Thursday, July 1, 2010

The Same Old Half-Assed Lotus

When you understand the first line may be written well after the last line, then you begin to understand the function of the twenty sentences. When I come to the first old bridge I either cross it or walk beside it in the brook, depending on whether the old dog is with me. On the steps, guilty with moonlight, a fine chunk of quartz dug by hand from the trail while it rained.

I sat in the same old half-assed lotus and watched Venus trace the inevitable arc while everybody slept. Yesterday in dreams it sounded better. A music produced by breath, that spooky resonance.

It is the application of any spiritual principle that matters, not its elucidation. What did T. say the other day - that Buddha gave up a Kingdom and Jesus was poor? The grass grows highest where it is never cut.

To Jesus that morning I said I'll go as far as you'll take me, will that work? Drove home thinking of frozen bologna and why I see so few yellow lilies anymore. The earliest remembered childhood was as if encased in glass, there was a shine to everything.

I write them just because. Or another way to say it is if you have to ask, then you have to ask. I won't answer not because I don't know but because I was never any good at answering and so I just gave up.

One friend was saved at a fair watching chickens, another while studying a fire hydrant through tears. I remember the day I fell in love with the idea of dust behind churches. You are always with me, even more than he.

Yet at the end of the day there is still this fear. Beavers work through the night, soft plashes in moonlight, heedless they are doomed.

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