On the shammy, shamey seashore, the part where the ass meets the leg,
oily and somewhat sandy, tense in shadow, in my hand.
Chasing the dying year into the black hole, trying to pluck the last
bits, glean the last x-ray traces of dying topography, glean the very
last signals. Capture the very last crow, erase the very last posey,
the littlest white flower, the last husks of seed.
This is a season for losing leaves, love. When the trees lease their
loves and lose their leaves, the loaves and fishes will be there. Only
the loaves and fishes will be remain. Warm up your faith, brothers &
sisters. To operate electrically in this world one must have a strict
sense of the shit and the bullshit. Denial is, it's true, a pretty
great way to live your life, provided you have a pot to piss in.
There is no calm inside us. It's all chaos. Our task, we learn, is to
make a calm inside us, a calm place in there. Emulate the calm at the
hub of the wheel. Otherwise we'll get flummoxed by the intercourse, the
constant coming and going, bludgeoned on the subway stairs. Nobody
meditates on the subway stairs, after all; only the crazies collect
there, until the transit cops haul them off.