What's underneath that deep thigh strain
  the doctor has no cure for even the dream doctor of saxophone who must
    use his ocean of drool to take attention away from the flame
      of reference. You bury human remains &
        all desires point to
          this buried need to head toward the light
            I must write    it is my mind breathing     I
              ask 
                you for
                 your indulgence   not for   what seems a mental
                   fever just 17 daily syllables between bites of
                    your tofu stroganoff     soon    dull pains in extremities give way to
                     sobbing uncontrollable the subtle wave below the surface is

                       what's attempting to manifest through
                         the fog of ego   sitting there for
                           use   one chosen in each family to feel dreams
                             of fire & suffering   sensitivity masked by
                              yelling @ the outward projection of abstract anger
                               or
                             butting a hand against the nearest breakable object - sunglasses
                           your 
                        head is a dull ache as memories rise up
                     against the surface & ache to become
                   the 4AM 
                fog feeding the daisies & anthills & becoming mute.
 
            What's pot roast or noble silence matter to
          the robin w/ fuzz in his beak or a mustache?   What's the
        point
       of stolen banana bread
      jinxing 
    yourself after the sacred vow    you're
   staining 
  yourself again w/ survival techniques you've found an inner harshness & flesh

causing difficulty, an Minor Lisle to preoccupy, everyone is spiritual but few cause
yourself the 
grief you do   or feel it so intensely.   It's diphtheria & suicides
 or
   making no good use of the agonies of dead children.   You refuse to look @
     yourself crying & besides, in a day you'll be
      angry    the mood that makes the chemicals that blur every ancestral pain.

6:42AM—8.17.02—Starter phrase from Machinery pg 323—Reversible Monuments

Letter 7—August 17, 2002—After Stolen Sentences

The day starts w/ a bell ring & the
  taped
   voice
     of Goenka, he sings, gives instructions &
      @
        the
          end of the tape says: You are bound to be successful. Chorus
            of saliva swallowing from
             each breather in the hall the
              sung
               line expresses reminders of anicca—impermanence—yours to watch.

                 In the sunlight of morning & the ritual of silence
                   my
                   mind gets busy.  Plans for the project that will not occur almost
                    continuous. Here is energy to release wayward antepasados &
                  Bryan
               Ferry
             singing in my head instead.  Have I earned this distraction?
          Love, or a noble attempt.
        is upfront, we've isolated
     the urge that becomes a craving, the craving becomes a
drug, the drug he sings about: I say go, you say yes. Dim the lights, you can guess the rest

Orange burning just above the Cascades makes an
   outline of the hills to our east, the power
     of
       the sun's rays pronounce the
         hills
           beside
             Mount Rainier, announce the new day
            just as the sangha nears its last session
         before breakfast. What could be more important than watching the
      sunrise next to a dormant volcano which harbors the energy we seek?

6:55AM—8.17.02