle, on the border of Vietnam and Cambodia.
I hear gunshots, from combative people, not so far away.
I look into the eyes, of this man, staring me down.
I see the boy, who took up a gun,
to defend his home, and village, from invasive offenders.
The boy studied the science of killing, until he graduated into manhood,
this boy grew up learning to kill, so he became a man who only knew death.
This man standing before me is dead to this world -
we occupy space on the same Earth, but his reality is from another planet.
There are no grounds for mutual concept, of normal, or common sense.
Women sell themselves cheap, when they allow their children, to kill their children.
It is a crime against humanity to bomb our children.
Even though I recognize the original essence in this man,
he no longer recognizes himself, the child in the boy, nor the boy in the man.
He toys with the pistol in his pants, the barrel tucked down against his groin,
his hand grips the metal framework of what is left of the handle.
Behind me the aquarium tank heaves, full of live snakes, slivering to be free.
On my forehead beads of sweat form.
The sweat trickles down like tears into my eyes.
The salt stings, I feel the stickiness of diplomacy.
I am searching for common ground, grounds for mutual consent.
In my heart I bridge the distance between us by visualizing
the boy of no threat to see me as a girl not threatening.
the boy of no threat to see me as a girl not threatening.
As my mind stills, the energy of the man standing close to me calms.
I envision that he now imagines me as neither victim, nor aggressor.
The look in his eyes changes from lust of violence, to desire for peace.
Our stand off does not mount, he climbs onto his motorcycle alone.
He leaves, touching me only with the vulnerability of his humanity.
I leave, touching him only by embracing his childhood not his manhood.
We part without any words passing between us.
Compassion is a weird sticky form of harmony –
a dance with a stranger’s Soul to the silent stillness of the music hidden within.
Communicating passion for peace is a extraordinary form of Self-governance,
heartbeats must unify to orchestrate and play out the gentle notes of forgiveness.
~ Other People's Fingerprints ~
Sometime after 1872 Bertrand Russell said;
“Our world has sprouted a weird concept of security
and a warped sense of morality.
Weapons are sheltered like treasures
while children are exposed to incineration.”
~ Other People's Fingerprints ~
Sometime after 1872 Bertrand Russell said;
“Our world has sprouted a weird concept of security
and a warped sense of morality.
Weapons are sheltered like treasures
while children are exposed to incineration.”
