Wednesday, July 15, 2020

A Yew Tree at Midnight

Anxious monkeys plotting against death. Of course you should write me letters, and I will read them standing at the mailbox, and then tear them into pieces and burn them under a yew tree at midnight.

Amplified internal settings. Moderate climes.

Couples going hand-in-hand into the co-op. Freedom is actually not "just another word for nothing left to lose."

Talking in the closet. Silt on Jesus' sandals, my tongue, the world. 

McKenna's observation that "the universe does not build up such complex forms as ourselves without conserving them in some astonishing and surprising way that relates to the intuitions that we have from the psychedelic experience." If our lives were more openly and unapologetically conjoined.

Sun rising through red hemlocks, a loveliness. Yet all our days are numbered.

Loves which are no longer constrained to the narrowest of narrow stream beds. When you ask permission, when I give it, and then what.

Ways forward that do not involve religion. The confusion of Descartes continues.

In the eighth year we gave up on the Buddha and simply settled for happiness. I tell you there is another way. 

Water Moccasins are not the problem, child. Mad Gods are running the asylum.

No comments:

Post a Comment