THE MYSTERIOUS PROCESS OF RESURRECTION

This was a dream. I was in a dream. The dream was taking care of me. “I used to do things that way,” I was telling myself, “but now I do them this way.” Of course, that was the dream speaking to itself. Next, you arrived with grocery bags. “What’s in the bags?” I asked you. The dream was asking itself, although it knew (like an actor in a play.)

You did not answer. The dream did not answer. Then I was in one of the bags. There was a lettuce inside. The world turned green, fresh, damp. I was a worm, a happy worm.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The Mysterious Process Of Resurrection by reading_is_dangerous]

IMPROVED SPACE TRAVEL & OTHER IMPROVED DESIGNS

the other day, I invented improved space travel

a) I put every bit of information about you on a photon
b) every bit of information needed to reconstruct you, I put on a photon too
c) I beam those photons up with an improved laser

now there you go: Traveling across the universe inside a spaceship of light
It would take you only twenty years to reach that new world that was recently
discovered, the rocky one with water and nice weather

(I will come
A gentle beam of light, I will come
And keep you warm)

::: ::: :::

[Picture: A model for a spaceship by reading_is_dangerous] (April 20, 2007)

I am still pondering whether or not I should write about the improved television which I invented some twenty years ago. It is frightening!

THE OLD BREATHING MASTER

breathing leaves me cold. So I
went to my dear old Breathing Master

“Yes.” said the master. “I remember teaching you how to breathe. Now
comes the time for you to learn how to breathe less.”

the better you breathe, the more careful you have to be with what air
you let
into
your lungs. Why so? I asked the old master. “The memory of air.” was his answer

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The old Breathing Master by reading_is_dangerous]

KILLING FLIES

I heard about a man, an Armenian man
who spent a whole summer at his country house
naked
or wearing only a surgeon’s gown, and
killing flies. That summer he also wrote a book entitled Esoterica Mathematica

“I should try and meet with him” I just thought

::: ::: :::

[Picture: There is a bee by reading_is_dangerous] (April 22, 2007)

Searching for the right word, the word gown, I read that patients prefer traditionally dressed physicians and that includes a visible stethoscope.

The heart. I wish I knew how to listen to a heart.

THE GARDENER HAD A RIFFLE

was it a dream or
was I drunk? Was I
insane or had I stepped into another world? “Art
is what’s behind reality.” I heard a voice say

oh! There are voices here?
“There are voices everywhere.” the voice said. “What’s hard is not to
hear any voice. That’s why you guys have a skull
It’s isolating stuff. Great device”

oh my god.
“You should try removing your skull once in a while.” continued the voice

isolating. Is that a word? I didn’t know, really
I look it up in the dicdicdictionary diction harry dick dick harry harry
There it is written: Writers sometimes lead isolated lives
Okay

. . .next. This is what I was wanting to write down. A
dragon or green tea
An eagle or black tea
A horse or oolong from Sweden. I
could drink a dog, but what’s a dog? Maybe it’s
Cinnamon tea. A cat is Assam tea. I was singing that as I
was walking under the trees in blossom
The gardener, he saw me
He took his riffle
He aimed at me for fun
He had an unexpected jerk
that made him pull on that trigger. Now there is a
bullet flying towards me

I stop singing, yes
I am thinking: “As long as light can bounce back on that flying bullet, it’s
going to show as a full line, the bullet. If there is any moment when light cannot
bounce back on it, the flying bullet’s projection in space will look like it’s
a dotted line
If I can squeeze myself into a gap on that wished for dotted line, I’m safe. I am
safe.”

so that’s what I did. That bullet didn’t get it. It didn’t get me
“I should take a nap.” I thought. As I laid down, the
gardener believed he had killed me

in my dream, I saw the mystical gold atom we’ve been talking about. You
know: The one that’s stuck at the center of the Universe. It was just floating there, not
stuck

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The Gardener Had A Riffle by reading_is_dangerous]

IMPROVED FUEL

life obeys this rule: Eat, and be eaten
The improved car obeys the same. . .

it runs on any fuel. The road itself, that blue sky road is fuel
Soon the improved car stops. It becomes fuel, improved fuel for another one of those
improved cars

. . . . . . . . . . . .want to go for a test drive?

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Where to put wings on a car? by reading_is_dangerous]

WITH THE MENTAL HEALTH SPECIALIST

A few days ago, I saw Dr. Tsovinar Gabuydzian, an old soviet school mental health specialist. She asked me how I would write if I were alone in the world.
“You mean nobody else but me?”
“No reader.” she said. “Nobody who could understand your language. No sane man or woman around you. Nobody interested, or let’s say that everybody left with the bees you told me about the last time when we met. Everybody flying, jumping into the cosmos, the outer space. Everybody and the bees in their own special spacesuit, all searching for the center of the universe. All hoping to take a peek at that unique gold atom you say is stuck, or might be stuck over there.”

The doctor reached for a new pack of cigarettes that was waiting in a pocket of her jacket. She opened it with a graceful movement. She took a cigarette out, but she did not lit it right away.

“Now you are all alone on Earth.” she said. “What is the first thing you do?”
“I breathe.” I said. “I take a deep breath. That’s what I first do. I think of those science-fiction novels or poetic stories with a hero who finds himself absolutely alone. I call out loud to the world. I shout: What’s left of a man, if he’s the last one? and Why me? I suppose I can’t believe that I’m alone, that this is happening. I check on the Internet to see if it’s still alive, active. There could be messages sent to me. WE ALL LEFT WITH THE BEES or GONE TO SEE THE WIZARD or WE’VE ALL TURNED INTO REAL WIZARDS EXCEPT YOU HA! HA! HA!”
“I am sorry,” interrupted the doctor. “What is a real wizard again?”
“Real wizards can bend reality around them.”
“Then what happens,” asked me Gabuydzian, “what happens when we all become real wizards?”
“By all, do you mean all of us including the dogs and cats, bananas, yeast, pebbles and stars?” I asked her.
“Why do you always insist on ignoring the difference between humanity and the rest?”
“What is the difference?”
“Are you a pebble? Are you a star?” asked me the good doctor.

She lit her cigarette. Poisonous but beautiful blue smoke came out of her nose. “Amazing nose and eyes, she has” I thought to myself.

So I repeated her question: “Am I a pebble? It depends on who is I.”
“I am talking to you.” she said. “YOU. This you who came to see me, Dr. Gabuydzian. Now tell me how would you write if there were nobody left in the world but you.”
“Just a second, please, doctor.” I said. “You asked me what would happen if everybody but me suddenly became a real wizard, one able to twist reality at will. That is an interesting question, isn’t it?”
“Oh! A very theoretical question.”
“Thank God! for the theoretical questions. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be poetry.”
“Really?” said the good doctor. “Is that your definition of poetry? An exploration of theoretical questions?”
“Not exactly.” I said.
“Not exactly?” she asked.
“Not exactly” I repeated. “Now, if every human being alive turned into a real wizard, I believe it would mean the end of reality.”
“What comes after the end of reality?”
“Me, writing about it.” I said. That was a bit bold maybe, but something was itching on my neck.
“So how do you write about it?” she asked.

That’s when I discovered that dozens and dozens of ants were crawling all over me. I ran outside, removing my clothes, beating them, wondering what could be the very last thing an ant sees when you crush it.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The very last thing an ant sees when you crush it by reading_is_dangerous]

I recommend Solaris, the original movie by Andrei Tarkovski (1972). What is reality? What is mankind? What is love? What could resurrection mean? Let the famous Russian filmmaker tell you how he feels about it.

ENTRY FOR APRIL 24, 1915

you know
you know
you know what the sky doesn’t know
What the stones don’t know
What the grass, the tulips, the umbrellas can’t say

you know
you know
you know what the snow doesn’t know
What these people know
Why they come here every year on this day

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Commemorating the Armenian Genocide by reading_is_dangerous] (April 24th, 2007)

HEAVY

heavy
heavy
oh! So heavy

heavy the dead stars you carry
Over one million of them; every one of them so heavy

share your burden with me. “What burden?” you ask
Nevermind

::: ::: :::

[Picture: 24th of April by reading_is_dangerous]

GHOSTS & MORE GHOSTS

“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No, I don’t.” answered Jennifer Park.
“Do you believe in vampires?” asked Hubretta. She was a young woman of sixteen years old. A goth girl like her mom had been some twenty years ago.

Jennifer Park worked for an advertising company. She was in charge of special projects. Dealing with weirdoes, that’s how she explained it. Rich weirdoes.

“Do I believe in vampires? No.” said Jennifer Park.
“Do you believe in angels?” asked Hubretta.
“No, I don’t.” said Park. “Those words are names for imaginary creatures born out of metaphors” she explained. “Do you know what is a metaphor?”
“Yes, I do.” said the goth girl. She smiled. “But don’t you think that thoughts are things or waves that reverberate inside your head until they gather enough energy, and then, they come out? Those waves leaving us, they cross the whole universe in all the possible directions, across all the possible dimensions, until they hit a special substance that molds itself into the shape of the waves that hit it, that is into the shapes of our thoughts. That’s how demons and other monsters are born. And as soon as they open their eyes, they start to travel. They start their journey, coming here.”

Jennifer Park felt uncomfortable. What did that girl want?
“Okay.” she said. “Maybe there exists that special substance of yours, and maybe there are space vampires and ghosts coming here. Why not? But how can I help you? This is an advertisement agency, here, as you know. I was told you might have a special project. Maybe something, an idea that cannot reverberate well enough to take shape on its own?”

The goth girl smiled again.
“Yes.” she said. “I do have a special project, and my mother is wealthy, so you guys don’t have to worry about whether or not you will be making money working for me. You will.”
“Oh!” said Jennifer Park. “Well, that’s very good! So what is your product?” She was feeling better already.
“Humanity.” said Hubretta.
“Humanity?” asked Park. Now she felt uncomfortable again.
“Yes.” said Hubretta. “I want us to run an ad on TV to sell humanity.”
“Okay.” said Park. “Why not? I suppose you would like to sell humanity to those ghosts, vampires, and angels you told me about? Is that it?”
“Not quite.” said the girl. “Our client is God. I want to sell humanity to God. We believe in God, right? We also believe in advertisement. So I don’t see why we couldn’t try and sell humanity to God who seems not to care much about us. Now either he buys us, and things start to get better right away, hopefully (that’s how God will pay) or we are going to sell ourselves to something else. Another god. I believe there is only one humanity, but many possible gods.”

Hubretta’s mother was generous. The ads (there were two) ran on TV for seven weeks. Nothing happened, but the girl seemed satisfied, and Jennifer Park and her advertisement company made a lot of money.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The ghost of a queen told me about the ghost of a flower that told her about the ghost of love by reading_is_dangerous]

ODYSSEY

there is a giant stairway in the city. No
joke. Not far from it, there is a barbecue place called Hearth

It used to be one of my favorite places until I almost stopped eating
meat. Meat is good, but it makes me sad

whatever. Next to the barbecue place is a DVD video rental place. “Do
you have 2001: SPACE ODYSSEY? I asked them
--In English?
--Ayo”, I said. That’s Armenian for yes

they made a phone call. Two minutes later, they
told me: “We have a copy of that movie waiting for you at our
other place facing the Opera.” That
was only five minutes away, so I went

Mr. Stanley Kubrick directed that enlightening movie in 1968. He sure made it
beautiful. Everything or almost is beautiful in that movie, including the titles. The
music for the soundtrack is by Johann Strauss II, Richard Strauss, Ligeti, and Armenian composer Aram Khachaturian

Kubrick said he didn’t want to give a final interpretation for the peculiar ending of
his movie. Let the viewer decides what it all means, that was his idea. I agree

::: ::: :::

[Picture: On The Bridge Of Consciousness I Walked My Way, Beyond The Illusions Of Time And Space by reading_is_dangerous]

A long time ago, I saw a documentary film about Ligeti. It was good. I can not remember the composer’s exact words, but he said something about his music being a cut, a cut from a song without a beginning, without an end.

GILLS & THE TRANSITION POEM

I can not drite
I can not wraw, but I
can catch fish, especially the red variety that I once spoke about. The
one that’s flying, yes

you got to catch it by the tail before it bitexplodes your nose. You
got to do it with your wrong hand; it confuses the fish

one day, I spent three days trying to wraw my light
hand with my reft
one: the WRONG ONE
That confused the hand, yes. Unfortunately the
result wasn’t anything much. I
could not even drite
about that well enough to share it with you

meanwhile, I found a space jacket. It’s not really as good as a full space suit, but
it sure looks fine. When I put it on, I
forget about my head. My poor head’s full of blood. That is why I do not drite much, I
am afraid. So

THIS IS A TRANSITION POEM. Such a
poem doesn’t make much sense. A transition poem only makes senses because
it’s a transition poem. Transition poems are weird

whatever. When you go fishing, it’s not that important whether or not you catch a
fish. When you drite
a poem, it’s not that important whether or not you catch
a poem. When I change the spelling of a few certain words, it’s
to forbid web crawlers from catching them, the words

when you hate yourself, you gill whoever you see first
when you hate people, first you gill the poet (the fisherman), then the others. I
wonder why, why we keep doing that

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Fish and Fisherman by reading_is_dangerous]

I am sorry if that was hard to read. It was hard to drite

THE REAL WIZARD

words play tricks on me. Like dreams do. Every
morning, I search for a bit of ordinary truth in whatever I remember from my dreams

when I think a word, I think of an ordinary bit of truth. Our mind is built on
words, or part of our mind is built on words. The more we deal with words, the
further away we move beyond Reality

_

“A most dangerous experiment, explained professor Shard, should be the attempt to create a tiny black hole in a laboratory somewhere on Earth. If the creators of such a thing were to fail to control it perfectly, the black hole would fall to the center of our planet where it would grow, and grow, and grow until it would sink the whole world, and later the Sun with it. There could be no way to stop it. No way to calculate how quickly we’d meet our fate. Of Humanity, there would be left only a ghost: Our radio waves, the television waves, with our final program being a desperate scream sent into space, a warning maybe. A warning to other civilizations: Do not try this at home!”

The professor was having an espresso coffee. “Black coffee stimulates the imagination” he continued. “We owe a lot to black coffee for our rapid progress in various fields. Indeed there is a team of coffee drinkers who have been pondering for a while how to do just what I’ve said, how to bring about a tiny black hole on Earth. They hope to control it. They hope to learn the secrets of the Universe by looking into that eye. That is why we must attempt a little experiment of our own, here, today. It is the second most dangerous experiment I can think of.”

Shard gave me a smile. I smiled back at him. I thought his introduction was good. The “second most dangerous experiment” was this: To try and invite on Earth a Real Wizard. A real wizard can be compared to a living black hole. It is a Will, but so heavy that it can bend reality around itself. But who can control that? Me

The Real Wizard will come from beyond the words. When it enters my body, I will become the most dangerous being on Earth. If I can control it, I

. . .will put an end to crazy experiments;
. . .will have a very short conversation with the useless “leaders” of our world;
. . .will push planet Venus closer to Earth, and make it rain there with waters fetched from Saturn’s rings. There will be a new garden

Then I will go check out what’s at the very center of the Universe. I’ve always been curious about that. I believe there is a single atom of gold stuck there. I will get it, and give it to you

Ha! ha! ha! Shard! Shard! Shard! I AM READY!

::: ::: :::

[Picture: the Real Wizard by reading_is_dangerous]

OOLONG FROM SWEDEN

raw
raw
raw
the raw light from the fridge
at night, when I am cooking tea

he! he! he! cooking tea sounds funny

instead of turning the kitchen light on, I
just open the fridge. That light suits me

of course, the question is always: What tea? There are
fifty-three different sorts of tea in
the kitchen

“Let’s try that oolong from Sweden” I tell myself

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The skies that never made it by reading_is_dangerous]

PATTERNS

* * *

The sea was so very clear!
The tremors of the slumbering waves
By the shore
Had woven countless Arabian patterns
Out of the fine sands.
I looked and had no heart to enter the water.
But how can one refrain from spoiling
Defenceless beauty?
I entered the sea,
and the water became blurred,
The fairy-tale woven pattern was destroyed.
I swam forward,
But the spoiling of those attractive patterns
Continued to weigh on my conscience.
Then,
Lying on the shore
I pondered for a long time:
How very easy it is in this world
To blur water and destroy patterns!

-Paruir MIKAELIAN (b. 1924)
translation by Mischa K., 1974

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Rosette grise by reading_is_dangerous]

If he had a beard? If he was drinking wine? Yes, I think so. Unfortunately I could not find anyone who could tell me about Mikaelian. . . one of the most unknown Armenian poets, he appears to be.

How easy is it to destroy patterns indeed! They
come back

BLACK DRAGON, GREEN DRAGON

when I was a kid, my dad, or was it my mom? They gave me a
cheap plastic delta kite
It had black wings. Nothing could have been cooler

boy, that thing could fly. It soared

there were three fields of corns behind our house. That was great for many a
thing. For one, our dog would go shit in there. It was fun to watch her, Princesse the
collie dog. She would run and run and run and run
disappear among the corn, then come back at a much slower pace. The poor
dogs in the city; you
see them do that on the side of the sidewalks, on a leash, while people
look at them. There is hardly anything sadder, in my opinion (imagine
you were forced into such a position every day). But our
dogs could always enjoy the privilege of taking a shit in the corn fields until
that good land was sold, and houses built

my brother and I, we would play war in there, in those fields
We would throw clods of earth at each other until
one evening, when they were rocks
“Ouch!” my brother shouted. I must have hit him on the thigh
“Ouch!” I shouted too. The rock had landed on my head
The wound was spitting blood. I went to the hospital

_

in those fields, that’s where we’d be flying our kite
It always went straight up, and that was scary. “What if. . . what if. . . what if. . .”
A kite that’s flying three hundred feet above your head means all sorts of questions
There was always a time when the toy would start spinning
or falling down quicker than we could reel the line

it would end up somewhere far
on the street, in a tree, stuck on an power line. Dangerous
That was pretty mysterious. “What happens if you touch it?” I was asking myself

six years ago, there was no kite for sale in Armenia. I
decided I would make my own. Oh! You should have seen me
first getting a plan from the Internet, then hunting for materials at the market
The first prototypes didn’t fly at all. Too heavy

. . .then it worked. I made about thirty kites, all size and shapes and colors
Since then, every year at the beach on lake Sevan the kids marvel at my toys

::: ::: :::

[Picture: reading_is_dangerous testing a green dragon]

You are not supposed to make a green kite, but I made one. It’s decorated with a Polynesian pattern I found in an old book.

Flying a kite is a bit like writing, said famous po-warrior Boe an Fop’h

SPACE BEES

SCENE III

. . .the moon looks like a white rabbit. In a small appartment, Sybelle and Hubert are having a conversation as they prepare to have a late evening meal of pastas. They’ve already started the wine. . .

-There is a lot of shit I want to write about, says Sybelle.
-Well, says Hubert, just write it. Write your shit. By the way, I am cooking.
-Okay, says Sybelle. Something is slowing me down. Style, for instance. I don’t have any style. I don’t know the rules of proper writing. I don’t know that many words, and sometimes the words I know, I don’t know them so well. And I discovered that I cannot learn any more words.
-What do you mean, you cannot learn any more words? asks Hubert.
-My mind has gotten slow. For some things, some processes, it’s gotten slow, says Sybelle.
-Your chess has improved. You play a much better game.
-Yes, that’s right. I don’t understand why.
-You don’t need to understand why.
-Wrong, mister. I need to understand why I play better chess now than I used to.
-Okay, says Hubert. So, we know it’s not because of you reading chess books, because you haven’t.
-I didn’t have the time, says Sybelle.
-Whatever, says Hubert. So part of your brain is working better, and other parts, well, not better. I’ll teach you a new word every day. What about a word in a foreign language? A word in Armenian, for instance. Here. Learn the word: djur.
-What does it mean?
-Water. Water is djur.
-Nice. But I need to learn more words in English.
-Okay. Hold on. Let me get a dictionary.

He gets a dictionary. Opening it at random, he points his finger at one word. . .

-Fuck! exclaims Hubert. Of all words, I had to pick that one.
-Really? asks Sybelle. That’s the word you’ve picked at random? Fuck?
-Yes. Look!

He shows her the word.

-You could have picked fuchsia, says Sybelle. I mean, I know that word, fuchsia, but it’s the kind of word you forget unless there is that bush growing in your backyard.
-Don’t say bush, says Hubert. It’s worst than fuck.
-Oh! don’t be so silly. Have you heard about the bees?

They prepare to eat. There is a second bottle of italian wine on the way. . .

-We should sell bee colonies, says Hubert. There are plenty of them in Armenia, and twenty-five percent of all bees have mysteriously vanished in the US, this year. The beekeepers couldn’t even find their little dead bodies anywhere. I mean, that’s if they died. Maybe they all went to another planet? Space bees: They travel across the universe. . .
-The Space bees, yes! Yes! exclaims Sybelle.

They build their nest in the center of the galaxy. They fly from planet to planet, collecting pollen, making Space Honey, for the Space gods who drink Space Bee Hydromel.

-That’s good, you should write it. Oh, and hydromel is called mead, in English.
-Well, see, there is a new word for me. But I wouldn’t know where to put the capital letters. One on space? One on bees? How do you capitalize space gods?
-Well it depends on what you are talking about, says Hubert.
-Exactly, says Sybelle. What are we talking about? Space bees?
-Vanishing bees, says Hubert.

They are done with the meal. They move to the living room. . .

-Have you ever thought about this? asks Sybelle. Our sign for number one. It looks like it’s fucking with the sign for zero. A dick and a. . .
-Stop it! says Hubert. That’s my field, symbolism. Anyway, don’t talk about it. Write it!

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Galactic beehive by reading_is_dangerous]

These days, I read The Power of Myth, the conversations of Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers. For only $10-15, it is an amazing book. I am also a big fan of Pr. Campbell's serie, The Masks Of God, but that's in four volumes.

If there were a good bookstore around, or if Amazon delivered to Armenia where I live, I would get Memories, dreams, reflections by C.G. Jung. I would make silly drawings in the four corners of each page, then give that book to you.

AT THE GATE

CHAPTER I

“. . .when you are neither inside nor outside the Garden of Peace of Mind, where are you?” asked Hubert. “I am at the gate” answered Sybelle. “The gate is guarded by my own fears and desires. I cannot come back into the garden until I find a way to beat my many fears and desires. -What is the way?” asked the man. “Perhaps a lot of love” said the woman. “But what is love?”

It was that time late in the afternoon when the sun turns into a grapefruit. Up there in the sky, one thousand happy swallows were making a lot of noise. “Can I call you Spring? asked Hubert.
-Not really.
-Too bad.
-Oh! Don’t be silly! Have you heard about the bees?”

CHAPTER II

“The garden” said the man. “A perfect circle. A snake biting on its own tail. The Universe. A woman’s. . . -Yes, said the woman. I suppose you could turn those ideas into a lot of symbolic art, and not so symbolic too. -What do you make of the sun?” asked Hubert. “I make it a source of light. Reason. It comes and goes, and comes again” said Sybelle.

There was a short silence, then they both said: “Let’s have some red wine” at the same time

::: ::: :::

[Picture: At the gate by reading_is_dangerous]

BREAKING THE SYMMETRY

listen
listen
listen
listen, it’s that voice
The voice of the sun. It
is singing for you
When you die, you can hear it. It
goes: “Inside, outside. Inside, outside. Inside, outside.” Oh! That
is a mysterious sun
An erotic sun. Love!

“Love is an electric ball” they say. Know thy heart!

. . .inside, my friend. You are dying. We put you on that cross, yes
With our strong arms, yes! We put you on that cross
We put you to death. It’s too late for anything, we
cannot change anything
It’s done
It’s done
It’s done
It’s easy now. It’s easy. It’s when
you are just about to die that you finaly understand just how easy it is
to let go

inside, outside. Inside, outside. Is the sun inside or outside?

. . .but see this piece of wood we nailed you to. Your weak
arms, we fixed them on that good piece of wood. . .
That horizontal bar
it means ZERO. Nothing. The Void. Non-
Being. Death
That horizontal bar it means your dead body when it is lying down

. . .see this other piece of wood. This longer piece of wood. That’s where your
legs come down. Your weak legs. Your poor feet. . .
That vertical bar
it means ONE. Something. Everything. The Absence of Nothing. Being
Your good body when it’s alive

. . .now ZERO and ONE together make a cross. You are on that cross, my friend
Neither alive nor dead: eternal (in a way)
A god, yes
Yours is the only place fit for a god, and that’s where nothing joins with
everything

inside. Outside. You are not inside. You are not outside. So where are you? You are on that cross, BREAKING THE
SYMMETRY. Goodbye! Goodbye! Hello! Hello!

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Crown by reading_is_dangerous]

EXPLORING THE HEART

wrote famous poet Leb em Sep’h: “What
is your heart inside does not say what is inside your
heart”

wrote famous poet Leb em Sep’h: Heart is a land hard to map

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Leb em Sep’h And The Korpotio by reading_is_dangerous]

THE DEAD MAN

yesterday on the way to the airport I
saw a dead man
There was an unusual traffic jam
Then I saw an abandoned shoe on the street
It was an old shoe, a dirty shoe
Yet for some reason it looked as if it just made it there
“Not good” I thought

twenty feet away was the dead man. I saw his open
eyes. Sitting next to the broken body was an old woman crying. . .

“Beggars” said my driver. He repeated that

_

. . .cars were driving by. I thought of asking the driver, that stupid
driver, I thought of asking him to let me out
“Comfort that woman” I told myself
“Close the dead man’s eyes”
“Cover his broken body with your coat”

but I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t do anything

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Dead man, woman crying by reading_is_dangerous]

SLIPPERY

I got a new job
selling Chinese plastic-
a fish at Wal-Mart

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Sunday Morning April First Banana Peel Fish With Intriguing Burnt Match by reading_is_dangerous]