Life is, as George Emerson said, the “Eternal Yes!” Or in the words of the wild prophet Henry Miller: “Fucking Yes!”
Maybe it was the fire-drenched, full moon that rose last night like a warm sigh. Maybe that’s why today I feel like a field of poppies is exploding inside.
The resin of opium. The addiction to something unsaid. The feel of the atomic weight of weightlessness. The smoke of forgiveness, stinging the eyes one more time.
How do we force ourselves to live as if life is an arrangement of flowers? Pick me! Pick me! I’ll last. I’ll share the water but only if my bloom outdoes yours.
Wild flower. Untouched except for hot sun, cool rain, mist, and otherworldly night. There must be something mad about you. I mean, why the fuck would you grow so far from the maddening crowd? Are you insufferable? Does your seedline got back to what fell by the wayside?
Let me tell you a story. No. On second thought, that’s been told one too many times.
Let me tell you nothing. Do you hear it? No yet? Just wait, and you will. It sounds like a petal falling to the dirt of a parched earth. But there’s a raincloud coming. So why the pitiful look?
In time, all things come to fruition. Just ask the fruit. But listen to the seed. It knows death is in the flesh, but life is in the seed
I don’t know where I nabbed this. But I like its irreligiousness:
“Gravity is only a myth put about by atheist scientists in order to restrict our natural ability to fly.”