I dreamt of gnomes this morning who were going to teach me meditation. I
believe he had a Masters & a face like Bert Wilson, though not
in a wheelchair.
Nothing will prevent the August shower
I tell her as it rains there but not here.    To
collaborate w/ unknown Mexicans (unknown to me anyway, except
I know some of their work) they
assist in the shape, determining the shape, shaping the mind
in
this cloudy August morning ritual
now in its 5^th season.
We're scattered over a couple of continents
seated at tables, desks & beaches, or not   the idea
@
the onset non-local mind.    The
table rests & one leg needed mending.
As the poem is written Grandma snores next to daughter angelic
on her back, thick brown hair, big eyebrowed &
the color in her cheeks an eleven-yr old shade of red.   On the
verge
of puberty or
infinity we do not see the nightly meteors humbling Casseopia,
we get provisions at Safeway & we
eat Grandma's picadillo.
Forever is too big to think about
more planes for the mind's air traffic controller to grieve over

& it's a gnome w/ Bert Wilson's features to teach me
a
habit to purify the mind
it's an organ in need of cleansing/don't want to be
an
avatar when I die
it's the suffering I want to end.  It doesn't take
a
tarpon to make
that happen as it
darts in warmer waters of Atlantic, more a hawk, red-tailed who glides
thru the air below
white clouds that are a
moral ambiguity just before they crash on the
reef & die.

We
lift a page out of the book written in the wake of the Buddha.
Nothingness is what this all is
to
the uninitiated he writes @ the
table, still unwilling to believe that in practice
& the table is solid &
NOW keeps happening
it's a foothold slipping on rocks
nothing he insists  as  it  rises  up  &  passes  away
in
between breaths he slows down to watch, gnome-like (as you'd expect).
The
silverware is plastic   the mind
vacant   when   perfected
in
between
the urges   & soon   there  is  no
dinner, only hot water w/ lemons & fruit if you're lucky. It's
set on the long counter.
Nothing  is  everywhere & testing my patience.  Nothing is lemon juice
in
the plastic
glasses  hot,  but  not hot  enough  to  melt  nothing.

Once the mind was allowed to slow, as distractions are removed,
it is (if not pure)  at  least  more  sensitive.  A subtle energy vibration
went from feet to legs
by way of meridians that
hunger
for the compassion & love unconditional that was present at the
origin before the snoring, before the effortless descent of  hawks & before dawn.

Now it fights for its pre-gnome dominance this former & future servant
it invents the day fueled by drama & sensations.  It
goes hunting for sensations, goes
by the endless cycle of aversion &
craving, aversion & craving. As lust & hate dominate the daily routine, the mind winning not infinite.

6:43AM - 8.18.02
Starter phrase from Eduardo Milan
Reversible Monuments, pg 425