We
have lost the
power even of imagining what
the ancient idealization of poverty could
have meant: the liberation from material attachments,
the unbribed soul, the manlier indifference, the paying our way
by what we are or do and not by what we have, the right to
fling away our life at any moment irresponsibly—
the more athletic trim, in short,
the moral fighting
shape.
Life is short,
though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place
beautiful.
How
should those
who know of God
meet and
part?
The way
an old musician
greets his beloved instrument
and will take special care, as a great
artist always does, to enhance
the final note of each
performance.
all you
can know about animals
as persons. the names of trees and flowers
and weeds. the names of stars and the movements
of planets and the moon. your own six senses,
with a watchful elegant mind. at least
one kind of traditional magic:
divination, astrology, the
book of changes,
the tarot;
dreams.
the illusory demons
and the illusory shining gods.
kiss the ass of the devil and eat shit;
fuck his horny barbed cock, fuck
the hag, and all the celestial
angels and maidens
perfum’d and
golden–
& then
love the human:
wives husbands and friends
children’s games, comic books, bubble-gum,
the weirdness of television and advertising.
work long, dry hours of dull work
swallowed and accepted and
lived with and finally
lovd. exhaustion,
hunger,
rest.
the wild
freedom of the dance, extasy
silent solitary illumination, entasy
real danger. gambles and
the edge of
death.
A certain
young man was asking
around. “I need to find a wise person.
I have a problem.” A bystander said, “There’s
no one with intelligence in our town except that man
over there playing with the children, the one riding
the stick-horse. He has keen, fiery insight and
vast dignity like the night sky, but he
conceals it in the madness of
child’s play.”
The young
seeker approached the
children. “Dear father, you who
have become as a child,
tell me a secret.”
“Go away.
This is not a day for
secrets.” “But please! Ride your
horse this way, just for a minute.” The sheikh
play-galloped over. “Speak quickly. I can’t hold this one
still for long. Whoops. Don’t let him kick you. This is a wild
one!” The young man felt he couldn’t ask his serious
question in the crazy atmosphere, so he
joked, “I need to get married. Is
there someone suitable on
this street?”
“There are
three kinds of women
in the world. Two are griefs, and
one is a treasure in the world. The first,
when you marry her, is all yours. The second
is half-yours, and the third is not yours at all. Now get
out of here, before this horse kicks you in the head!
Easy now!” The sheikh rode off among the
children. The young man shouted,
“Tell me more about
the kinds of
women!”
The sheikh,
on his cane horsey,
came closer, “The virgin of
your first love is all yours. She will
make you feel happy and free. A childless widow
is the second, she will be half yours. The third, who is
nothing to you, is a married woman with a child. By her first
husband she had a child, and all her love goes into that child.
She will have no connection with you. Now watch out.
Back away. I’m going to turn this rascal around!”
He gave a loud whoop and rode back,
calling the children
around him.
“One
more question, Master!”
The sheikh circled, “What is it? Quickly!
That rider over there needs me. I think I’m
in love.” “What is this playing that
you do? Why do you hide
your intelligence
so?”
“The people
here want to put me
in charge. They want me to be
judge, magistrate, and interpreter of all the texts.
The knowing I have doesn’t want that. It wants to enjoy
itself. I am a plantation of sugarcane, and at the same time
I’m eating the sweetness.” Knowledge that is acquired is not like
this. Those who have it worry if audiences like it or not. It’s a
bait for popularity. Disputational knowing wants customers.
It has no soul. Robust and energetic before a responsive
crowd, it slumps when no one is there. The only
real customer is God. Chew quietly your
sweet sugarcane God-love, and stay
playfully childish. Your face will
turn rosy with illumination
like the red bud
flowers.
Let the lover
be disgraceful, crazy,
absent minded. Someone sober
will worry about things going
badly. Let the lover
be.
All day
and night, music,
a quiet, bright reed song.
If it fades, we
fade.
