write me

sometimes the things i write, write me. this is coming. i feel it. backbuilding. this always happens before a creative surge. the room of the gods, not thusly called but by me, where in the fine arts museum i encountered them all. shiva, kali, many whose names i cannot remember, some headless, the many armed, the ravenous, the vicious, the immortal.

i stood in their presence, feeling the timelessness of space.

such power.

the demon god whose backlighting illuminated shadows of fire on the wall behind him. almost eerily. but i didn't look away from his half crazed eyes. i see you. i nod and move on. the folded legged buddah, how many incarnations of the buddah there are. the goddesses whose torsoes only survive, still frozen in perfection. the fertility goddesses whose vulvas seemed rubbed raw with time and touch, head missing, breasts heavy with the milk of ages.

and the samurai, blades and sheaves, all that is left of their fierce legacy. headless helmets of greek warriors. greaves, legless. i looked into the hollows and saw the faces once present. the eyes that knew too much of death, too little of lounging in a woman's arms in peacetime. these phantom warriors looked back through time at me, and i bowed and walked away.

to the crypt where egyptian carvings, ankhs, dogs, hawks, mummies were displayed. their stylistic adornments carved even into the insides of the caskets (or what were they called then, sarcophogi). i leaned over, wondering if i'd fall headlong into yesterday when these bodies were fresh and embalmed, void of eyes and innards, wrapped in linen cloths, heavy with beaded dressings. such beatuiful memorials. such lavish keeping of the dead.

there was one coffin carved, no two, with a man and a woman on top. these two lovers entwined forever, buried forever. the one woman's breast was exposed, he is forever inches from it, his hungry mouth, gaping forever. i wondered why they didn't just let him have her, one lasting time. i wished it for them, but they may have had their fill in life. i wouldn't know. and the other two, discreetly holding each other, twined together, her breasts hidden beneath their arms. perhaps he wished to hide her there, to hold her as all his own, through the ages. who knows.

and the horses from the tang dynasty. ceramic. frozen mid scratch, one, white. the other jostling his head, black. two other had women midgallop, stretching out, the sign said,

playing polo.

but i wonder that the asians had polo. that it wasn't some eurporean bullshit, which it probably was, that the asians kept their identity.

there have been so many times, i've seen an asian something and longed for that ability to withstand fierce attack from the outside and keep my identity, my culture, my traditions in tact. sure they are changing now, but how many thousands of years have the asian people defined themselves. lived by their own rules, died by their own swords. gotta give 'em props for that.

and the goddesses call to me,

write me.

and so i will.