Monday, March 14, 2011

The Tired Sutra

World falls, neck snaps, and, in between, noctilucent clouds of bliss.

Neck snaps, the world returns: computer or wobbling book or, God forbid, steering wheel and dark road.

Not again. Establish intent. This world will stay, you'll keep it palmed in spite of yourself. Grip tight those rubber nubs and hold the ball like death, as sleep's small forward slaps at you, slaps soft and unseen, slaps and steals. And once more purity, wholeness.

This time for sure. Thrust eyes open with all your blue might, Shiva, or you'll kill the universe.

Samsara, ananda, samsara, ananda, samsara, ananda. Eternity just a beat of the cosmic heart, the bounce of a ball.

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