Thursday, September 18, 2008


I'm reading The Blue Hand, a book about the Beats in India. I've just read an e-mail from a friend who recommends the book The Geography of Bliss. I have been playing with my cat Bear, who nearly died and who might not yet be well, but who is acting like a healthy cat. I drop a ball of paper in front of him and he scrambles for it. I bounce it off his chest and he stares at me. I toss it on the floor and he looks down, from his spot on the couch....not well yet; one step at a time.

I just did this freewrite.

crumpled paper rumpled rupees
stumble on the geography of bliss
cattle purr mountains move
celery stalks waver on the hill
I am going down to the water
I am going to write my name in water
I am going to float my name on air
down by the river
where the wild oak grows
gnawing at its own roots
urging to go down the stream
to become a dam
a wall
a building
even a book

land is aside, the middle is grass
inside the grass is grain
inside the grain is rain
inside the rain is some kind of pouch
full of dryness
maybe old bones
maybe the laughter of the dead
maybe hate

hate that tumbles
picks up speed and weeds
and wanderers

in my heart is an arrow
with a tip that points to the Ganges
a picture of a stone tower in my wallet
crumpled by workaday life

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