Any moment now that old guy at the other end of the counter could run up, slam down his coffee mug, and shout “you don’t know it yet” … and he’d be right.
The sage can, at a glance at range, disentangle and decipher all those mad quirks that make you so special. With a wink he can bare them to the world.
He generally doesn’t bother.
i put down the notebook
and pickup the laptop
i want to go to sleep
but there are no words
You’re not so good at hiding it any more. You’re barely keeping it together, and they are on to you. It won’t be long before they drag it out of you, your defining moment, the fulcrum on which your life revolves. You last hope of solace is hinged on the empty hope that it really wasn’t so bad. It stings when you remember the time an ally laid fallen begging for mercy and you looked the other way. What does the audience look like for that event? From what I can see from here, through the lights, in the shadowy balcony, it looks like Selfishness, seated next to, possibly, no it’s beyond me.
I came back inside and prepared to meditate. I was just about ready to begin when I noticed a near by light. I leap up in the name of all that is good and holy and I rush over to turn it off. I stub the hell out if the ball somehow of my foot. Blood bleeding pain. And a failed attempt to fix it.
Ally! I am going to try again!
(is that a pool of blood?)
(probably not but that’s excruciating pain)
(just kinda throbbing in a disconnected void where one imagines a toe. But in this dimension the dominant aspect of toe is pain)
(If I write hard enough the pain goes away, but when I pause it’s straight back to the third aspect of Toe in the world system currently known as Dislocated Broken Pain. A million years ago)
I think and look and it’s Wednesday and I still haven’t let my mind wander to that 70s psychedelic mix I made, must’ve been three days ago now.
The last time was amazing, but I kept popping out of it to write.
I think I am afraid of having an experience that I can’t document, hell I can’t even see a coffee can without writing a poem.
Every time I decide to meditate I need one more cigarette first. Maybe some coffee, or a light snack, and maybe a quick redesign.
Isn’t it Wednesday yet? Yes, just now I have stayed up all night plotting out how an atheistic nihilism frees one to explore the ineffable. Frees one to explore the infinities from which we are projected.
I keep seeing orbs. Glowing in trails in and out of what we have to call reality. And glimpses of a face. And the magnitude of that. The split deep within of knowing that face and pretending I don’t. Pretending it could be something else.
The universe is full of magic and loss.
And I’m going to meditate.
Right after this cigarette.
