Visiting NYC

You were in heat, I sensed. Cosmopolitan magnitude sweat approaching rain. Nether regions dispensing fresh water in places one would only go to buy a ride. And I, one of the parched, drank. Throated your bottled majority to neutralize the affect [sic].

Do you know that people simulate sex to tolerate being inside of you? Dry humping wet songs. Then each other. Nerve Pulse Radar report this. Slinking beside you through kitchens, holes and squares. Foreign shapes and paces leading back to your borrowed steps, grand ceilings and even darker, pleasantly arid spaces.

Mojita, let me see the sweat of your handbrushed back, I whispered.

The Simple Life

This past week, I’ve been reading about Buddhism. Fleshing out my understanding of its vastly stretchy non-theistic fabric and its extraordinarily ordinary founder Siddhartha Gautama. The Unwilling Teacher. The Ultimate Experientialist. The Buddha.

Upon his moment of awakening (aka. Enlightenment), Siddharta saw the world with new eyes:

Everything is extraordinarily clear. I see the whole landscape before me. I see my hands, my feet, my toes and I smell the rich river mud. I feel a tremendous strangeness and wonder at being alive. Wonder of wonders! This enlightenment is the nature of all people but, they are unhappy for the lack of it.

I adore this tremendous strangeness. Really. Never a dull moment if one engages that sense of wonderment; seeing from my navel to my cat to a song to the street and beyond. Far beyond my expectations.

Since my last posting, I experienced these fucking beautifully entrancing lesser phenomena:

A silver beach ball rolling down the highway.
A Tibetan sanctuary in the midst of the suburban mundane.
My signature on a check from the Fed.
A page turned in a book.
Synchronicity within difference.
The expansion of a hairline crack in my windshield.
A bicyclist in the rain.
The faded edges of a woman's lips.

Observable simplicity. Grin. And more, from elsewhere, courtesy of my enabling lens: