bloodborne pathogens.
and everyone in between,
harmonizing.
there was a man who had been to every country in the world and made a guitar with twenty five strings and drums for a heartbeat. he played for presidents and parliaments and underground churches and the taliban and north korean guards and the pakistanis who could have killed him on sight. he should have been dead young and his hands should never have opened, but he played and shouted to the lord, fifty countries a year. his voice was soft and high, like a young girl's and his hair fell well past his shoulders. it was as if he whistled all the time, through his throat, and as if his tongue were a spoon tapping against his tabletop mouth. why are you giving me money, he asked, i have no debts, no loans. it is the only way we know to encourage, with cash.
hanging our hammock over the cliff's edge, we wonder what we missed, which wrong plane we are roaming, and how do we climb higher to the right one. you never asked me to walk to the airport with nothing and wait for a ticket whisk me away. you said, if i commanded you, would you go?
i am no benny prasad.
