Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

21 November 2009

"mom!  in the game theres a chicken named leia and shes a lot like you."

"In the name of the sacred coyote, get the fuck out of here, demons."

 what wonders wraught for the price of breathing these.  one boy in a gang asked me if i was taking pictures of dog turds.

apply the alchemy of mindfulness and Time and you would have to admit.

("'...and I'll pay for the headstone,' he said.")

i boogie out with american prayer
("...columbus' groin got filled with green death..."he said.)

saffron robes ike & tina dalai lama driver eight ear to the belly if you listen you can hear the ocean wombshell
boots braids beads i should have been a rawhide at the racetrack

preparing entirely in the psychic realm for the great migration at the tipping of the earth
art supplies knit a scapular for my classic choices i need to make before they may not be made

look.  this is what theyve done.


"The first step is to pee and make coffee, which I can deal with, and after that what happens is not in firm hands."

jimmy page, generally.

i dedicate this my offering to you.

the plants need a bahth theres too much light sometimes i need welding goggles to tone it down.

this new rap is like what it must feel like to twitter

here a series of postcards that i would otherwise not send


"...but it was comforting to have furniture that was all worn out by crazy people."

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Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)