Sunday, April 8, 2012

What You Can't Fake

It is the same old meditation always. Or should I say, leather strip on which several cheap gems have been quickly pasted? The store smelled of cigar smoke and called to mind swampy vistas from which tendril mist rose. I hid a long time in that cornfield and for what? What you can't fake, you are allowed to call your own.

Only? The moon sank through heavy clouds, peepers bade it farewell. Whiskey steadies one for the necessary introspection. Introduction? Well, we went more down than we went down last time and did indeed sense a dim light reckoning.

One ascends the way that Dublin fiddler in 1989 played her scales - gracefully, attentively, with deep - with abiding - affection. Without typing? You can't escape your kidneys so why fret about the brain? Love in bowling alleys. Love in plays.

Love always? One is determined to be saved and so reads Macbeth and everything by Pinter. Yet the zafu gathers dust, your ribs ache from breathing slowly, and at night you dream of blood. So the days pass. So you lift the heavy veil only to find another.

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