Prefer to be lost This is not a dis (

There are no straight lines 7/27/2025, Con/Jur/d Sitting zazen in the gazebo by the water the teens appear, cell phones, fishing rods, SPIRITS no longer embodied in Africa, in a genocide in a concert, in a music soon, like in water, in waiting for a jerk, a RIPPLE than ALL IN, scales flashing in light, focused, in body heart thumping, chasing GAZELLE long grass flattened by a herd And we're thinking of the time we told the TEACHER he shouldn't say straighten your spine but ELONGATE, like the body workers do, and feeling the curve, the WHITE wooden slats against my back, the hint of now ever present, but ignorable discomfort, they're just talking QUIET INTIMATE like only the young can do and they're talking about grieving loss, eyes closed, can see their hands touching the fishing gear, a promise deferred and how the TEACHER might have said there are no straight lines, we're on a ball ROTATING at an angle traveling as an ellipse SPIRALING, forward to points unknown even light gets bent gravity comes in waves SWIRLING TWIRLING our eyes shoot open when we hear the plunk see the bobber bobbing UP/DOWN on the rippled, lapping WATER.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 7/29/2025
Always fresh!