Thinking

It's a tick I

a tick
tick I have
a
a tick

tick

tick

a tick I
I have

this thing

a tick

called think

called

called thinking

The Itch I Can't Reach

Scratch an itch...
oily skin on fingers over muscle,
tendons, blood and bones.

What hearted creature is
unlike this?

The organism.

Water in.
Food in.
Oxygen in.
Information in.

Noises out.
Heat out.
Moisture out.
Carbon dioxide out.
Matter out.

Simple. Common. Universal.

I can hear the gurgling of my
juices extracting life from the
food. I can feel the pulse of my
heart carrying nutrients in my blood
throughout.

Cells dying and birthing, dying
and birthing in us all, always,
until the last smile when something
is freed.

Ah, yes. Hello.

Thank you for showing up before then.

How could you let me sleep for so long? Did I miss
anything important while I was away?

Oh, well let's not be too dramatic.

What hearted creature am I who acts so separate,
alone from my hearted brothers?

Could you hand me the back-scratcher?

I have an itch I can't seem to reach.

What You Want From Me

Limbs outstretched.
Face to the sky.
A hundred hands on my back.
Tears evaporate from my red cheeks.
I know what you want from me.

From the Shofar to the Dungchen, Blow.
Push out all prana until there is nothing.
I then hear the moment you move about.
In the darkness, stirring me in the Holy Water.
I know what you want from me.

Ancestors quench my spirit.
Pour from The Decanter my future.
A hundred drops from each of you.
Your Wine hammering the skinned Damaru rhythm.
I know what you want from me.

From Now On

Don't think about what you got.
You got it.

Look into my left eye
and disappear into your
self for the last time.

From now on you are
the Butterfly and Moon,
the Lazy Sunday and the Fire in my Heart.

Turn off the machine
again. Turn off the machine
again. Turn off the machine
again and do what you do,
letting the sleep be over.

You are mine forevermore,
in every joining, and I embrace you here, in
the web of the eye of knowing.

The Baker

What comes over me?
I have to bring bread to
your table.

I knead dough day and
night. Carefully
playing with ingredients,
waking up to
check the temperature
of my beloved
guest, adjusting the heat
to meet your needs.

I can smell it; the aroma passing
under my nose like life preceding
me? I get so hungry and go looking
for it

forgetting

who the Bakers are...

who the guests are...

and there is nowhere
to look.

The Inkwell

You suck me up into your inkwell.
You start writing...
and writing...
and writing...

and I can't see.

and I can't see what you are writing.

and I am too close. I am it.

Oh, I can see what you have written.

I can see all the way back to the beginning

Where the ink is dry, browned and dulled by time and handling;
by going over the story again and again.

You suck me up into your inkwell
and all I can do is flow onto the page.

Lucky to know what is happening.

Lucky to get even a simple glimpse of what I am up for as I am pushed onto the page.

I want to know. I want to know the next moment and the next one and the next.

Alas, you leave me to find out for myself as I go along...running back to the inkwell
for you again and again.