She sat on the shore and watched the sea. She watched the sea so intently, and for so long, that she could see the tides rise. She could discern that gradual shift from among the undulations & sea state changes. But she was seeking a ship that would never return.
Bury the ordinary,
but make sure to
chop it out at the roots.
Nothing grows back more tenaciously
than the commonplace or the quotidian.
Sometimes what grows
back from those roots
looks entirely different,
but it's still mundane.
It has the same feel,
even when it has a
very different look.
Kill it.
Murder it.
Chop it up.
Bury it,
and let it die the death
of the forgotten.
Fast-forward to the end! Turn to the last page. People want to know how it all turns out? What lies in the great beyond, and what makes it so great? What will rise to the top of one's soup of possibilities? But some little animal, crying in the darkness, doesn't want to be jetted to the end -- just so that it can know that it all turns out okay. It wants to slip into the now and wear it like a snuggy.
Some speculate about
the edge of the universe,
and what exists beyond.
But that edge - if it exists -
is beyond another edge:
the farthest points
from which we can see light.
In a tower
on a mountain,
there's still an edge
of our eyesight --
like the others,
it's an edgeless edge,
signifying nothing
but our own limitations.
We are builders
of edgeless edges,
fashioning boundaries
that don't bound anything,
but by which we are bound.
He who would know freedom
must be ready for the fall,
ready to be untethered.
Freedom is not
floating on a cloud;
it's riding the rapids down,
trying to get one's feet first,
so that one breaks a leg --
and not a skull --
on the rocks.
It was a moment of silent spaciousness. In the midst of a fight, there was no enemy -- just the effortless dance of the thing. That moment expanded to the infinite, & snapped back to one tick after the tock. Since then, no catastrophe has felt too great for a smile.
It's such a peaceful cone,
but I think of Krakatoa.
How much patience
can a volcano have?
It's got just the two speeds:
static & exploding.
A human, given those choices,
would choose to spend its time
in explosion.
The calm of perfect stillness
could last only so long
before it made one itch
and scream.
Someday, it will blow its
beautifully symmetric top,
leaving a jagged rim,
and smoking like a
postcoital movie character.
a flock of pigeons mills about in a lazy dance, pecking and shifting then explode into panicked flapping, as they wheel about, gaining spontaneous unity, reaching investigation mode, they bank heavily, like a C-130 gunship -- a Puff the Magic Dragon -- pivoting onto a target
it's beauty & chaos & pristine vistas & unfiltered slop soup & kungfu fighting animals, madly mauling each other but it's also creatures pulling critters of another kind out of the mud pits sea turtles keeping afloat sailors pitched overboard it moves in mysterious ways, but never malicious ways it's savage & vicious, but knows not evil -- for evil is solely the domain of the labeling class it knows not virtue either, the closest it knows to goodness is the experience of experience the Now, a moment unfolding with the least possible effort, and with no thought whatsoever
Born from the Black, He wormed through the World. He dove into Death, Vanishing back into the Black.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 