I don't wear red

Just finished watching a Glen Beck Jan 22 episode that dealt with Holodomor. This is an incident that has deeply affected my people.
I was raised to be unfond of communists and in fact there was time when I thought in basic idea it was theoretically equivalent to applied Christianity.... and then I became educated. Che, Mao, Stalin, Lenin, Hitler: all mass murderers, cold heartless killers using political agendas as covers for their malicious psychotic intents. The writers who espoused these philosophies, the same. Social Progressivism, Social engineering, Eugenics, whatever the cloak, the content the same.
My parents raised me not to wear red. I used the think it was odd. Now I understand and wish I could kiss their head and hands to have raised me this way-I don't wear red.

Gypsy Bacon

She lays naked and warm

Next to her purse with the things inside left to confuse the mice that come at night to visit

A swahili phrase book next to a card with

Hot rolls Dumb ass on it

 Thinking,  go ahead why don’t you take that one back to your nest and chew on that for awhile

They speak in high pitched tones

Like aliens who read from their prayer scrolls

Trying to gauge the freshness of the bacon

He bought from gypsies years ago as he sat across the fire in the desert

Fate-- he lay many nights in the cold plugged into the jacket that takes energy and makes heat in your jacket as the engine runs

After he lays many nights next to his motorcycle in the dirt at night wrapped in his Masaai robes he bought on Ebay.

He searches for the turkey bone and aluminum foil to make translators to listen to advice from the ants that crawl beneath his head so he can understand

How to get along with others as well as they do

He wonders how they manage to do their jobs for the benefit of the others

they live with while his thoughts always drift towards solo journeys

She looks over his shoulder now scribbling notes she can give to the people who buy her breakfast.

He leaves cryptic notes for help on the cafeteria tray that rides down the conveyor hoping that the kitchen staff wlll read it when they clean the dishes

He scratches the fish scales and cotton that line the roof of his mouth in the morning

Trying to taste what remains of the night air

that still lingers somewhere amongst the leaves that lay cold beneath the winter trees on the hard frozen ground

His dog barks outside tied to a tree after she does her business 

She comes in happy and panting waiting for her breakfast near her water dish

She lays then down upon her pillow

The Masaai men laugh at him when he tells the story as they sit across a fire in the night heat that keeps the lions away

Reminiscent of the time he learned from the gypsies that sold him his bacon

Sufi pants and vision

She makes peanut butter sandwiches to make our dog love her better

My dog laughs out loud at vacuum cleaner jokes

 she knows she does a better job when it comes to food.

She wears Sufi pants and dreams of large stitched canvases hung in front of museum windows with large patches of grey and charcoal and white and china red so they can be seen through windows from hillsides across from the parking lots of museums

The paintings are done in warehouses with white walls 

We sew 5 foot rolls of canvas, stitched together and gessoed 

before the paints are done on the floors and hung from the walls or ceiling in warehouses owned by the Drury’s who let him paint on the weekends in place no one has ever spoken or thought of...

The curator of the museum wants a large painting to hang on the walls

I saw it in my vision this morning after reading the Anthropologie catalogue

And I know it will happen