INTRODUCTION + POETRY + MUSIC + ESSAYS + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART + HAAG'S BIO
I pick at the barnacles
of age making them fester,
thus I can
continue picking
at them. Bugs? mites? spiders?
bad food? the mean
festering
of my soul? Whiteheads, blackheads
-- imagine! heads!
erupting from skin!
Like cactus flowers erupting between
succulent
leaves, branching in unlikely
places. Odd occupation, odd necessity
universally incorporated: like anxiety gnawing
on one's
skull, pulling on
what's left of one's hair,
darkening vision.
Blank out, says
Nisargadatta. Deny it. Festering happens
to the no
one. Why
pick? Blind Borges attained loss
of meaning through
words, irretrievable
word loss. Odd -- the West's
most
imaginative thinkers pussy-foot atop
precarious volcanoes where
meditators in
caves, eons ago, closed their
eyes were sucked whole
into
black holes of blissful non-existence.
Yet we fester. Pick
to
fester -- form pocked pits, scar
tissue so geniuses of genetic
research can burgeon finding "cures,"
code alterations, to stop
festering,
but allow for non-stop blind
picking. J and R
parted --
the being they created, half
of each, not adhesive enough
to stick two humans together.
Mother/child, the only unbreakable
bond in the human universe
-- and only for the passing
moment.
The tree stands alone.
Flowers blooms alone. Mountains don't
move.
Humans evaporate in flame.
See it. Stand still. "Do
nothing"
Shiva said. "...desire destroys
the means of acquiring it..."
Let
the universe be. Death
is renewal. Stop eating bitter
fruit.
Festering happens. Let be.
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INTRODUCTION + POETRY + MUSIC + ESSAYS + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART