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.
+ TRAVEL +