A bouquet of slight discomforts
within a space of relative ease
within a realm of subtle suffering
all ease may be illusory
except for true ease
in which too–tight jeans don't exist
there is no squeeze
because it is all fluid
Anyway, I left a pot on the stove.
I wonder if these jeans will break in.
There are no wheelbarrows around here--
shall I write about my desk?
It's all stained with sumi ink.
My brush rests on its dish, drying.
Meanwhile, I've got some back pain--
it's not too bad.
John is dead—five years now
and how about Emily D's description
of her own death? A zone to explore.
John is dead—have you heard the news?
The skin turned yellow and he said goodbye
many people don't get the chance
bombs dropping now, elsewhere
I learned about a theory that all those power–hungry folks
on TV are motivated by existential dread
They chew their food, and shit, and get cancer
just like the rest of us
Turn yellow and it all dissolves
and somehow it brings them comfort to
grasp after a sense of power over the universe
I enjoy a bit of validation now and again as well
I think they may be a bit indulgent
Bloated folks taking their seats,
farting into expensive leather
no one is bothered because the speech is
far more rank
the ozone is slowly rubbed thin
the wider cosmos is unbothered
a sun is swallowed
a galaxy swirls
a fly buzzes
I woke up before dawn and the moon was
hanging up there with Venus
it looked like a half–eaten piece
of cheese (I'm vegan)
I called my congressman yesterday, first time,
asked that he skip the inauguration
said it would be a gesture of courage and sanity
Mind ain't tidy like a wheelbarow perception
all the time and blabbering is no less sacred
The wheelbarrow is rusted and comes apart
as does the chicken and Emily D
John is dead—cares not about a wheelbarrow
Good to notice the glistening secret and absurd to
grasp after it
There's more power in candor—Allen, candor--
Cantos is a beast
a big achievement, I'm sure
a waste of time, maybe
the wheelbarrow is rusted
the dust is touched by dumbness
and within the exchange
splendor overwhelms entirely
the assumption of conquering anything
except resistance to the undertow
Gonna check on that pot.
Twelve birds flapping in formation
just barely visible above the rooftop out my window
A little consideration
tingling in my left arm and heart–space
thinking about the virtue of crafting something beautiful
Couldn't I say something sweeter about the birds?
I think the answer is to train, to become so steeped in poetic language
that it flows, is uncontrived
and then there's a bit of leaning in as well, I think
a bit of exertion
Travis: read more poetry
swim in poetry
Then you can say what you say more beautifully
and it won't be forced
ALL NATURAL POETRY
Poetries which are uncontrived, but beautiful because the mind has been conditioned to generate poetic language, and to perceive subtly. CTR: "Thoughts become more elegant."
So: One side of it is meditation / dharma. The other side is poetry — reading and writing.
Cultivating both of these areas is a good mix.
That's what I'm going for.
Grasping after elegance is clumsy
Somebody is buzzing my phone
My progress is being monitered by devices I can't perceive
the results are spit out in my dreams
I'm just — don't say that. Don't turn and yap at me.
Remember those dudes in Washington Square Park, nodding off, pretending to tie their shoe laces.
Phone buzzing and buzzing. Gotta remember to hit that crescent moon button: "Do not disturb."
And last night I thought:
Somewhere between mingling and manipulating.
That's the sweet spot.
Yes, I'm bringing my language into this, my history — where is my body? What does it mean to write about the body? Maybe I don't have to think about my body as much since I'm a white straight dude.
Body: how did Mendicant define it last night?
Body of work
Body of water
Body — as distinct from mind and speech
I am a rusting red wheelbarrow
my jeans are too tight
I've resued the brew from the stove and drank a cup
trying not to get sick:
garlic, ginger, lemon, red pepper, honey
Yesterday in dance class: feeling like I am making an effort
to enter the room
to be among others
to proclaim: I am here among you
panic — how clumsy am I?
At the Amodeos, always sneaking around to get what I need:
offer protector tea, a spoon of peanut butter, a banana,
When will I be able to exhale and say:
Here's what's happening with me. I like this and this, and I don't like that and this, and I just need a bit of this and that. I'm not out to hurt anyone. I feel anxious about my evolution
and I'm kinda doing what I can.
MLK was telling like it is.
My message is not so bold.
Torturous to have such expectations. Remember Phish in Mexico — so relaxed and just there to jam, to do their thing. And back on NYE so message–heavy.
Tight jeans. Do the work. Cultivate the mind. Cultivate the abilities. Show up.
Ain't that tidy?