round-trip and flat-lining

Chicago kills me.

You heard my stories about how I got myself expelled
from the temple, but
you might not know my motivation for doing so.

Cosmo lives in Indiana now, about four hours away -
in Blomington.

A small college town in the middle of the corn fields. . .
ummm- - - I mean the Heartland . . .

I've never been there, but from what I hear it's a nice place. . .
for far more than just visiting- - - s'pose they got their
fair share of corvus birds flocking there, too, to take off and land, spawning new rookeries alongside modern painting trends that just refuse to die. . .




*-*

Before I said maybe the words flow more easily later
and now they do, so here's what I have to say: Listen
to the rumble in the soles of your feet as you tip toe
across this place we call, collectively, Earth.

When you wonder, like I am doing,
know that you are drawing
maps the gods traced onto your soul,
routed through your DNA,
that part of you that whispers,
drooling on your sweaty bed sheets
tangled into knotted rings
that vibrate tiny fibrous hairs
behind your eyes, sweet cauliflower head.

Neurotic Dreamer

The whirling does not belong to you, to me or to us,
a voice that pushing air communicates no less 

than through your hands, your feet, your pitter pat
across the marbled floors, hardwood, tiled or pine
on eggshells, sea foam,  or dancing in your linens,
sushi, croissants, asphaltum burning coals
that worry you with wringing hands
with wringing hands, wringing hands that

etch small grooves into copper wires, 

entrenched and buried
in dark shadowy valleys of your brain, 

florets of broccoli twirling all around, entwined,
entwined with this, with this, this fragile

place our wobbling, listing planet. . .

to be continued . . .

J.A.K.



*-*

p.s. > I spent the last few hours with The Little One.

(say cheese! * photos coming soon)

The Labyrinth in the Tower

I know I said some terrible things in my premature attempts to describe this place where I live called Earth. It's too late to take them back. The damage is done, already. . .

But,
would you believe it if I told you?

In this city I used to call flying toilet of glass and steel,
the sewer in the sky that other people, the Foxes, called stinkiness. . .
- - - there I am

. . . right square in the middle of downtown Chicago,
again with Bean in the lobby of The Rookery.

Tiger in the Temple

I always admire Kafka, especially his parable
"Leopards in the Temple"

Leopards break into the temple and drink the sacrificial chalices dry. This happens again and again, repeatedly. Finally it can be counted on beforehand and becomes part of the ceremony.



Here's my version:

Tiger in the Temple

Not sure what you may or may not have heard, but on my tenth day at Odiyan, I decided I didn't want to be there anymore and I threw a tremendous tantrum, smashing things that were already broken and wasted. It felt really good.

I called it Maitreya's Revenge.

The next morning, in front of a council of elders, a jury trial, if you please, they asked me what was happening and I told them, straight up. I don't want to be here.

"We can see that and you're angry."

"No, not angry, just displeased with the way you people operate."

"You were smashing coffee cups in the temple and throwing buckets down flights of stairs."

"Yes, that's true. I did. Not just buckets, I threw a flying fit, flinging coffee cups that were already broken and caked with stucco. The buckets were cemented together. Trashed already. The easiest way to bust them apart is tumbling them down the stairs. I was working, like I was told."

"That's not working. That's an anger issue."

"If that's what you think, okay. Fair enough. But, you haven't been down there and I don't understand how you can pretend to know. Besides, I don't want your dis-ease. I don't like feeling sick, and I don't think anyone else does, either. This place is dirty. I'm not imagining things and I didn't manifest all the mites, rats, staph infections, filth and inaccountability that's haunting this place."

"We want you to leave."

"Good. I stayed up all night waiting for you to say that."

There was a long moment of bowed heads, silence,
and reverie.

"You're trying to stir up anger and it isn't working."

"I'm not angry. I want to leave. I like what you are trying to do here; I just don't think that you are doing it very well--- far less than optimal. Will you sell me some gas? The Topaz is empty."

"Sure," Carolyn said, "We think your intentions are good, just misguided."

"Don't worry. It's not your responsibility to guide my intentions. Can I go back to Dharma House? I really like it there. It's a totally different environment, and one I think is really healthy for me."

"My feeling is no," she said.

"Okay. Thanks for everything. Goodbye."

Then they rushed me out.

David escorted me and at the gate he gave me Amitabha.

He's a sweet generous man, more like what I imagined the place to be. I said,

"Oh, how wonderful! I don't deserve this."

"Well it's for you."

"Thanks, so much. I'll come back another time when I am not so angry," smirking,

and he said,

"Don't worry about that, Carolyn. She does that to everyone.
Have fun on your way out, wherever you go,
but don't wander too far away. . ."

He's a Renaissance Man, perfect peace.

"Oh, I'm coming back ---"

"Make it quick."

Excommunication and Heresy

After a short lived stint in the world of forced labor and incarceration in the name of religous zealotry, I am defrocked. Next time I get the bright idea to join a monastery three hundred miles from nowhere, someone please, please talk me out of it.

Just go,
"Hey, remember what happened last time?"

oh, yeah. hmmmph.

That's the way the cookie crumbles. . .


At least they gave me a tank of gas and two baskets full of fruit.
Now, I'm on the barter bonanza; see if I can turn them apples
into a few bottles of Napa valley wine. . .