Do the words stumble get caught in the throat become,
you know, the first urge of a punch a clenched fist do you
care
to recognize the sensation & the first though that initiates, the
remedy? That's what lives @ the source of rebellion
the knowledge of liberation its components / craving initiated by
faces
of young ladies in heat or the first whiff of green tea
the
gods are patient, await a burgundy candle, a glass of rum, a mask you
         make w/ your bare hands many
         white
         plaster
         masks, one for each deity, dust from the crossroads of the market
         where saints steal something (some okra perhaps) to signify everything in
         the world is owned by orishas, so they can take back anything, even
         self, from the material world whenever they desire.     Self
         disappears by falling away replaced by a subtle energy vibration
                           you begin to realize is always there you
                           want this sensation
                           to expand & you've twisted the
                           remedy into the parlor game of sensations
                           them tricks spin that eternal wheel faster.
Dissolove self she says the plaster mask one avenue. Wheel. It's
your wheel of fortune. Your
fingers feel a shed snake skin. Delicate egg of potential is carried
in the sharp teeth of the serpent. They look for
their perfect circle—Oroboros—snake consuming itself—
mein of confident knowing. NOW the shoulders unslump
as the principle of anicca is recognized & manifested.
You study the body, sensations, the self, the selves, more than tendencies
mold
them to better rise-up  wave-like, leave a stain & always pass away  pass away.

6:45AM—8.23.02
Starter phrase from Reversible Monuments
pg 423 Eduardo Milan (w/ lines from Sallie Ann Glassman)

Letter 15—August 23, 2002 After Walt Whitman

I plot survival by Whitman & blueberries
have recognized the warning signs of dehydration
perceived growth as a slow boat certainly no train.
To remorse the urges don't work.
be guiltless & satisfied recognized by those
w/ whom time is spent. Skin brush on bare back
those flakes of dead skin released
I
like the sensation of pig hair on summer skin it
is the Rx for lost acupuncture sessions
enough
         to pause the ghosts & render intoxication vagrant.    To
         be hunkered down in
         surrender w/ you (one recognizes the scent) hunkered
         by the waters our
         curious flesh
         laughing flesh, flesh
         breathing & devouring
         flesh
         is
         enough to ride & find divinity inside  as long as…
To reap it is enough  (the young man gorws/remembers the tip you gave. You had to
pass the hat
among strangers & while begging IS heroic, it's not enough.) Remember
them acts of random kindness them summer afternoons lost in flesh
or watching the August full moon pass beyond cedars sailing west, so big can almost
touch it craters create eyes
any
one could have landed in but the pull is
         what Walt wanted to remind you of.  Inside
         is mostly water
         this pull
         then is behind (inside) the body electric he sings
I say every act of desire another hymn to her   it feels good
do it & in so doing proving you're human.   Is
not an embrace the heart's goodbye/hello    waves merge
ask Walt, the sun of real peace
any word from this place, this state
more than a word in a book but the
delight of a kiss across centuries—staggered by the weight of light
                   I
            swim
            in the vibration & hear singing
            it escapes the weight of pain buried in childhood legs
            as it emanates from the Mountain loose rocks roll
                   in near silence  reflect the red sun @ dusk.
                   A being of flesh & misery (mystery)'s only another wave in this
                   sea     this cloud of faces that sometimes rise up to remind us.

(7:11AM—8.23.02—Starter phrase from Walt Whitman)