A Fly in the Ointment

A Fly in the Ointment

It is all fluttering away always and in different places. I never realized how entropy worked in life. As a young kid I thought it was just physics. It still is. So am I: a concept flying apart.

Driven until compelling ideas run out; extinction, not even a dinosaur.

I want. If we even know anything, then I would say, know well, “I want”. Get very close to I want: I & want, wanting.

Sitting here with the crumbs of my lemon poppy seed muffin, crumbling, crumbled. An entirety, as one hand or one arm; looking back, no, always moving forward: mountains, glaciers, seas; enormous brilliant being walking.

Sidewalks, stone masons, jack hammers, dreams; rhythmic, pulsing heart wanting this; just this; examining itself, just this whale rolling over in a sea of karma. Consciousness or not: compelled.

Man on a suicide mission avoiding source. It takes two but you are not two. What are you? One and three are not the correct answer unless you say so.

Delicious moments rise highly prized fashioning thoughts they appear differentially not necessarily what we thought they’d be or do.

Not unlike mountains or monstrous waves, whole ranges of being not isolate only alive even when plucked from the crannied wall, the one that is always there and no one sees, until we do.

A rainy day in the city: no lupine meadows, no view to a sky; wet and gray through walking umbrellaed and all the above. Precipitous plains of concrete; left over moraine, the ice age of a certain type of mankind.

Brilliant crepe: hermeneutics. These are important gems embedded in seeming background, already a jewel; hands painted on walls. 40,000 years: not very long at all. Did we walk here or take a taxi?

Enormous blonde lemon cakes slowly roll down mountains of chiffon gruesome sugary goo retarding the flow.

  

John Bailes/Kotatsu Roko :   Monday, 4 June 2012 :  Mr. Crepe, Davis Square