Ten

I. This can not be it!

Something which

Half heartedly boils itself,

Aimless and aimless

Not even aware of aim or:

Less we admit to seeking

Dust under our own eyelids,

There is only the sound,

There is only the sound.

II. Collected dust

Pools of rain, here:

Following these…deeper

But still just following,

Secret poems between

Breast and thighs,

Trail without signs,

Leading…leading.

III. Through the bowls

Something dissatisfying,

Seeks it’s own stench ,

In gratitude, reach deeper,

Catch yourself catching it,

No: this is not the way

To go about changing.

IV. A great struggle!

Within our hands, grab & grapple &

Fix, and lose it again, and regain:

Return.

Breath…this is going to take awhile.

V. When struggle ends:

Acceptance, obedience, and gentleness.

No, this is not the wild

Same self

Lacking the ability or necessity,

You are not the enemy I had once perceived.

VI. Great joy!

Returning home atop

These mysterious things,

Music and dance and sex and wine,

Everyone joins!

Everyone begins to grow great beards

And wild hair!

VII. I am here:

Joy has subsided,

That which left footprints

Is transcended.

Idle…idle…idle…

Ideal.

VIII.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

IX. There is only sound.

There is only sound.

And laughter, happiness, sadness, trees.

Ordinary becoming ultimate,

Ultimate becoming ordinary.

One and one makes one.

　

X. The circle is complete.

I return to the first face I saw,

And that face returns to me.

Walking I smile at strangers,

They return the smile,

and begin there own thoughts with:

This can not be it!