“A morning glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.” – Walt Whitman I delight in me. I dote on me, but what is me? Sound of airplane is me. Tread of tires across a road is me. Two shoulders tired of throwing frisbees to an Aussie Shepherd. Coffee and cream …
Oh puppy waiting for a Frisbee. Oh dreams of last night. Planning to spill lead scratches out of my pencil here. Oh talent build me up. Oh gods and monsters tear me down for a later drama that sings like symphony. Oh titanium white bringing eye maps to my canvas. Oh pain in my thumb …
There is creation and only creation. Creation the only rule and the destruction of creation yet another creation. As erasing is part of drawing. There is hunting, but hunting is for feeding, which is for creation. There is the out, out outward motion of expansion. That pattern dominates all, whether it’s organization of matter into …
I hate to break it to you, boys and girls. But none of this is real. The feelings . . they seem to be real, but the joke of it is . . . those feelings you cook up are fuel for the entertainment of the whole, the all, the universe, the singularity – whatever …
Why is the squirrel not named wise in the fables like the owl? He twitches and rushes. He hunts vegetable nuts to save and hoard. He chitters about with a cranky bark. His tail flashes with nervousness. His eyes bug out as if in a panic. He plays silly games with the other animals. But …
