Every morning, awake, after coffee with remorse or delight, I,
convinced, after 5,000 poems, that I have said everything I have to say,
sit down in nothing-to-say-oblivion, and behold -- More! No, not
necessarily more perceptions, but this mornings
perception of Mt. Rainier -- hidden today by fog in a gray sky. Its
cone or shadow, absence, presence, or remembrance, push against my
diaphragm, bowels, brain to be articulated, acknowledged, saluted. Or one
more facet of Shiva-purnas cat and un-cat-like personality -- today
his purring -- needs to be explored. These, Rainier and Shiva, the two
liveliest aspects of my universe, press with the insistence of a rock/iron
world against my hollowness. They cry
for expression. I note that Shiva-purna still hesitates for long moments when I tap the brush, but that when, in fresh inspiration, he makes up his own mind, he knows exactly where to sit on my book or at the edge of the rug on my bedcovers to get his next brushing. Is he thinking in those long intervals of hesitation? Is he reading my mind, thought by thought? Is he teasing me? He often, because of the little crooked, brown splotch on one side of his lower lip, seems to be smiling. Laughing? I guess thats why living is easier than writing, you dont have to do anything about it.
It just is, and if you are unfortunate or fortunate enough to be born where she cant take care of you, then, I suppose, after awhile the urge to eat becomes so strong that you have to do something about it. But born into 20th Century America and living in the 21st Century Doom-land, with ever accelerating inflation that America has become, if you can still ignore the news and want very little, your needs can be met quite easily, with a modest luxury on a quarter of a million in the bank. It wont buy a house, or allow much travel, except bottom class, or buy you love, for most
of it must stay where it is to generate income to pay a modest rent, buy food, shop at the Goodwill. Then, until the market crashes, you can live as brightly as you want to -- provided you dont want much. And I dont. America is just fine, today, if you keep your head in the sand. It is very beautiful, very luxurious and, as long as you dont mind, or can ignore an inflated-by-greed-for-his-class madman in the White House -- quite lovely to live effortlessly in. But should you have a sense of morality or a remembrance of what America once was, once stood for, it saddens you as you eat your
genetically modified bread. But I write no more political poems, I read no more news (first there isnt any -- just a bare censored trickle) in the newspapers, and I never did have a television set. And therefore it has been made to seem, if you dont participate in greed or believe in the terrorist bugaboo the madman keeps encouraging, as if there is nothing to write about. The world has been reduced to economics, capitalism, terrorism and greed. There is nothing left in the mind for a poem to feed on -- excect my cat and Mt. Rainier. So though I have nothing to write about, I write many mornings about them.
Other mornings I just skip it. The Hindus and the Buddhists said that if I emptied my mind, Id reach Nirvana. I always had a lot of interests when my mind was full. As it got more and more empty, I got bored. Emptier, bored-er, right up to the edge of despair. I peck my despair into the computer and O! ever so neatly organized, the thoughts are visualized and regurgitated. A poem. In the worlds post-Babel language. The rest of my time, I listen to lectures -- on every subject under the sun -- other suns, too, out there, beyond, discovered via Hubble, pictured in all their raging, raving, anonymous, awesome beauty.