Tuesday, April 17, 2012


There is an endless dripping
to the sea,
a soft pain.
The endeavor of a cockroach,
The hair, dust, mold and rot.
Eternal antiquity,
untouchable foreign delight.
Engulfed only by progress,
a longing for purpose.
Here there is a structure,
to obey,
to possess,
to acquire.
Drunkenness to conquer,
ideas to develop,
people to love,
movements to succeed,
admiration to be sought,
days to pass.
Something to be done.
Reality smashed
against the a priori
- to exist.
And softly,
toward void,
your darkness sees only new.
Not light.
And yet here,
there are the brown eyes
and soft face
of unconditional being.
Asking nothing,
certain and not afraid.


Blogger paul said...

apocryphal perhaps, still..

do it !

“Why did you start to write?

I left at 15.. I started to write because I was taken off a ship from Germany when I was 18. They said I wouldn't live for 6 months.

I'd been given up for dead many times and I just didn't want to waste my life. I had what I now realize was a spiritual experience.

I realized that I would die,
and that just before I would die,
two things would happen.

number one, I would regret my entire life.
and number two, I would want to live my life over again.
and then I would die.
and that terrified me.


to think that I would live my entire life, look at it, and say oh..I blew it. was such a terrifying thought
that I bought a typewriter

I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but I bought a typewriter.
but that is what got me to start writing, was

I did not want to waste my life

I wanted to, and I HAD to, do something with my life”


9:30 PM  

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