Footloose,
Untethered,
Stolen.
Or if you believe such things,
Simply slipping through
Invisible portals,
Vanishing without warning.
Worn out steps of dancing feet.
Previously confident ,
Across the path of practice,
Passages of musical time
Indefinitely suspended.
Once loved evidence of
Masterful pointes and whirling pirouettes,
Retired by inevitable exhaustion.
Hiding in plain sight,
Consumed by the greengrass cloak
Of enigmatic loss,
This mystery of misplacement
Happens to us all.
Like the consequence of stolen moments,
Disrupting the order of things,
It produces a void,
And a haunted memory of things
That can never be replaced.
Saturday
on the southern side of the island,
just past Leviathan Cottage,
a dead minke whale washed ashore.
Word traveled fast;
a steady stream of locals
stopping to gaze,
a sense of awe
permeating the landscape
of seagrass and rocks.
The shape and size,
contours and textures
of the corpse,
its briny scent
not yet replaced by decomposition,
and especially
the grand stillness
of this once living creature,
emanates a peaceful spirit.
Beached in the bardo state
before body parts disconnect
and dignity surrenders to putrefaction,
there remains
in this plangent reverence
a reminder of what awaits us all,
and the hope
that we too
have lived in grace.
Uncommon gestures and embroiled accidents,
Suggestions and half truths,
The rush to be home before dark,
Anything you don’t do yourself
Is hard to handle.
The fiction of our lives resembles dreams,
The importance of fighting for miracles.
There’s a lunatic pride in accepting that
It all starts with nothing but experience,
And for some,
A rich imagination.
Nothing?
Except being
Encumbered by crashing waves of
Chaos,
Conflict,
Desires.
It doesn’t make any difference.
Shoulder the belief that
when you escape your past
You’re not about to return voluntarily.
You’re not who you think you are.
Realize the number of imponderables in life.
And,
If nothing else,
Start with the glory of a summer evening by the ocean.
Start with the Hand Jive:
Slap both hands twice on your knees.
Raise your hands chest high, spread your fingers apart.
Hold the left hand above and parallel to the right hand.
Slide the left hand over the right hand and then reverse the process.
Pound your left fist twice on your right fist.
Pound your right fist on your left fist.
Touch your left elbow twice with your right hand.
Touch your right elbow twice with your left hand.
And so I say:
Been moving too long and not far enough
Behind there is a vacuous angle of an arbitrary turn
Close to the bone my senses are attuned to changes
Crawling into my own original space, I cannot remember any of the places I have been through
Distinctions pile up and run over each other
Effect has long since been separated from cause
Fatigue strangles my concentration
Hearing a joke I laugh with the downtown side of my mouth
I accept my words without attachment
I am here now and that’s where I’m looking, straight ahead, standing here, at this time
I am on top of my own collapse, riding it down like a freight elevator
I am thrown into a solitude of numbers
I distrust emotions that come directly from words
I don't want to become involved in priorities
I don’t pay attention
I feel the urge to create signals and signs
I have no intentions
I have no questions or thoughts, only the momentum braced and conditioned by a future turn
I have no sense of having come from somewhere or that I am, indeed, going anywhere
I have to keep these words moving to hide the emptiness
Overhead a blue light. Blinked twice.
An engine droned.
I haven’t gazed at the sky in years
I hear voices but don’t have the curiosity to distinguish individual words, preferring the hum
I need a haven to ensure myself a static interlude, a place where I won’t have to talk to myself
I need a task to give a focus, to prevent distractions
I would have preferred not to get into this
I would rather forget about time, wrapping myself into oblivion, if need be
I would rather maneuver among the politics of displacement
I'm open to a greater line
I’m not too well wrapped
I’m not trying to retrace my steps or find a guide
I’m played out
I’m trying to realize a focus before everything fades or changes too fast
In front there is the same proposition
It doesn’t matter that I have become inaccessible
It is a relief not to know where I have to go
Listen, I’m just trying to get through the night
Motives are hard to come by when the issues have discintigrated
Names and places move around me as well as inside of me
Never mind the map. The terrain doesn’t matter. You take what you can get
Not for relief, for balance, I need to state a resolution
Overhead a blue light. Blinked twice.
An engine droned.
Nothing picks up, nothing rushes forward toward an exclamation or conclusion
On top of my own collapse, I ride it down like a freight elevator
Perhaps this prepares me for the murder of my own solutions
Somewhere, in one of us, control lurks
Surely I know how to move through space without attaching myself to local definitions
The horizon is limited
There are moments when I’ve lost control, when I became too oblique even to myself
There are no more voices
There are no reminders, no hidden move with which to trip me back into the past
There is an emptiness I am unable to fill
There is no problem so there is no solution
There is no transition, beginnings having happened somewhere else
These last moments hint toward consequences
They comfort me when comfort is impossible
This is my own stumble through the night
To invent a problem is quite a shuck
When you come to the end of it you come to the end of it
Yet there is danger
You go as far as you can and then you don’t go anymore
And so it begins again…
Phrases found and collected from Flats by Rudolph Wurlitzer
Space is the place.
-Sun Ra
Enter into
this thing,
this place
this gesture.
Words get in the way.
Mute the mind
with a silent explosion
of all-encompassing wholeness.
Shhhhh.
In the dark, on the edge of the ocean
sense rather than see situations
of flux and uncertainty;
caress the illumination.
Neither look for
nor attempt to make anything happen.
You cannot manufacture serendipity.
Merely be open to its happening.
Liberate yourself wholly
from the amplification
of this modern world.
Defend against ugly cacophony,
ennui and stagnation by
putting your faith in the belief that
things are not what they seem.
In a state beyond texture and temperature;
Drop all expectations given by others.
We carry our home with us
wherever we go,
so no need to hurry.
Go in peace and grace -
unfold all eight right prescriptions
And let them be your map.
Wholly presence,
Obscured by the aura of noise
That has become our gross survival.
Survival is not enough.
Prepare yourself wholly,
with patience and presence,
quietly aware that everything
you need to know is present.
Lie down in crabgrass and daffodils.
Sing the body electric.
Allow time and tide to pass
without comment,
while wholly waiting out the turmoil.
Catch your breath and wholly embrace
the entirety of now,
finding compensation
for what you have lost.
Wholly allow the world to be itself-
winning the moment,
in the boundless sky
of patience.
Wholly waiting.
Be vigilant of temptations
whispering sweet nothings
in your ear;
this seductive noise of promise
for something better,
which you will discover
isn’t.
Know your heartbreak,
with confidence that it will pass
like a flash of lightning,
illuminating the immeasurable midnight sky.
Know the depths of uncertainty,
cancel your junk time subscription,
decommission your pinwheel of anticipation,
wholly distance yourself from the
antics of your mind.
The sacred is a reset
towards boundless mystery;
Be with that which is -
Wholly,
Wholly,
Wholly.
Absences speak volumes:
Cut-outs, pin-pricks, voids-
All full of potential.
Imagining nothing
Instead of something,
Leaving space for projections,
Forwards and backwards
In time.
There is the paradox
Of the hole,
From absence to importance.
But ask yourself:
Is the hole
something,
Or nothing
At all?
Sashaying to the Holey alter:
The hipster sez:
Lack is where it’s at.
And did the guy who postulated:
In the hole,
The Universe
Drew itself,
Earn a Ph. D?
The philosopher inquires:
With holes,
when does nothing
Become something?
How about something from an
Obscure law book in an imaginary land:
The hole is meant to obliterate,
But instead
It draws attention
Like water down
The
Drain.
And the rest of us might wonder:
When does lack
Lose its negative
Connotation to become
An affront?
Or maybe not.
Fullness
and
Emptiness
Through these holes flows
The air we breathe.
Highballing through the bubble wazoo
Sustained by a diet of excuses and apologies
This next breath an exorcism
Beyond the tyranny of compare and contrast
Black ants always fly together
Getting only so far with a shit-eating grin
Highballing through the bubble wazoo
Sustained by a diet of excuses and apologies
This next breath an exorcism
Beyond the tyranny of compare and contrast
Sustained by a diet of excuses and apologies
Black ants always fly together
Beyond the tyranny of compare and contrast
Getting only so far with a shit-eating grin
Black ants always fly together
This next breath an exorcism
Getting only so far with a shit-eating grin
Highballing through the bubble wazoo
The man with his fetish, like a baby with its blanket, has security
Fooled by the dribble of worry and waste
Voices berate me into making up stories that just don’t fly
While the moon-eyed girl blossoms in the scattered moments of jubilation
Hope never leaves you alone
I wish I were full of donuts rather than existential dread
The man with his fetish, like a baby with its blanket, has security
Fooled by the dribble of worry and waste
Voices berate me into making up stories that just don’t fly
While the moon-eyed girl blossoms in the scattered moments of jubilation
Fooled by the dribble of worry and waste
Hope never leaves you alone
While the moon-eyed girl blossoms in the scattered moments of jubilation
I wish I were full of donuts rather than existential dread
Hope never leaves you alone
Voices berate me into making up stories that just don’t fly
I wish I were full of donuts rather than existential dread
The man with his fetish, like a baby with its blanket, has security
In the fine art of dog play
Below the waist has its own set of values
Special messages revealed by babies, dogs and drunks
Always attempting to see what’s besides, behind, and beyond
Spontaneous messages of irrational knowledge
Delusions are usually necessary to get through life
In the fine art of dog play
Below the waist has its own set of values
Special messages revealed by babies, dogs and drunks
Always attempting to see what’s besides, behind, and beyond
Below the waist has its own set of values
Spontaneous messages of irrational knowledge
Always attempting to see what’s besides, behind, and beyond
Delusions are usually necessary to get through life
Spontaneous messages of irrational knowledge
Special messages revealed by babies, dogs and drunks
Delusions are usually necessary to get through life
In the fine art of dog play
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 