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
