Friday, October 28, 2011


enough of this, do you know what is beautiful, that me and you, thousands of miles away, from one corner of the other, can touch each others heart out of love
There is a beautiful miracle in the morning sun, knowing that the night blankets you out of love, and then when I close my eyes, you will wake up and rise.
Love the scenic air, amidst the smog and dirt, love humanity, amidst the anger and hurt

the tenderest branches

Aye the tenderest branches within the heart

Love veins

pumping adrenaline rain

from the start

So I can breathe a little more

What was then, has festered and tore

The tree within me stands shaken

It's fruitless leaves far forsaken

For what once grew anew

dissipated along with the faded morning dew

What is left when the sun has dried me up?

Left the soul rotten and forgotten until the mind begins to corrupt?

The answer is the aching sighs of seashells made...

from where emptiness lies

Do you hear them whispering?


gentle hello


The volume of echoes low and paper thin

Sensitive cold long old and tapering

Monday, October 24, 2011


It seems being on this rock has been my way of recovery, like leeching myself of everything before, all the excess water, tears that never left and sweat that continues to stain, until I'm back to my basic minerals again.
Is it running away again? There's always something that is left behind when I do this.
Literally, I have been ill for a little more than a week; Typhoid, seriously. I even had the vaccination for it, but I guess that only did so much. Luckily, I haven't thrown up, which is one of three things I hate about being sick.
Mother left and arrived at America yesterday, so now I'm on my own. My family is here, but I still don't feel right about things.
I need to stop whining, it's putting me down a downward spiral. I've been having terrible nightmares of people who I don't want to think about, and sleeping has been very difficult, my mind just keeps on wandering off.
Just stop whining, stop thinking, just appreciate things. Why is that hard, blah that was whining too.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


Today, the sun kissed us at the Bay of Bengal. As sure as the sea salt wove its foamy fingers upon my goose prickled skin, it tasted like Bangladesh.

I rode the waves towards Bangladesh's oldest temple by speed boat.

Child labor is a normal thing here, not to be put socially to the same standards as Western views. Here, there is child labor because if there wasn't, children would have less ways to feed themselves, and still less likely to go to a non existent school.

The reason I speak of this was because that seemed to be my focus today, starting at the speed boat. The speed boat driver's assistant was a young boy, not more than eleven or twelve. His job was to sit at the tip of the boat to steer. By steer, it seems that steering meant to use his body weight to tip the boat along.

His face had so much fortitude in hardship, his blood full of the salt of sweat that long converted any tears he might of had. Hardened with dirt and caked in grim "do what I need to do" cement, he was a stone armored product of why children have been around longer than the word "fun" existed.

I looked at him and felt so much awe at his strength. I never got his name, just a picture...

Landing at the other side of the dock, past the dividing line of "fresh"water brown and sea water green (how fresh is debatable, though their term is "meashtie pani" which means sweet water, I'd say that is a more debatable term). I saw what seemed to be a fourteen year old rickshaw driver, he was so young, and he working in that type of life already.

What is the line between pure child and blamed upon adult? Innocent and guilty?

At the temple I took several pictures of little ones, they were more interesting to me than the sights. I fell in love with the Burmese women, selling their clothing, with shawls of beautiful patterns that D.C. girls seem to love. I thought of Sai and Tarika while looking at the designs. The women were so young and had peach colored designs painted on their cheeks and forehead. Selling in Bangla and making a living, getting married, and then having children who move on to do something similar.

I met a child named Ayatullah, asking if we wanted a picture taken on my camera. I took a picture of him instead. So many of them, not sure how they make ends meet, if they have parents nearby.

My longest encounter with the child labor force was with Rafique, the assistant to our driver. The back end of the ancient open roof truck did not lock, so he simply stood behind it, keeping it locked with his body weight. No seat, no barrier, just keeping on the end ledge in the Cox Bazaar traffic.

What makes these children smile? Running at each other with empty one liter soda bottles in epic sword duels, games of futbol if they can find a ball suitable...but not us. We are work, we don't make them smile, just help them on their living. Handing Rafique a 10 taka note, or the boatman's assistant, the Ayatullah...did not dent their faces (though Rafique had adorable dimples when he bashfully refused some sprite I offered him), it was just a part of life, not a reprieve in the sunlight, just another bit to the end of the say sum total of the cost of rice and lentils, maybe fish or some other meat if possible.

These children, they make up the future cogs of the human machine, one that is being stream lined in Bangladesh's digitization. Where will they be in a future of high rise building and natural disasters predicted by the onset of Global Warming? I want them to have a place here, well it doesn't matter what I think, look at the speedboat's assistant, he has hardened himself to handle anything, regardless of where his joy is placed.


If you came back and saw that I was no longer a stream to cool your face with, but covered in hardened rock and ash, would we still be friends?

If you came a bit later and found out that lightning struck and I've become the rushing waterfall, could we still be friends?

Today I was kissed at the Bay of Bengal by the Sun, it tasted like the salt of Bangladesh.

Every second I danced upon each stone step, waiting to be set free, I felt the shock of His grasp and felt the roar of His praise tear me asunder

For before I was the fish of your sustenance when you dallied by, used up by the sweltering heat, the volcano burnt me till there was nothing left for anyone, including myself.

In the dark I craved the Light, and now my anger has been tempered to swallow everything until I melt into the Ocean

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Short story for the action junkie

He grasped the cold hard grip of the rifle close to his chest, hugging the automatic's iron stock tight against his shoulder.


There was his mark, two, three, no four troopers clad in red fatigues laced with dark gray body armor.

He relaxed his finger on the trigger and unhooked a grenade from his belt pouch. About thirty meters above in the cover of a shadowy air duct, he had about five seconds till they walked past his vantage spot unaware of a cross hair on their six.

He threw the bomb lightly, letting gravity drop the device neatly between the first two troopers.

Ping, ping

Solder 2 looked down...

Shrapnel propelled by the blinding light of the explosion tore his upper body messily off from the rest of his torso, scattering his left arm in one direction and the remains of his head in another.

Soldier 1's leg tore off and the rest of his body was flung off ahead of assumed course.

Soldier 3 was blasted off slightly back, his corpse laid neatly on his back in final slumber.

And four...was nowhere to be seen.

Moving his gun towards the darkness of where his last target should have been, the Corporal began firing in sprays, recoil driving his shoulder ajar after every round of burst fire...

Hitting nothing

Fight or flight, this was the way of things. Mark Four could have done the latter, but if he was laying in wait...then what next?

I'm a sitting duck-thought the Corporal-the Corporal the spook could call for back up too and I'd be finished.

Sweat sliding of his cheek, he watched the transparent drop fall down to the floor. He took of his backpack and threw it down to the floor, listening to the distinct thud.

No movement

He then took a clip from his pouch and slammed it as hard he could down the drop near the backpack.

Laced with extra gun powder, the cartridge exploded with the burn of the fuse, expelling bullets left and right in makeshift cover.

No movement...yet

The Corporal then proceeded to work his rope downward towards the exit, creeping silently down towards the gray floor.

Ping, ping

The blast flung the Corporal upwards in sway, his body swaying in a the air in a dance of suspended death as shrapnel much more effective than his last trick cut through the cover of dark.

Soldier 4 crept forward to inspect the damage of his grenade. Solemnly acknowledging the remains of his brethren, now re ripped by the second explosion, he found a tattered backpack cold on the floor. He kicked the pack to reveal the corpse underneath.

Hand on the trigger, suspended in the air with the rope still swinging him back and forth, the Corporal aimed his iron sight in line with his last Mark, 15 meters away below him, and squeezed, feeling the recoil of the cold hard stock jerk against his shoulder.

The red clad Trooper's helmet jerked downwards as if hit by a sledgehammer, ejecting a spray of wet gore as his goggle's wept blood. His body crumpled into a limp slump, resting upon the pack.

Corporal Lin relaxed his arms and with one hand touched his burnt face, fresh from the heat...even at the distance from his rope trick, the blast was still tremendous. He took a knife and cut down his rope, dropping down the the floor, legs sprung underneath in a deep thud. He inspected the carnage around him, moving the last trooper away to pick up his pack.

He coughed, "I need a cigarette"