Running, running through the crowded San Isidro de El General town square, awash in punishing heat and light, and you just miss your bus, the only bus home, now 55 Kilometers stare you in the face. You buy a torta, a coke, find some shade simply wisely naturally you enjoy this little moment and accept your fate. Without a nickel to your name, you will have to walk.
Moving through the locals, passing the small sad Borucas you circle the stone cathedral and find the road that follows the low flow Rio General. You will cross its gravel pits and bridges, then head straight up the east-side of the steep coast range, the red soil falling from cut banks like blood on the land. You will reach the crest and keep going dropping down through the jungle, to the Pacific and travel 20 K more, past sparkling Dominical and the hammerhead ceviche stands across the sweltering palm plantations to your cinder block room and your loving Tico family.
So off you go, as slowly and unconcerned as a little burro, a dirty backpack across your shoulders, sandals your sun-bleached hair bobbing behind you in a messy bun, one kilometer, two… in a cloud of dust a pickup truck pulls over, “Hola Michaela!” You climb in and laugh, a friend of a friend. “Buenas.”
Peace-inner condition of mind- a quiet flowing river of invisible waves, sea wave of righteousness, money can’t buy. Peace-tranquility upon soul- calmness upon mind and body; those-you love-their home you make a resting place, your haters-upon them are disquiet and
Bloodshed, bloodshed everywhere Mere violence in the air Clouds of obscurity strewn about The sky of fateful memories. A terrible terror crammed In the inner core of the heart There’s no room for mercy now Retort hatred with hatred And
People are celebration friendly Celebrate when life shortens too Dancing, swinging and singing Saying happy birthday to you. People are celebration friendly Celebrate at the end of each year Romping, waltzing and caroling Wishing you happy new year. People know
Was it a summer storm of sexuality? Only the chaste statue stood in threads, and then went down the cuticle with nipple rings. The demand of namelessness was rising in the dim shadows of brisk tones. To step down from