Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

We Buddhas Dig Ditches

A white rabbit crosses my path & I laugh a whole-hearted laugh so lustful for life its all I can do to laugh & forget for an old man who sells me grass & buys me drinks & thinks that I am smart enough to do something, so I says to him, I says, "I've got my hands full of something doing damn near nothing at all!" This is no lie. Wadded in my pockets are all these words & everyone is using them to create each other out of what they believe they know with nothing to show besides these words. Oh lo & behold- we live in an over-abundance of words with all relation relying on miscommunication yielding the strength of a Sheppard to the herd.
I dream to be no Joan of Arc. Let my false prophesies be lost as drunken ramblings. I know nothing & I know nothing well. God-fucking-Bless this mess of little big dances we Buddhas dig at the end of an endless world of whirl as we know it knowing nothing we don’t know so let us show charity & love like a dharma dove of fear.
Sometimes I still hear her breath in my ear though I am learning how not to tell her everything I don’t know. Perhaps she still loves me in her frontal lobe but if this is so then it is my curse not hers. So which came first? Her love or my lust? My love or her trust? How could we say when these words mean a world of difference to each of us? All I can say for sure is that like all the other energies of the universe, love is neither created nor destroyed & we have all been rolling around in this bed beneath the sheets for all of timeless time. Sometimes I could give a shit about taming the ox of my mind just to skip to the city to drink red wine with the butchers, stumbling through the streets screaming, "Fuck the Eastern Skies of Nirvana & the Western Skies of Heaven!" My salvation can be bought in a bottle at 7-11. I expect nothing from transcendence besides a high, for as Alice knows, we will never die & we all sigh when the lows flood like the mud of the Mighty Mississippi creeping her peaks.
So let the world find that which they seek. As for me, bring me back as a rat or a maggot or an anonymous ant burned alive in the backyard grass of some suburban boy with a magnifying glass. My flesh of failure is familiar, stinking of a lust for life more than meaning.

-Mathieu Paul

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