In Some Remote Disco

These sentences are for my fellow spiritual nomads, may our paths not falter beneath the intense vagaries of time and desire.

What answer do you think your questions will produce and is it the one you want.

Butterflies in the garden, stop insisting on anything else, stop even asking for anything else. 

The mirror you are, the message.

Travel plans that suddenly include Canada.

False absolutes.

Writing saves you from time, it ends time, it preserves something against time, is this a helpful way to think about it.

Pausing by the lilies, bowing to the lilies, getting religious with the lilies.

Oh so you want to talk about masks now, great, give me a couple months to read up, I've always wanted to.

Dust motes in a narrow beam of sunlight, childhood was not so bad, was it.

Gray's observation that "Europe owes much of its murderous history to errors of thinking engendered by the alphabet."

She wakes early, comes to find me in the nearly-broken lawn chair by the backyard birch tree gazing at distant hills, writing utensils fallen away in dewy grass, and she sits with me a while without speaking.

Are we, then, merely spectacles?

One pushes back on Schopenhauer, yet wonders if there isn't something there to learn still.

Cold pizza, yum.

The wetlands drying up, the herons flying away, the turtles going to war over whatever mud remains.

Here it's hungry goats, lol.

Giving her head in the barn in late afternoon, not wanting it to end, wishing I could serve her this way forever, never reach the rapture, yet when she comes - hips bucking, back arching, fist against lips to stifle come-cries - all I can think is okay my turn. 

Means of divination I will not eschew. 

The cardinal error of mistaking the limits of perception for reality itself, may we all be forgiven, may we all begin again in some remote disco, ecstatic between all the dancing Christs, and stars the only mirror ball we need.