"America isn't the way it is because he's president, he's president because America is the way it is."
-(--Canadian Broadcasting Corporation 2026)
. . .
Then further north (so to speak):
“Pretending what is true is not true, or that what is is not, is actual insanity. Take it from me, I am sanity, be more like me. “
(—God)
This sad time
Night, White
House murders poet
Words are fingers
Gun is mind
Bullets in her face
In response to the New York Times interview "We Pressed Trump on His Conclusion About the ICE Shooting. Here’s What He Said." with Donald Trump held 7jan26, my comment:
What is equally nauseating to Ms. Good's horrible encounter with awful men imposing their deadly will on her -- is the callous and hypocritical narrative of the event by Homeland Secretary and President.
Such intentional gaslighting, being told what we actually see is not what we are seeing, is the stuff of terrifying control and abuse.
We are being trafficked into false narrative and dystopian future.
One more thing -- Maybe its just me, but there's something darkly comical about the scenario where a reporter walks up to a man holding a bloody knife with a dead body at their feet, and asking the question of the perpetrator "How do you feel about your encounter?"
I take swaths from Chris Hedges today on substack. Sometimes intellectual heft is the only solace. Where else do words like "ekpyrosis" and "onagrcracy" pop up and display themselves?
Ekpyrosis, the inevitable conflagration that destroys the world according to the ancient Stoics, is part of the cyclical nature of time. There is no escape. Fortuna. There is a time for individual death. There is a time for collective death. In the end, with weary citizens yearning for extinction, empires light their own funeral pyre.
...
Our high priests of war, Donald Trump, Marco Rubio, Pete Hegseth, Stephen Miller and the Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Gen. Dan “Razin” Caine, are no different from the fools and charlatans who snuffed out empires of the past — the haughty leaders of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the militarists in imperial Germany and the hapless court of Tsarist Russia in World War I. They were followed by the fascists in Italy under Benito Mussolini, Germany under Adolf Hitler and the military rulers of imperial Japan in World War II.
...
These stunted human beings are unable to read others. They threaten. They terrorize. They kill. The art of power politics between nations or individuals is far beyond their tiny imaginations. They lack the intelligence — emotional and intellectual — to cope with the complex, ever-shifting sands of old and new alliances. They cannot see themselves as the world sees them.
Diplomacy is often a dark and deceptive art. It is by its nature manipulative. But it requires an understanding of other cultures and traditions. It requires getting inside the heads of adversaries and allies. For Trump and his minions, this is an impossibility.
...
The Italian philosopher Benedetto Croce quipped that fascism had created a fourth form of government, “onagrocracy,” a government by braying asses, to add to Aristotle’s traditional triumvirate of tyranny, oligarchy and democracy.
Our ruling class, Democrats and Republicans, piece by piece, dismantled democracy. In Germany and Italy, the constitutional state, as well, collapsed long before the arrival of fascism. Trump, who is the symptom, not the disease, inherited the corpse. He is making good use of it.
(THE CHRIS HEDGES REPORT, Grand Illusion, We are cursed by what the historian Barbara Tuchman calls the “bellicose frivolity of senile empires.”, CHRIS HEDGES, JAN 08, 2026, SUBSTACK)
I'm happy to read those who still have their wits about them.
I seem to have severely misplaced mine these days.
Tires hissing road
This cloudy morning
Eaves dripping
Ice agent
Blows out brains
Of poet mom
Breaks my spirit
The lies told
The ugly lying mouths
I withdraw
Deeper within
Darkness
Giving hard
Cold truth chance
To thaw
Good is murdered
nausiating noem
refuses truth
Good dies
trump lies
heartbroken cries
Good is gaslit
blatant dissembling
ugly, ugly, ugly
Back 2000 years ago there was a stated confidence that if you ask God, you will receive.
Over those 2000 years not a whole lot has come from such confidence. Yet the words are repeated like a mantra wishing to be true.
As though belief were all you needed.
Whatever we ask God,we shall receive,because we keep his commandmentsand live the kind of life that he wants.His commandments are these:that we believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christand that we love one anotheras he told us to.Whoever keeps his commandmentslives in God and God lives in him.We know that he lives in usby the Spirit that he has given us.
(--from 1 John 3:22-4:6)
We've been disappointed before. How many times over 2000 years? More than a few I suspect.
Maybe to get a favorable prayer response you'd have to pay to play. The way it works with President Trump. Pay him, and your requests are granted. Pay him a lot and big requests, big pardons, are granted.
I admit to liking the idea that one "lives in God and God in him." It's a good script. Fits in print. The idea.
These days prayer feels like someone quoting the Constitution and the Separation of Powers -- both regaled. Good copy. Fits in print.
I admit to packing my valise and boarding a train to agnostic unbelief. It's not a far destination. A cup of coffee and a tuna fish sandwich help sustain the trip. Countryside passes with little beckoning. Fact is I could just get off anywhere and feel right at home in an aborted attempt to reach the last station.
The carefully crafted rails of scripted testament would go on with no rider. There would be broad fields rising to a bare hill from which to look back over the landscape. There's no one there.
It's fine that so many ask and ask and ask. The sick ask. The dying ask. Those who want more for themselves or their families ask. Warmongers ask for a blessing. The well-fed ask for continued good luck in the stock market. The baseball player rounding third in home-run trot makes sign of cross in a public show of gratitude. The trudging farm laborer prays to make it to his casa and dinner.
I'll leave it there. In the field. It is dusk. Birds have sung and gone. So has the sun.
The lonely expanse doesn't evoke anything but the dying of light and cooling of temperature.
The rails curve in silence.
Here is the only destination without travel plans.
Whether or not there's a cat snoozing on your lap, the moment, its bare offering, passes .
Long time ago, Augustine (354--430AD):
That quote, "Men go forth to wonder at the heights of mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the long courses of rivers, the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering," is from St. Augustine of Hippo, found in his Confessions, highlighting how people marvel at external wonders but overlook the greater wonder of the self, made in God's image, and the divine within. (—from ai re Augustine’s quote)
And there it is.
The ‘divine within’ — is the natural without.
We look, from within, as the without.
Behold what is within without; behold what is without within.
Augustine saw it.
We are within what is without.
Epiphany
That which is
Of itself
Shows through
What is
Itself
Now
Each being
Realizing
Wholly
Itself
Aseity
Maybe hopelessness
is more desirable
than trying to be hopeful.
These days hope is
irrational swag.
Supreme Court
took away hope
Said president could do
Justice-free
Anything he wanted
Republican congress
Took away hope when they
Took paralysis drug and
Sit stone-faced
staring at nothing
Democrats are looking for
A roadside diner
For quick breakfast
Before beginning
Hibernation escape
Church opens
Collection envelopes
Finds quarters
Immediately depositing
Into pedophile account
No, hope has sold out
Of stores and hearts
Leaving empty aisles
Empty ventricles
Empty eyes
Quote on screen: “There is nothing outside.” (Linji)
Oh, stop it!
Ok, there is something outside.
No, thats not it. There is nothing inside.
Look, now you're just talking smack.
I don’t know how to tell you this — you’re dead, and there’s nothing either inside or outside.
. . .
[screen goes black, there are no credits, a voiceover is heard saying “Are we done here?”]
Our teacher,
(Beloved and bedeviled)
Donald Trump, tells
us it is ok to punch
in the face anybody
we want to punch.
All the prior
Education we had
Is now overthrown
By someone trustworthy
Who lives an
Exemplary life.
The guy from Nazareth’s
Time is over
We now have a new
Savior and redeemer
Who tells us good is
Bad and evil is good
We’ve waited
A long time to hear such
Debilitating fallaciousness
From the new
Il capo dei capi,
non scherzo.
Yo, Dogen!
Yes?
Waddya mean “Life is one continuous mistake!”
Just that.
Really?
Really!
Fusatsu
The Ten Grave Precepts
I’ll be working on — “See the perfection; Do not speak of other’s errors or faults.”
(A slog, for sure.)
God showed up
Where I was
Just sitting
“How are things
In your country?”
God asked —
“Damned
If I know,”
I said —
“You are,
And you do,”
God revealed
Funny how
Words still
Mean something
Dawn doesn't care
About human stupidity
It shows up
Bringing light
To darkest
Night
Saying — here
Try again
How kind
The cosmos
Suggesting life
Without ideology
No barriers
No boundaries
Still
No disturbing
One’s
Edgeless edge
Zen students
All, we reside
In cornerless
Whole
Not stepping
Over, nor
Remaining behind
This very place
This very
Moment
An entirety
As it is
Each particular
Nescient glance
“Nothing is more important than family.”
(That’s the copy for an advertisement for the ACLU.)
It doesn’t surprise me they’ve become Buddhists --
“Nothing” needs to be explored
I notice that my primary strategy is to give up
I leave things, jobs, houses, organizations --
positive take, letting go; negative take, bailing out;
as plane plummets (state, soul) jump and tumble
as I fall I ponder what will happen when I hit ground,
(here it comes! here it comes!)
I think I'll pray -- what will I say?
ok, I’ve got it, "Dear God, my name is . . . uh oh” (sp*#@!lat)
Rethinking my life
I now know uselessness
We have a president
Who is troublesome
Not I, not anybody
Can do anything
About him — so we
Watch and wonder
Exactly how he will
Kill us, democracy
America itself
In the inch
Of Maine
Where I live
No bombs
In the mind
Of America
It can do
Nothing wrong
In the realm
Of right and wrong
We pass, preferring
Fear and doubt
There are no tanks
On road, no missiles
Destroying homes —
We are safe and sound
Q: Have you learned nothing?
A: [thinks a while]
Yes, yes I have.
Q: [unsure of the ambiguity]
That’ll teach you.
A; [realizes he has nothing to say]
[and can’t say it]
Do you write poetry?
No, I don’t.
What do you write?
Words
Oh!
“As birds’ wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight” (Williams et al. The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams. Vol.1, 1909-1939 235). https://www.theintima.org/re-embodying-medicine-william-carlos-williams-and-the-ethics-of-attention#:~:text=Yes%2C%20profound%20concepts%20arise%20in,about%20the%20process%20of%20observation.
No one would accuse me of writing poetry.
Czesław Milosz ended his poem Ars Poetica? with these lines:
The purpose of poetry is to remind ushow difficult it is to remain just one person,for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,and invisible guests come in and out at will.What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,under unbearable duress and only with the hopethat good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49455/ars-poetica-56d22b8f31558
Goethe wrote:
"Words are but noise and smoke" (or "Names are but sound and smoke, / Obscuring heavenly light” (--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in Faust, Part One)
It occurs to me that what we call “God” is our worded approximation of inner experience finding Itself in the appearing landscape.
For some folks this is ‘seeing' God. For some this is ‘hearing' God or ‘speaking with’ God. These are perfectly adequate approximations.
approximation | əˌpräksəˈmāSHən |
noun
a value or quantity that is nearly but not exactly correct: these figures are only approximations.
• a thing that is similar to something else, but is not exactly the same: the band smashed up their equipment in an approximation of rock star behavior.
. . .
approximation
noun
1 a general approximation is that a ten degree rise in temperature doubles the rate of reaction. estimate, estimation, guess, conjecture, rough calculation, rough idea, surmise; guesswork; informal guesstimate; North American English informal ballpark figure.
2 we can only look for an approximation to the truth about these matters. semblance, outward appearance, likeness, resemblance, similarity, correspondence, comparison. (Dictionary)
It has been said that no one has ever seen God, except:
Perhaps poetry is the energy of the transcendent breathed into language.
And for our Christian brothers and sisters, what they call ‘Christ’ is the embodied expression
of God languaged into human form.
In Kantian philosophy, the thing-in-itself (German: Ding an sich) is the status of objects as they are, independent of representation and observation. The concept of the thing-in-itself was introduced by the German philosopher Immanuel Kant, and over the following centuries was met with controversy among later philosophers.[1] It is closely related to Kant's concept of noumena or the objects of inquiry, as opposed to phenomena, its manifestations.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thing-in-itself
Poetry is the process allowing things to be themselves with, perhaps, appreciation and contemplative respect.
Our tendency as humans is to make things other than they are. We wish to fashion things according to our preferences. We want to own things. We want to own persons.
To be well-within-oneself, to let something be-itself, is a hard-sell for our acquisitive nature.
I’m not saying that the best poetry is unwritten.
But close to it.
Intimately close to it.
The last
Funeral you
Attend is
Your own
I will
Not commit
Suicide in
Winter
Too cold
Hard ground
Mittened hands
Slippery ice
Nor spring
Too muddy
Black flies
Mosquitoes
Screw it
Death has
To be
No bother
The way
Orange juice
Or farina
Just happens
The other
Side of
Fresh coffee
Buttered toast
Thursday
Is
One more
Reason
To
Stop
Naming
Anything
Ready?
What is
Today?
Eh?
I manage
To stay up
Til midnight
And it’s
The wrong day
Happy 2 January!
Everything
Is vacated, just
Another Friday
A snoring dog
Shikantaza
Near full moon
Finish Suor Maria Celeste’s story along with that of her father Galileo Galilei. The book was Galileo’s Daughter by Dava Sobel. (1999).
The delight of it. The trouble they’d seen.
The hubris of power and choosing belief over learning.
How we deprive others and make them suffer.
Remind me
How anything matters
But eyes recognizing
Simple love
As it occurs
No fanfare
No grand bows
Brown paper bag
Three people hug
Absence of fourth
Middle of B&Gs
Rockport Maine
Last day of year
Amid the noise, a calm wisdom, with a perfect name, Jane Goodall:
https://bsky.app/profile/cajunblue.bsky.social/post/3mbck5q65qs2s
cheers!
Walking harbor
After hugging man
whose wife just died
Brings me to Quaker sitting
Hands gassho and clap
Enfolding obscurity
A play in four lines:
Let’s pretend god exists.
Pretend?
Yeah, pretend.
Who do you think you're talking to?
[long pause]
[nothing else is heard]
Critics will love this work. They’ll compare it to Sartre and Ionesco. It will probably have only a brief run off-broadway, then on to the college theatre circuit. The costs these days are staggering.
It’s the final stage direction that will fill columns in daily newspapers. They’ll ask — how is it possible to hear nothing else?
You, you in your 3rd floor walk-up in Chicago— you tell them!
Doris, our elder, sent this Merwin poem yesterday:
To the New Year
With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible
—W.S. Merwin
He might be writing about the new year, his true self, or, perhaps, God. Poems are like that. Once they leave home, they are both homeless and belong to everyone.
I ask God:
Who do people say you are?
You talking to me?
Yeah, you.
People think the damnedist things.
Like?
Like I'm breath.
Are you, breath?
Yeah, I am.
What else?
Some say I'm everything.
Are you?
Yeah, I am.
What else?
Nothing.
Are you?
Yeah.
Talking to God is awkward. I know God doesn't talk out loud, that I make it up, phrase whatever comes to mind. I know that I'm probably just having an inner dialogue with myself.
Merwin wrote
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
I like that.
God and my self and the new year -- each sounds that way.
Saying nothing other than distant hush, stillness, sunlight reaching down.
In 1957, as I entered high school, I read Allen Ginsberg in a poem saying "Poet is Priest." It was a line in his "Death to Van Goth's Ear".
It caught my attention. I'd just turned twelve. It's when I began my love of poetry. It had a sacramental implimentation. The implication for me was an exclaustrated creativity that cycled through my years, then decades, into a lifetime of being just outside the monastic cell of religious horarium, just outside the monastic enclosure whose signage seemed to say -- "stay away, but stay close."
Consecration is an inner act of reverence to all that belongs.
When the priest at mass echoing Jesus used to say "Hoc est corpus meum" (This is my body) -- I heard also "per omnia secular secularum" (through all ages of ages, now is forever, all is what is here). My bastardized translation and odd understanding threw me into the scripture of prophecy, poetry, and projective verse.
In developing his poetics, [Charles] Olson drew from a wide array of influences, including mythology, the history and geography of Gloucester, and the process philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. Olson believed that the act of poetic creation should be connected to a primordial dimension of human existence. He wrote in his landmark essay “Projective Verse” (1950) that poetry was a form of “energy transferred from where the poet got it” to the reader. In distinction from the “closed form” of conventional poetic meter, Olson proposed an “open field” that “projects” organically from the poem’s content—i.e., the perception of the poet who interacts with and yet is an integral part of the poet’s immediate environment. Olson used the duration of a human breath, a basic human function that conveyed a poet’s vital energy, as the measure of a poetic line.
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Charles-Olson#ref1106576
I would read Olson, Creeley, Williams, Merwin, Ginsberg, Rich, Snyder, Antoninus, Kinnell, Eliot, Pound, Duncan, Empson, Edson, Harjo, Hirshfield, Paston, Basho, Issa, Buson, Takahashi, Sakaki --among many others.
Poet was priest for me.
Poems, scripture.
The poetic, my monastery.
Today, in this cell, this poetic -- i.e. "an imaginative sensitive emotional thoughtful expression" (dictionary) of what is revealing itself -- is the muted vocation that cloisters me in daily practice.
This by Takahashi:
Destruction
English version by Lucien Stryk and Takashi Ikemoto
Original Language Japanese
The universe is forever falling apart --
No need to push the button,
It collapses at a finger's touch:
Why, it barely hangs on the tail of a sparrow's eye.
The universe is so much eye secretion,
Hordes leap from the tips
Of your nostril hairs. Lift your right hand:
It's in your palm. There's room enough
On the sparrow's eyelash for the whole.
A paltry thing, the universe:
Here is all the strength, here the greatest strength.
You and the sparrow are one
And, should he wish, he can crush you.
The universe trembles before him.
Sander-plow slowly
Passes toward town
Icy road
Not even deer
Chance
The footing
Wind
Blows hard
Ice clenches
Itself
As prayer
Might hope
Year slides
To end
Dont break
Bones or heart
Heartshine
Let’s call it
That, or
Heart-hue
When inner
Feeling embraces
Outer appearance
With emotion
These rare
Times you
Are not there
But love is
some think
the oddity
of current
presidency
will have to
come crashing
down under
weight of
criminality
cruelty, and
crushing lies --
but not me
I think it
will continue
until the end
of my time, that
liminal passage
from awfulness
to absolute abuse.
Absolve us our
awful thoughts
the pessimism
after watching
the cutting gutting
no, it will continue
and I will capitulate
join the crazies
praising the grand
mufti of mayhem --
all hail to himself!
not having
to go anywhere
or do
anything
my life
becomes wide
with silence
stillness
the way water
leaks through
roof into
front room
collected in
buckets on bed
behind swivel
chair, my life
Mostly I remember Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole on horseback (Thomas à Beckett and King Henry II) on a beach discussing the absurd fate landing on them and their friendship in a political time.
Now is my way clear, now is the meaning plain:
Temptation shall not come in this kind again.
The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.(--T.S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral)
The awkward calculus of ethical and moral clarity in a troubled time weighs on the human heart. Every assassin somewhere believes that are doing the right thing. The world is shocked at their action. Commentators endlessly discuss the rationale, the mental illness, the antagonistic motivations for their murderous act. Sides are taken. If he is handsome, a mythology forms. If foreign, a renewed hatred arises.
Beckett is murdered in the cathedral. The troublesome priest has been rid. Henry submits his back for the lash. He is penitent. But he is king. He rules on.
Human history is an unsatisfactory thing. Justice is seldom the outcome of dispute and political maneuvering. The cunning and clever, i.e. the rich and powerful, seldom are held accountable for despicable acts and cruel behavior.
It seems to go that way.
Our fate, if you will.
If you are a fatalist.
I prefer to think of it as simple, uncomplicated ignorance. Side-skirting the clamor to label bad behavior “evil,” I prefer to see it as a deficient heart and a disinterested mind.
I begin to sense that the inner creates the outer. Then, if maturation continues, the inner becomes the outer. (Our mythology of the christian incarnation follows this process.)
To give the benefit of the doubt, I imagine when our evangelical fundamentalist friends blithely ask if I’ve accepted Christ as my personal lord and savior, they are asking from a deep unconscious place whether I understand that unless the clear and undivided inner wholeness that centers all of creation is seen and accepted, the outer expression of the world will remain and be the chaotic divisive confusion of ego-fractured separation and unfeeling dominance it is and has been since its origin.
“Christ,” in this mythology, is that which ‘saves’ us from the delusion of hostile difference and cruel indifference. Christ is the manifestation (some say in human form) of what might be called loving wholeness in particular expression purposed to heal the illusion of fragmentation and to assist in effectuating harmonious peace and attentive presence encouraging meaningful interconnection and compassion amid and within all creation.
The shorthand for this might be -- to take away sin.
If we were to take away institutional hubris and political machination, is “Christ” that which is meant to guide humanity (vide all creation) through chaos and despair into harmony, stability, and peace?
The christ reality, rather than being the proprietory patent of institution and church management, is open source intercommunion of all being, all beings, seeking nourishing existence and loving service one unto the other.
The wrong reason is to have everyone join your belief system. The right deed is to allow love to appear in the inner and outer world on its own, in its own way.
For Sunday Evening Practice:
As year ends, I revisit my roots and invite you to look in.I am enthused that genuine spirituality is everyday life, everyday encounters, everyday things.
"The greatest discovery was that the heart of Celtic spirituality was simply living the life, following the Way, traveling the journey in the everyday ordinariness of life –the pain and the pleasure, the heartaches and the hopes, the disappointment and the dreams. This is of great importance because this is essentially what spirituality is.” (—Trevor Miller)
It intrigues me that (it is soberingly possible) what we’ve seen as our need of scriptures, gurus, clergy, shamans, masters, or the panoply of spiritual teachers, is a fading and diminishing need, giving way to an associative inner self-reflection and community intercommunication as our exploration and supportive correctivity/connectivity.Are we (mercifully) being thrown back to ordinary experience and conversational intuition with all beings and things, here and now, to reveal our shared worth and our material/spiritual direction?Cheers,s&b
1.
Celtic Spirituality – A Beginner’s Guide
Trevor Miller reflects on Celtic Spirituality.
https://www.northumbriacommunity.org/articles/celtic-spirituality-a-beginners-guide/
... ... ...
to them that serve
who pledge to protect
from foreign and
domestic enemies
with gratitude and
respect for what you do
for your country
above board and unshy --
you know your duty
you know what honor is
legitimate and courageous --
be faithful and respected
Why sit
Why be still
Why not know
Silly questions
Silly unmoving
Silly awareness
I once wanted
Something, anything —
Now, nothing, suffices
I’m amazed
To be alone
With nothing else
The end of things
Driven by some intelligence
Beyond our ken
Proves, says Thomas
There is an intelligence
Beyond our grasping
The fifth proof of
An existing God
That tumbersault mind
Happily lands on two feet —
Taking applause
Arms outstretched
Bowing from waist
Bouquet arriving at stage —
Design, the end
Precedes beginning
You are because what
You are doing adds up.
Go ahead, factor origin
Divided by duration
Equaling destination halved
And how’d by quotient
Division without a divide
Positing a whole over parts
I was never good at math
Nor logic, the good is
Only only as good as the
Included bad, embracing
Choicelessness, unknown
Whims, necessary faults
All (it is said) of a piece
(Pieces broken on ground)
God, they say, will reconstruct
Refashioning integrity despite
Shards and pieces and debris.
The compute, the calculation
Factors back within the scattered
Pieces— all of them, regathered.
The ergo, as Cummings wrote,
what do you mean
you are different
not the same
different
day is cold
eight bells
snow tightens
light darkens
perhaps we should
abandon who we think
we are, the purity of
our preferences, let
what is passing
pass, without comment
the way the thought
of peace is not peace
and a prayer is just
a preference thrown like dice
'Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.' (Confucius)
Of course John Prine wrote
a song called “Christmas in Prison”
the day comes, the day goes
people start talking about new year’s
no wrapping paper, no candles
just wary greetings from second tier.
and it's over, same old same old
voices loud and Christ got born and all
back in his home with steel door closed
night does its job putting day to sleep
Yes
One day follows
Another
Three hundred
Sixty three days
Until Christmas
It’s beginning
To look
A lot like this
Zen is the practice
Of no barriers;
Contemplation the practice
Of no boundaries.
May we (mais oui)
Practice well!
there are a few of them on the mountain
hangers-on, shimmying in brutal cold
staying put, watching friends fall away
willy nelson has his say, says it just right
No prison conversation today
Education department closed
Just well-wishes
To all of us
In our prisons —
May we be released
Soon
