In the Vestibule, in the Barn, in the Hayloft, in the Forest with the Planetesimals
April 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011
3 Min read time
We give one another things to do.
We give one another thoughts to think.
Thinking About Things‚ Telling You About Them
The dark side of story telling began in 1806 with an elk hunting party gone bad.
I think it was one of you who asked me to think about knowing something before it
should be known‚ about what happens when you know something before it should be
known‚ something sooner than you should.
Is it possible to “put it aside for later”?
She told me about someone who was specializing for a while in cute-gay-guy emo-porn‚
which seems to be a fad market for teenage girls in Japan.
Confabulations of Sinister Angels‚ Orphans‚ Foundlings and Other Otherwise Lovable
His narcolepsy was relative.
He was at the mercy of a cat.
He looked as if he were sleeping when he wasn’t sleeping at all.
It was as simple as that.
How is it that some people make one completely happy to be alive
While another can cause one’s reason for being to be called into question.
There was a camel yesterday walking down the road in front of our very own house!
This remains amazing and good and fortuitous and lucky‚ no?
Did it constitute a new kind of camel?
Words before we ever found something to do with them is what some people like to think
I was invited to think about: Language before it became useful.
I regret these stairs‚ said someone who remembers remembering this because it happened
to be the first time he had ever noticed a word.
...................the beautiful and arcane......the culture-worn............
w/o understanding I understood them............
I grew.......to understand them..........something like the delight............. a child finds in a
I meant that but I hadn’t thought of that‚ is what my friend said.
It Is Sometimes the Case that the Difficulty Is What Is Alluring
When we say all is right with the world‚ when we say we are one with the world‚ when
we are lost in the words‚ when we lose ourselves‚ when we casually stand around in air
we feel or don’t feel but know is the seamless same fabric of being that is skimming the
top of water and unbrokenly there is nowhere where nothing is & nowhere where the
removing of something doesn’t rearrange everything; partly it is the difficulty of this that
is so alluring; knowing while we are conscious there is no way or where to disappear into
a fracture or fissure or crack or rent or slash or canyon of otherwise being part of the
whole of it all which is everything and everything there is.
The perfectly sane woman said: It was exactly 5 days 5 hours to the minute after my
mother died I first felt vertigo.
Remarkable that she knows when her mother died‚ with that kind of precision.
Remarkable that she cannot not make a match between these two things.
Remarkable that she might have said it was exactly 7 days and 11 hours to the minute
after my mother died............once you begin this work it never ends........
Uh‚ do you think when someone dies they just vibrate a little differently.
That said‚ all kaleidoscopic powers in the sensorium are to be handled delicately and I believe them.
On page 239 it says she had a passion for anyone who could do anything really well.
On page 232 a salamander magician was not burning in the fireplace.
On page 239 anyone can hit a visible target.
They stood away from one another the distance of two shots from a Crossbow.
That is far.
And it was so beautiful I turned my back to it
so that I could walk away from it
and return in order to be shocked once again
by the power of its
relentlessly resolute absolute being there
In the room painted Tomahawk Red I could hear far away dogs barking‚ the music of an
ice cream truck‚ the slow motion howling of distant trains. I waited my turn after seeing
the little trapeze-like swing one must hang onto to cross over the crevasse in order to get
to the other side.
A red-haired woman with extremely glossy lips has now crossed herself seven times
between O’Hare & downtown Chicago! I am hoping she is a nun. But it is impossible to
This poem is part of BR’s special package celebrating National Poetry Month.
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April 18, 2011
3 Min read time