friday night insider

some eat ice cream out on the lawn. at night when I get in, they’re in the back yelling at each other, other times laughing, wafting the smell of their grill over the fence. windows closed. jet engines. news is quite behind a cut off black television screen. radio classical music is silent to the pure reading going on, pure to me, far from pure.

an attempt to sincerely speak something right, communicate, write in effective journal, where the picture becomes the big picture, clearer from further away. I console the ill. if you let me read I will be here with you, quiet accepted me, I thank you for this, you will have a warm gentle company, provided you provide simply this. volume eight sadly comes to its end. I am proud to turn pages, since I am stunted, but saddened to depart with a companion. and I thank my friends in P. for the strong and fond memories of recent past, almost by now (and even then) quite surreal. friends have asked if we will be bored in the new place, asked in a sweet, caring kind of way. it is one thing that doesn’t worry me too much, because I hardly go out any more. once you know a place, you feel like you’ve seen enough and it’s time to go back inside. if you go out you wind up going back in anyway. it is time to go back. it is time to go. and so, the title for the new journal emerges: “the winding down of time.”

the women there keep their thoughts to themselves poorly, write their hatred on their faces, the me-ism streams their clothes, they brake their mirrors from overuse, the mater in materialism is dead tired of them, they begin boring themselves and fall asleep on their desks, the theaters won’t have them, the buses of all sizes consider these the outcasts due to their pride, their blind shut eyes, their thieving catalogue lusts . . . I learn to kiss it goodbye like a strong Russian trapped in a Dostoevsky prison buried beneath Siberian snow.

getting married means soldering someone else onto yourself and dealing with it. make allowances and think hard, be guided by devotion. it is really important not to act out of anger. I throw myself down on the bed and let time pass, or watch a movie in the evening. then I am calm and can get back to the serious work of reading my spiritual master’s book, re-reading the paragraphs to make sure I understand, laughing in amazement . . .

I feel strong.

home from Philadelphia, city of brotherly love, something like this, residence of the modern communes, a weekend pilgrimage for small people to lay back in bed, headphoned, listening to lectures, shelter from the cold. I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t want to give myself much to do. there is trouble out there. and here, if I can rest up and pray, read of prayer, of prayerful things, write, be with friends, then home is the best thing for me. particularly inspired to tag my belongings with good titles that serve as reminders of this.

closed heart surgery

dream: heart surgery
asked then
at least to be
drugged to sleep
couldn’t tolerate
being awake for that
doctor was full of
mumblings but
gas masked my face
felt myself slide off
to sleep but not completely
he put his index finger in my mouth touching the roof, pressing firmly, intensely, incredible pressure, screaming, the finger broke through and there was the sound of bones breaking, blood; doctor now pouring this liquid up into the new hole leading to my heart, but then spilling all over the place, him drinking some of it himself, insane fits and collapsing.
I fall out of consciousness and enter a dark room of a dream, a black screen video game type of place, the goal being to destroy the impurities, flush them out. once they were gone, I woke up, entered the lobby in a daze, dripping the blood, mouth killing me, my mother, other relatives there, with the sleeping masks on, all of them not completely there. “nurse, what is going on? what is up with my doctor?”
“he just couldn’t take it,” she said. “was this normal, puncturing the hole in my mouth like this?” “no.” “tell me what he poured down into my heart.” “battery acid.”

air duct

late 5 am asthma, internet search found article saying the realistic slap to the face (that’s needed) is that there is no cure. I think about a sore set of scarred lungs, winter overheated indoors, how the windows need opened, how I need opened, how to speak English or any language matters not enough because hatred is still the danger between all of us, so if you think you can get one friend on your side it is like the conquering of a nation and extra rainfall will benedict itself to you, you then are an illusioned president. the marble slabs cool down evening time and you can rest back on them in the summer by the apartment buildings being left alone, and at that time without a wheeze slowly draining the life out of you. memory becomes twisted, you twist yourself into knots, your ego says the be all answer cannot possibly be this simple. spokes of samsara wheel, endless if you want it. the pain junkies.

small truth

the first thing I’ll write is
what a beautiful day it is
slightly raining
these books coming in
to my brain
next I will write to you
that I think for the
most part I am
a nice or decent or good person
and whatever
harsh things
I have done
or things that have
come off this way
were done out of . . .
let’s see, confusion,
in attempt
to do the right thing
to not be stepped on
to not be crossed
or . . .
or I have regretted those
actions but
see whatever happened
cannot be
mended and
as I suffer you suffer
that is that
human dealings
can be so human

next I will again mention
the weather
that I should be out
in the nice weather
if just for a couple of
minutes before the
sun goes down.
yes, I will begin my
goodbyes as I move
out of here
still I will write and
to many people
nothing will change
it most likely won’t
make much of a difference
to hardly anyone.

shy people try to make their way
when they find they can talk
they burst out
and go on and on
camera shy ppl look down
it’s automatic
unlike conversation
sometimes it is not
the shy factor but it is in
knowing you have nothing
in common with
these people and
back home you have
serious business to
tend to and this is really
all just a waste of time

the birds are out
I am in
I write 4 = 2 + 2 equals
basic and small truth
drawn on walls

I feel like
pacing the room

lift up into the air

late night early morning words reach out to people
sleeping so soon asleep breathing easy in bed
thankful for the soft bed
thankful for intelligence given by God
to get through our times – days
it is all one day to Him
remains the same

if a wizard of oz hurricane comes through it will lift me up into the air with all my things scattered throughout and that will be my world too and soon the end of it. or a great and terrible downfall of nuclear winter will arrive. our last moments may be sitting in a tangible set of right and left hands, little else will hardly matter. so reach out to people. escape this mundane, inept mind that does no one any good.