That's pretty much the last thing I learned on this crazy planet. Last as in the most recent and last as in the Be-All-End-All.
When I was a boy, the moon was home
comfortable in my lunar dreams
Now I live in a giant plastic egg besides the sea
spending the warm evenings on my hill of clover flowers practicing headstands
spinning socks full of sand to strengthen my shoulders
looking one way into the colorful glow of light-polluted Tokyo
looking the other way, a cypress forest enclosed in a black protective mesh and the sounds of the tetraheydron concrete enclosed ocean shore washing weakly at the crusty scab of a city;
a well dressed scab
straight ahead, barely visible, is the brown-rouge outline of Fuji
one thing never changes
wherever I go
Better for it, I can't climb mountains with a bird in my hand.
-
Wild dreams while sleeping on the floor of a university classroom:
We are falling
you and I
But thats not necessarily a dream
The dream is that I taught us how to fly
I flew home
and I had it all
the perfect house
more relatives and friends than I could count
wealth, style, and security
and I was terribly sad
"I just want to go to Nepal," I thought
as I ran streaks through the rich Scotch alcohol with my manicured index finger
A sort of anemic sadness
until I woke up
overjoyed
that I was homeless
-
Its out of my hands - bloody as they are
I can't catalog the accumulated experience of my absence from the world
I dropped the rope on the tug of war between understanding and experience
I'm not even sure which side I was standing on
Whatever, let it roll
these changing winds
it's the only thing that makes sense
when things get this out of hand
why try to capture with pen and paper
what even the full force of the mind is incapable of surrounding?
I can't say its all a waste of time
Why, just this afternoon
I used my journal as shoehorn
