The Game

of not-a-game

Strange indeed, dare I say, weird? It began in snow:

and ended in the 70s, listening to HW in shorts and a T-Shirt:

Sometimes (Often), I edit for days, picking at certain poems. Usually, I don’t bother reposting pieces, but sometimes I really prefer the rewrite, so edited from last week:

And a bit of rude fun — Much needed this week:

3 Histories, 

out of many: On

wiping one’s a$$

Con/Jur/d

They say,

Dogen Zenji had rules

for wiping your ass;

he was a fanatic.

He had a point though.

When living in the ahistorical

some people need rules:

Their culture

their families

their parents and grandparents

their aunts and uncles, siblings

both real and imagined, their kings

their queens, their bosses, and teachers

their gods and idols, their cops and judges,

their doctors and plagues, their neurosis and

voices, their desires both real and conditioned,

their murderers, troops, and private in and out

securities and other enforcers of culturally 

conditioned suffering, in other words,

history has gone,

gone, gone -- Quiet.

James Joyce wrote

“History is a nightmare from which

I’m trying to awake.” And that feels

right, doesn’t it?

Terrence Mckenna,

Having bought into the linearity of it

just not the nightmare, predicted it would end.

He was right. It always does.

Never in the way you expect.

If it did, you wouldn’t need to practice,

even when wiping your ass.

Enough, ya’all. See you through the pane!