• Satori

    http://theflickerees.deviantart.com/art/The-Playground-called-Life-210657370


     

    Do not question why we are here,
    only answer it.

    i

    time
    shares
    all wisdom
    (every secret)
    unlocked will open
    the most stubborn door

    nothing is fast
    in real-time

    ii

    we admire
    Renoir’s opulence
    Van Gogh’s pain
    taste eternity
    in their work

    artists
    express their lives
    so we recognize ours

    iii

    a wind blew
    and made a whisper
    the house woke up to rest
    the sun shone from the horizon
    clouds formed
    hushed

    iv

    you fear strange words
    will escape your lips
    so you quit talking

    do not question
    an inner motive
    only to find it lacking

    let the milk of life touch you
    for it will only curdle into ash Continue reading

    Advertisements
  • Jack Kerouac – Fear of Knowing

    Pablo Cuzco

    http://www.jackkerouac.com/

    ‘Even fear crossed his brain, imaginary fevers that something was going on behind his back, before his closed eyes: unmoved, he let these doubts and disturbances, like bubbles, vanish back to their origin in the emptiness of the mental sea.’

    Jack Kerouac – Wake Up! A Life of the Buddha


    Fear of Knowing

    eyes closed
    allowing fear
    to displace calm

    absorbing
    the sensation
    of fright:

    uneasiness
    apprehension
    uncertainty

    vanish


    The swallowing sense of fear one sometimes gets navigating the ‘ mental sea ‘ dissipates.

    View original post

  • On the Road to Satori – Alice

    the hitchhiker by christiano bill

    the hitchhiker by christiano bill


     

    Each one of these stories is a small window—a theatre of the mind—of observations made during a period of travel in the early 1970’s. Hitchhiking the roads of America, I spent the later years in reflection. These poems are what grew from the adventure.

    Read as rhythmic rolling narrative, they need no explanation except to tell a story that follows one title to the next.

    Pablo Cuzco

     

    Alice

     
    in the wee hours
    of a pitch black Texas night
    in Alice bound for Nuevo Laredo

    the road deserted
    not even a gun-rack pistol-packing
    Texas Truck in sight

    no drivers dusted
    from too many hours
    entertaining the yellow line
    looking for a rider to take the wheel

    the rattlesnakes they chattered
    the coyotes yip-yip-yip-aye-ayed
    into the pitch-black prelude
    to the dawn

    a thousand miles from nowhere
    with nowhere left to go
    a lost and lonesome
    highway vagabond

    the rumble down ten-wheeler
    that eventually picked me up
    was headed for Freer

    blaring rhythm and blues
    on the AM band cracking
    and squawking like a CB radio

    left little room for conversation
    yelling over the noise
    grinding gears and rattling truck parts

    “Leroy Simmons—glad to meet you
    Headin’ far?” Nuevo Laredo
    “I can take you part of the way”

    Dawn…
    the Sonoran Desert
    a desolated stretch of highway
    Mexico—twenty-five miles to the south

  • On the Road to Satori – Haight-Ashbury

    circles by orzz


     

    ” Joaquín doesn’t live here anymore. . .

     

    he died of the Vietnam War
    —from drugs and alcohol.”

    —it’s what I tell whoever asks
    about my brother these days

     

    I remember Joaquín
    he’d fill my head with stories
    about his time stationed at Treasure Island
    on leave while in the US Marines
    after his tour in the ‘Nam

    the summer of ’67 San Francisco
    the long-legged blonde hippies on Haight sitting
    on the sidewalk with blue eyes staring
    spaced out…sit down I
    think I love you

    Eric Burton
    at the Fillmore—before
    there was an East and a West
    singing blindfolded stoned
    smoking a cigarette
    tempting the edge
    of the stage
    tuned in
    turned on
    and dropped out
    from the British Invasion


    the yellow corn-cob pipe
    and the nickel bag of Vietnamese
    smuggled on the plane. I closed my eyes to
    Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream my thoughts a stream
    of moving pictures eyes closed
    in an instant opened
    to a new sense
    of time and
    space

%d bloggers like this: