The Paper Boy

_ Funny thing happened this here morning. Out of the blue I had a flashback to a conversation I had with a friend of mine over twenty-five years ago. He was telling me that there were times when he was so hungry as a boy that he would eat paper just to have something in his stomach.
_ It's a lot like falling in love.
_ In what way?
_ The love of one person for another temporarily fills the yawning chasm of a meaningless, solitary existence; it occupies the mind until such time as it doesn't - the paper works in the same way, temporarily filling a void.
_ You're out of line with that one.
_ Dream on. In fact the paper boy is in better shape than the lover because eventually he is going to get some real food. What happens when love runs its course? What goes on the plate then? Anger? Heartache? Isolation? To whom do you turn?
_ Some love lasts forever.
_ Nothing lasts forever.
_ Trust me, I take great solace in that every time I enter into a conversation with you.
_ Paper napkins; paper plates; paper cups... paper boys.
_ Eating paper, just to have something in the belly... Can you imagine?
_ Wake up... it's time.
_ It's time? Time for what? I'm stunned by your remarks.
_ It's a dream; it's all a dream. We need to wake up. Once, twice, a million times; continually. We need to wake up. People are crying out the world over; they're eating paper, for goodness sake!
_ This has to be a dream.
_ Chai?
_ Whatever.

                                                                  <><><>

     ... We, to a large extent, are uncomfortable around opinions that stand in opposition to our own; a pond not liking rain.

     ... There are horrors ongoing in this life. Where?

photo credit

Sweet Nothings

_ That was a good hearty blast. No sooner had you entered through the door - and I was watching - then you let loose with a massive blast. Sure, it’s a wonderful thing to sneeze; nothing timid about you.
_ Watch out for number nine; number nine.
_ Turn me on, dead man.
_ Howsaboy?
_ Shaken. I ran into my only love last night; I had long thought she was dead.
_ Kept alive in the closet of your mind, she arose and stirred your embers.
_ Joyce.
_ Strange name.
_ A strange world; the comings and goings; deeply attached to ghosts; the bad language of living and dying.
_ Faith is born of uncertainty. Look to the elder.
_ I have chosen to enter the silence.
_ Chai?
_ Chai.

                                                                             <><><>

     ... One, two, three, four, five; one, two, three; one, as in none. Ghosts... all is a ghost.

     ... We shake and shimmy; burp and fart; sneeze till our knees knock. No way of knowing who, or what, is on the other side of any door. Remember, then forget.

photo credit

Why Tea Leaves?

_ Perhaps I'll try tea today.
_ Give the old bean a break, eh?
_ No. I want something to read.
_ Tea leaves?
_ Everything leaves.
_ I like to read the swirl of marinara upon a just-mopped plate.
_ Something brisk...
_ An ice cube down your shorts; chai in the moonlight whilst the moon-dogs howl; eleven fingers full of nothing; the breath blending day to night; the Sun bathing in the rain; a vulnerable child smiling; a funeral in the cold drizzle of a waning day.
_ Tea... it's like watching T.V. without the T.V.
_ Steam fogging; wisps laying low.
_ Perhaps I'll try tea today.

                                                                         <><><>

     ... Thoughts collide; we bruise easily.

     ... Little birds walking; the baby smiles; worlds sans words. Can we love each other, or are we too far gone?

photo credit

Mid-summer Sun

_ The love of a man for a woman; a boy for a dog; a flower for the sun, or rain... It comes from somewhere.

_ Well at least you’ve narrowed it down to somewhere. Maybe it’s the same somewhere where my sandals are; I can’t find them anywhere.

_ You’re not very deep.

_ Perhaps not, but, in saving the gravediggers a couple of shovel loads, I am compassionate.

_ Howsaboy?

_ Perpendicular.

_ Chai?

_ Absolutely, old bean.

                                                           <><><>

     ... The body, in the heat of the solstice, participates in limitless fashion; and such fashion is never out of style.

     ... Much in the way that the halcyon days mitigate the depth of winter, the passing of time, silent and so strange, tempers the height of summer. All is as it should be. Peace and high sanity to all. 


photo credit

Bop-a-cat-bop

_ The quiet sky abiding peacefully with the sweet rain... Have you noticed?
_ I have. And for a man who is a million miles from nowhere it is a comfort.
_ The colors... so many shades of green.
_ Why do you suppose money is green?
_ I'd rather talk of colors; of the sky; of the sweet, sweet rain.
_ To hide; to die; to stop getting mail. I see.
_ To eat simply, saving room for life.
_ Rice and lentils; yogurt and fruit; greens.
_ Colors dripping through the sieve of mind. All else is but a story.
_ Bop-a-cat-bop.
_ A nice organic coffee. That's what I'm talking about.
_ Fairly traded and freshly roasted; served in a white porcelain mug.
_ Bop-a-cat-bop.

                                                                 <><><>

     ... The move from one to many is confounding.

     ... A million miles from nowhere is a thrice tied shoe.

photo credit

Dishwashing... Liquid

_ The unknowability of the breath is the source of all seduction. It’s  the motion of all things, places and people; without it we are - how would you say? - dead. Would you say dead?

_ Dead.

_ There you go.

_ Anything else you want me to say?

_ The ‘dead thing’... it has a bit of a ring-a-ding-ding to it. We don’t know it’s over until it’s over; and then it will be as though it never was. Being and non-being; such and thus. It neither is, nor isn’t. What just happened? I don’t know.

_ Though the skies are blue, and the sun doth shine, you somehow find a cloud, gray and nasty.

_ I know this dude who won twenty five hundred dollars. He went straight home, and as he was sitting at the dinner table with his wife and three kids he reached into his pocket. He gave one hundred dollars to each of his kids; into his wife’s hand, which he was wont to hold, time and again, he placed the remaining twenty-two hundred. She was bewildered. She asked him, “ What are you doing?” He got up from the table and said, “ The dishes”.

_ It’s got a ring-a-ding-dang-do to it.

_ Chai?

_ As I breathe.  


                                                                <><><>


     ... The traffic jam of self allows for neither life to flow in, nor flow out. We, instead, idly sit by, becoming more and more frustrated.


     ... Surfactants, mendicants, lubricants and gnomes: Please report to the 'You Are Here' sign.


photo credit 

Silky Silhouettes

_ I hear something... someone is near. Is that you? I can barely make out your silhouette. My eyes are stinging; vision blurred. Light has faded to light.

_ I didn’t know that you spoke French. Silhouette... very impressive. The girls go crazy for that kind of stuff: Debris; silhouette; baquette; per chance... As far as your eyes are concerned, I recommend bathing them in a sluice of ketchup and water at least twice a day. The lycopene in the ketchup invigorates the ocular bones; the vinegar contained therein provides a vigorous cleansing to the ‘windows of the soul’; and the water is water.

_ I’ll tell you what is good for the eyes: naked women.

_ There’s a woman in my town who has no soul. And, beneath all her finery, she is naked.

_ No soul? What holds her together?

_ Random thought processes and copious amounts of alcohol.

_ Naked under her finery? No soul? She sounds like quite a catch. Is she single?

_ Once you’ve run the ketchup through your eyes she should be. If your vision is still blurred and you’re seeing silhouettes, repeat and rinse. Would you like me to give her your phone number? I can leave it in the knot-hole in the tree outside of her house. I’ll wrap it in something shiny and throw pebbles at her window.

_ I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just head home and pick up the lawn sausages left by the neighbors dog. Tidy up a bit and call it a day.

_ Her finery portends of delights, the likes of which may result in the clearing of your vision. All of her former beaus spit feathers when her name is mentioned.

_ She responds to shiny objects left in the knot-hole of a tree under her window? What is her name?

_ Pfffft.

                                       <><><>

     ... For lack of a better way, we call it a flower; for lack of a better way, we call it a rose. What it is, nobody knows.

     .... What is a river? The ink in a pen.


photo credit

The Infinite Sky

_ I'm going to a concert tonight.
_ Do-re-mi... Who's performing?
_ The Howlin' Shaolins.
_ The Howlin' Shaolins?
_ Have you never?
_ Have I never what? Have I never?... What the hell is that supposed to mean? You have to be a little more specific. Have I never? You have to tie a string to a kite in order for it to be meaningful.
_ Have you ever heard of them? That's all. You've never heard of them?
_ No.
_ They're a bunch of monks from Dengfeng, China, who can each sing five notes at the same time, and blow three more out of their keisters.
_ You have erased the last smudge of residual mind-stuff from the infinite sky of my being. You have set me free, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
_ No problema. My treat today.

                                                                           <><><>

     ... I was waiting the prerequisite ten minutes in a Chinese take-out place when one of the owner's children walked up to me. She was a dainty little flower, and she had on a button which read, "We are all the Buddha."  She never said a word to me, nor I to her. I remember floating home.

     ... Fifty one percent air; forty nine percent something else. Seventy eight percent of the forty nine percent is wah-wah (tears); some are real, some just leaked out. That which remains will stay behind and provide food and lodging for the worms. The rest is free to go where the peaceful waters flow.

photo credit

A Steaming Whatever

_ At the end of the day, it is best to leave the kitchen work to the professionals, Bob; and give them plenty of room.
_ Bobby ain't here.
_ " Swan; diver-bird, surpassing bright..."* It all comes down to the basics: Change changing change.
_ What the hell are you talking about?
_I'm not talking about anything, simply talking. Nothing makes any sense, absolutely no sense at all. I woke up this here morning convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I was never born. What does that imply about the notion of death?
_ Th...
_ Please, please, please... save it for the Boy Scouts. I was told I was born; I'm told that I am to die. Nobody knows. I have witnessed more than a couple of 'births', and no one will ever convince me that what I witnessed was 'birth' - a beginning.
_ Ice cubes rattling around in a glass glass is annoying. I'm going to the next table to ask that person to leave, or to go sit outside. I would, upon my return, like to reach down your throat and rip out a generous armload of you vitals and fling them, like snot off a finger, into the garbage.
_ Your clearly uncomfortable around opinions in conflict with your own.
_ I have a major jones - a Major Tom Jones - for a steaming whatever, otherwise you may rest assured that I would see to your demise.
_ A steaming whatever... Make it two.

                                                                           <><><>

     ... Many of us think in terms of fate, or consequence, perhaps destiny. We feel entitled to a vague certainty - an open road, a happy birthday, a nice day; we've earned it. It all, however, points to nothing... The desire for a man for a woman... the trappings: beauty, warmth, wetness... all culminating within the colossal void housed within the milking vagina. And the man? Mind-shattering nothingness upon ejaculation. I think I'm going to go down to the cafe and tell a few jokes.

     ... I haven't paid for a haircut in over thirty years, unless I consider the amount of money I've spent on gas for lawnmowers. The only reason I paid for a haircut, as an adult, was the beautiful airiness of the woman who cut my hair, descending around me, as would a gentle summer rain descend upon a flower. She died.

photo credit

* The Thirteen Principal Upanishads translated by Robert Ernest Hume

Fully Empty

_ May we...
_ French?
_ ... may we all attend to our meditations in the way misers attend to their money.
_ Ooo... money and meditation in the same sentence... I cringe.
_ I heard an advert today saying that a proper prostate screening could be the difference between life and death. What could possibly exist as the difference between life and death?
_ They - life and death - are the same; they're the same as cold soup and warm beer. A bowl of soup and a glass of beer, left unattended on the table, eventually assume the same temperature; however, the soup is cold and the beer is warm.
_ And chai?
_ Chai, when properly enjoyed, exists in the manner of wisteria and the pine, of existence and non-existence, with each utterly dependent upon the other; radiating the inexpressible joy ongoing; meditation sans money; the diff.
_ The diff?
_ The diff.

                                                                       <><><>

     ... Prano virat - life is immense.

     ... It is utterly impossible to adequately express the exquisite beauty and the soul-searing anguish of living, of life. Thank God for boredom.

photo credit

Raisin, Or Three

_ Howsaboy?
_ I need some de-caf; I need to get some sleep tonight. I was up all night following the story about the fish shortage in Japan.
_ There aren't any fish in Japan; they're in the ocean. Besides, de-caf doesn't help you sleep, it just doesn't keep you awake.
_ All this from not watching television and not reading newspapers?
_ All this and more.
_ You're like a cartoon character.
_ Oh really? With the masses intent on quantity, quality is reserved for the more refined tastes. I'm at my peak; I'm to be savored as one would a fine liqueur, or an organic flame-broiled raisin; I'm best enjoyed straight and unadorned.
_ Someone once told me that we're all different, therefore we are all the same. That fucked me up for a good, long while. If need be I'll move to another table.
_ Take 'em ease... Have some de-caf.

                                                                         <><><>
     ... Increments... nasty things... seconds, pennies, inches, whispers, hints, morsels, drops, gasps... nasty things... lifetimes, riches, separation, screams, memories, vomit, tears... to suffocate. Too little, or too much; too many, or too few. Bursting forth, or shriveling up... What's the diff? Who are you?

     ... The Walrus Factor, as previously mentioned, is locked, stocked and barreled in the understanding that everybody's fucked up. The 'Walrus Effect' is the subsequent change in our behavior, both as individuals and as members of society, once the aforementioned 'Factor' grabs hold of our biology. I recommend a meditative exploration into what makes us so certain of our continually re-emerging sense of self. It's not a matter of everybody else, it's a matter of 'Who are you?' Inhale and exhale... follow it home.

Brainwashed

_ Brainwashed and hung out to dry by a bunch of sheets masquerading as ghosts.
_ I say if you've it, flaunt it.
_ Imagine death being relegated to a less than godly throne.
_ Death does get a bad rap.
_ That's because it's not beholden to our misconceptions.
_ We've had our brains washed in dirty water.
_ Ever clear, ever here, babe.
_ Who the fuck do you think you're calling 'babe'?
_ You, babe.
_ Ever clear, ever here?... Order me a chai. I'm going out to gnaw on the brick building across the street.

                                                                       <><><>

     ... Constantly revisiting the sadness of my birth, I wander aimlessly, grief-stricken.

     ... Unbridled joy is the counterweight to gravity; heavy is the new light.

photo credit

Gentle Is The Breeze

_ Nice day.

_ Weather changes, we don’t.

_ Howsaboy?

_ We change, weather doesn’t.

_ Fine. Thanks for asking.

_ No weather; nothing to talk to; change changing change. Shoes once new, now gone; holes.

_ I balled a church lady last night.

_ Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

_ That’s exactly what I said to her after she finished reassembling herself.

_ I found no solutions to the myriad concerns of living as I washed the cup from which I had drank.

_ Are you even aware that there are other people in this world?

_ Then again, I found no problems. 

_ Did someone drop you on your head, repeatedly, as a child?

_ What’s a church lady?

_ A card carrying member of the world’s second oldest profession.

_ Second? They say the memory is the second thing to go.

_ What’s the first?

_ I forget.

                                      <><><>

     ... I’m very wary of people who don’t speak in riddles.

     ... Evolution; to disprove it is to prove it. Capiche?


photo credit 

Floon Me To The My

_ You seem to be in a rush today.
_ I wouldn't know a rush if I bumped into one. I'm here; I've always been here. Why rush to get where you are?
_ It's never too late to get an early start.
_ The procrastinator's maxim. I'm thinking about waxing my gonads.
_ Your socks don't match; nothing you say surprises me.
_ Back in the day, you'd be what was known as a bullshit artist; I, on the other hand, am a Manhattan sophisticado. I know tomorrow never knows.
_ Wrong.
_ The clap of one hand sounding?
_ The Chinaman bonged the wrong gong, and the straight line of time wrinkled.
_ He pressed the right shirt; it, too, is wrinkled.
_ Feet silently entwined while their owners slept - love under the sheets while the alphabet rested.
_ What color is red?
_ Yesterday pain; tomorrow the same, with golf balls the size of hailstones.
_ What color is red?
_ Floon me to the my.
_ One more time...
_ The silence of the only sound.
_ The hand of one sound clapping.
_ Floon me to the my. Dark; the stars are in search of their mother.
_ Here comes the moon.
_ And yet, the band played on.
_ It was a union gig.
_ 'Tis impossible for an it to be was.
_ 'Tis impossible for an it to be otherwise.
_ The what is. Who dat?
_ Who dat?
_ Chai?
_ Chai.

                                                                     <><><>

     ... Sunshine, then moonlight... we are as filling for a sandwich, with empty mirrors for the bread. Crunch! Life is a shattering experience. I need neither broom, nor glue.

     ... Hear tell of a place called Hariboo's Egg Farm. A place to rest your weary head after your mind explodes. A place where people are; they just are. Where when it rains, it rains; it doesn't pour. A place where breathing is king. Who are you?

photo credit