Letter to His First Wife, Edie

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“I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don't worry. It's all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It's a dream already ended. There's nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born."

-Jack Kerouac 

Molten

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The air is thickly filled with molten breeze

My fingers try to grasp it, 

pull it through my hands like molasses 

Manipulate it

Like I did your heart

It rises above me, and for a reason unknown,

I'm not bothered by it

I don't know whether that gives you joy or pain.

"Massacre"- A Poem

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And I don’t want to hear them talk about it

Anymore

They ruined Daisy

They took her pastel yellow dress and pearls

Flung them across the room and interrogated her

In the corner of her own house on a

Wednesday afternoon

Her blonde hair astray, wisps framing her golden eyes

A look of confusion on her face, crossed with tears

Settled in the crevices of her eyelids

Now they’re moving on to Gatsby

Tearing his tie to shreds

And destroying his gilded pocket watch

By smashing it with their hands, their voices

Which sound like the ear-piercing squeals of hundreds of

Strange houseguests outside on the freshly cut lawn

They lock him in his closet with his now soiled trousers

They’ve drenched with wine,

Not even the expensive kind

I sit in my chair quietly and I want to defend them,

Take their hands and help them up from the

Massacre that is these teenager’s assumptions

But the teacher, she’s already seen my face,

And realizes the damage is done.

Musings

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maybe i'll just keep it all to myself 

and fill journals for the rest of my life

I remember when he said, he looked over and I was

furiously writing, he said 

"I couldn't understand"

I said 

"You could've too. 

Anyone could've."

…..

"sorry, sorry, sorry"

"don't apologize so often, why do you do that?"

"because don't you see? there's just so much to be sorry for."

"Buddhists"- A Poem

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My stomach twists

Like a bendy straw in the 

Grasp of a little child

It churns when I think of how

Awful

I must be 

Maybe if I went to someone

Spoke my thoughts out loud

Maybe if I went for a seven day walk

Like a Buddhist would

Maybe if I became Buddhist

It would be easier

Because Buddhists can't kill things

It's against their faith

The thing is

I don't have any.

Moments

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“Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.”

-Anne Sexton