The wind thus begins our laundersome wandering, parting the turnips in the eternal moment, where I have lost my knots, and hark Oh Great One, how every thought is a divine being, born of our breath. Out there where there are the andisomi and ines, I lack the glow of coals but make up for it in warm lingerings, like bedside ballets of mice and grays, twice today I looked and saw the moon, spilling the pasta, remembering nothing, those old things, well I guess I remember a few, but they are gone from me and newly now, I go renewed like the cardboard boxes deep into their recycled journeys of reincarnation and moments waiting, waiting bend me, like Roger, or leave and I'll bother with the whole deal myself because they saw a lot these days about pepper and the fall of the rain but I'm just picking the white strands from the grass, what could it have been, some silent blessing passed like oil in your sacred pan which we rode together with upon that field of no light or dark, I hugged you tightly then, on some axis fated by time to render us a country side of wonder, a bright daze of simple sayings that could have been the beginnings of lesser worlds, such is your mystery, such is the lesson of your mexican hat, which I coveted once, but no more. At the fruit stand, I sat on a mat of my own creation and when I could I spoke to myself, no one had ever been there, but I was grateful for the groupings like a leave, coming to know its own tree, or like a french fry tasting the salt for the first time, so much is proven the same, the motions of those beings with no need for names, feeling deeply into the miasma of our subconscious tapestries like old caterpillars, fairies of another class. I brought the water then and we basked there on the mountain hill, in the sky, while the world passed in its way, it had never made sense to me, and yet it made so much, and now our sprouts do grow inside, and little life makes me feel alright and different, light, easy in a way, I put on my skirt of horizons and dance about the fields, reeling because there was a time when I would not believe this possible, but among rosewood and yellow bellies and all the quiet yogis of the village had come to give a toast like the fruits and like the baskets, its true, bashful hills, bashful mounds, come and we'll have a spelunkering, the rain is truly petals of the flowers of joy and our arms are the baskets which hold earth's happy gift. Oh the rushing sounds, the cycles, within the cycles, and the stillness. Rushing stillness, like a burning note in the waves, of our hellos and goodbyes. still our souls are no more than popcorn in the warmth of your small love waves such is a true family joined in love a tribe by no small part of doing the fairy mischief and the sweet sent of so many temptations leading us all on our paths and habits to the great unknown where I imagine myself waiting for myself, again I don't covet the hat because theres clouds which'll be following sometimes and the drum of my heat pounding these notions to my mind, what a hat but box for this pure genius but you'd be leaning over, puking, not for the lack of wanton awkward homosexuality but for the divination in all these strange, hereby coming star folk and changing ones, why can we no longer sit peacefully and simply, maybe on a hill and throw stones of idleness, now it is the idols which have pulled us, all full of the spirits, and the spirits, and we are here, and the conspiracies are worth a laugh or two, or a few cigarettes, or a half finished mused about some made up story that never happened, oh our empty inept lives, bless them, and the taoism which brings them their proper walloping, by the night I've walked out, we've had merriness, the blooming and the little lies which make it all so much more of a indifference, as guitars and such, and songs and actors, but all of them, I don't know. You've just realized where you stand in the world, though the world is nowhere, I digress, you've just understood those calls become more real by degrees, and whats it all balanced on? Well I have no clue myself, and as tradition grants we wander and marinate in it for the centuries on and on, wet on the inside, dry on the outside, passing the cobble stones, making them pebbles, imitating the deerfolk, dearest to our hearts, but what? Out there, the outdoors, she kills me everytime, send me back deep, as if something was there, and again I'm staring at a wall, this is punk rock I think and snarl at all the batteries, and the music is tinny and forgotten and theres only one hope and thats in making it to the river, and I have a go at the wall with the knife and then realize it is all a dream. But the morning hits and sadly I had not reached the distant plain, I had not explained any definite meaning, left with a buddha and a childhood memories of the first high, and the mystical rendering of such mundane boisterisms, as the ganj can drop on one. To eat the fire, some sacred rite, like the kilt and like the night, its all one big abstract to the girl, who we don't say much to passing, she thinks she knows something hidden, I've vowed to keep her secret, and I am an honest soul. The spirit is something I've wondered much about, though I've just recently realized it, at the church at night, drunk and the trees preach their breeziness, this could not be all so bad with the seeds and the leaves spilling from the pockets and the old little bits of litter that I picked up from the other wood and had brought and not knowing I would never be able to restore their former glory, I gave up, and now they are dirt, because it has been many years. Or hopefully it will have been, but time is strange, now the russian girl comes round, from her rounds and gives me the old, walk with me. I have nothing to say, just going for another stroll, the moon, smoking the last of these magickal herbs, wondering if it really is the same land, just no one would admit, excepting myself, the plants and the birds and flying things It would be my luck that that was the case, and its alright, another night, another eternity, another pious call, Goddess, God, Yomo, in them all, or somehow blossoming without flowers or roots in the literal sense, or maybe so, I speak without knowing, just give me a moment. Why don't you wait by the house? They would warm you just by the kind arrangement of the daisies and the gnomes, and if thats not enough going yonder to that wood, where the entanglements are the resounding tribulations of so many earnest folk abount trying to return to the origin, past these dumbnesses, and their fiery idiocy. Because I burrn with a love so true, I shall make it evermore back to you, and rippled through every thing I ever do shall be the feeling of the time we came to woo, first hand, but I am only the moving one, the empty mouth, calling uncertainty, and all thing's momentum to bring the goodness from those little things into the open, not to be raped and split and made into the fodder of those who eat the sun like eggs, and think its groovy, but to stand as monument and reminder of the bitter truth, the angels will find you in whatever corner of the maze you have dragged yourself, and built of your own failure to reach the heights of pretense you had predicted, oh well, as is life, the randomness is the kiss of some great celestial cloud saint passing through the tree tops, dragging along a thousand inferences dawning in every waking head be they bird, faun, monkey, man, or caribou. You know nothing about the world, remember that, and if its the tao you are looking for you won't find it in Malorny I can say this for sure, we are a people gone from wanting and gone from high stakes, I am mostly illusion, delusion, and I wait at the bottom of lakes with a magazine filled with inane gibberish, which is all the more arcane by the refraction of light caused by the water, and I don't have to think about people like Mr. Anruen but I do it anyway, because I love the man for his work with the fishes and the creeks and now all the great streams seem to sing the songs of my childhood and so I go with them, but I am not water, I am something else, I am the lorax, and I wear no pelts, or belts. I'm sorry all this introduction, but it begins the story, I left that lake one day having walked to the shallows and came out to see the day, and there was a fox there and he said to me now why have you come and I said I would like to know of the day, and the wind and the way and he said fuck you motherfucker and many horrible things, and we found it appropiate to curse and bray until the lowering of the noon and the rising of the tide, and thats when I realized I was naked. well we both thanked the stars then and went on
