Inquiring into the nature of Reality
At the city of the sky, there are
Only signs, arrows.
This way, oh born of space.
Spanish colonial cruelty, a priest thrown off the cliffs,
Everything happens for a reason says the young woman tour guide.
I buy a pot from her mother.
The circle is the family that holds it all together.
Not my family, from which I barely escaped with my life.
Everything happens for a reason.
The arrows in the city of the sky
Point within.
Where space is born each moment.
Looking out the window to the south, must be 20th Street there to the right.
Apartment houses, a motley high-priced bunch. And palms – date, areca, fan.
Probably Mexican fan palms. The California fan palms aren’t domesticated much.
Wild magical Palm Canyon. The mind is busy with names and places, doing its job.
Cars queue at a four-way stop. Constant movement, all within Your stillness.
For a moment I dissolve into You.
Nothing to say about nothing.
The doctor knocks and enters to cut out a piece of flesh that has become murderous.
The quiet crunch of sawing and smell of burning meat.
I hardly notice.
The body is still abuzz with nothing.
You’re being very good says the nurse. I want to laugh but he’s got his scalpel in my face.
I am remembering the joy of not being. Anyway,
Nothing to say about nothing.