Sing a world body electric,
shout down Hollywood's Mekong memories.
Baud can carry
what so many were not allowed to breathe into air:
document the limb-less repercussions of a time
now silted with skulls beneath
too many mothers' memories.

My prayer? May the baud gods carry this traveler's saffron offering,
a transmission for change.
We all seek shelter under the satellite-heavy sky, whether in Buddha's welcoming arms or the shade of a monk's
wat-shaped umbrella
from all things hideously Rouge,
or White.

Who speaks now? It can be you.