The 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.
“History is a nightmare from which
I’m trying to awake.” And that feels
right, doesn’t it?
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!
