Drive baby drive: Wheels, baby birds, dead moles–

16 05 2011

There is a reason I want to enter a Buddhist convent.

My heart’s deliverance is unassailable. This is the last birth.

There is a reason I’m giving myself the gift of revisiting this idea in 15 years.

Now there is no renewal of being.

Here we are in the wheel of suffering.  All that lives suffers.

In other words, all is Duhka 

which is untranslatable but which we call suffering.

I make no sense

Here is something more concrete for you.

This mole is dead.

She looks alive but she is dead.

Do you think the girl should write it down, or/should she smother it?  

all beings suffer–doesn’t that help you make sense of it?  the end of suffering?–what about that?

Another example from Nisqually

 This starling nestling in the middle of the road was going to die.  It just was–he just was.

watch/the flashing stitches of my scalpel.  It will answer–/it will connect us with blood

I did pick it up

there is blood on my hand

but just a broken feather

this bird sat in my lap and I breathed with it and I felt….

You will be found wanting/

On the I-5, in the noise and the speed and wind and this tiny quiet sense of borderlines between life and death and me and other things

And, you do not make rich the soil.  

Where what I am needs to not invade what the other is.  Where all I have is warmth. Where I am all alone except I’m not.

may all beings be free of suffering

And, you are not capable/of feeding fish and birds with your corpse


I’m inclined to find that the deep spiritual-philosophy behind the most basic aspects of Buddhism help me see the fissures rather than the masking.  But.  I am new and naive.  But, I reject, from deep in my gut, any sense of spiritual arithmetic.  For example

we suffer because of original sin


you are suffering because you have accumulated karma–he will be born a lower form in his next life because of the karma he is accumulating.

(lower?!  Lower! really…)

These are both about the human need to find meaning.  I don’t believe in meaning.

Is this masturbation or possession?

Is it possible/allowable to use/investigate the methods without this sort of arithmetic?  Is is possible/allowable to encounter some of that internal unifying sort of thing without pretending to accept hierarchy, or retribution?

What if night vision?/Nevertheless, we see it.  You are hallucinogenic or visionary

Now that we are rapt–score us.  Use the knife.

With the fire of passion, say I, with the fire of hatred, with the fire of infatuation; with birth, old age, death, sorrow, lamentation, misery, grief, and despair are they on fire.

quotes are by The Buddha, Kristen Kaschock


Fare thee well, Aprille

1 05 2011

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire

It is become cliché.

And also, because it is T. S. Eliot’s, problematic.

But, though I hate to admit it, I’ve been saying The Wasteland’s first three lines over and over in my head since before this month began because it comforts me.  Because, though I’ve understood the agony that comes of mixing memory and desire for many years, in this year, this spring, it is almost too much.

the rock needs incisions

And the earth needs furrows

I cannot be more explicit with you.  I just can’t.  And because of this, my writing is circling and never finding its way to the center.  I do think there is something linked between my repetition of the words and my current obsession with WWI.

yet what that one does

Nobody knows

As I’ve mentioned earlier, the last veterans of the Great War are dying and their memories go with them.

What the memories take with them is an attachment to that reality which is, with the battle of the Somme alone, for example 420,000 British,  200,000 French men and 500,000 Germans

A traveller walks

With the other,

Photographs and footage (here) exist but they are unreal.

unreal city

They only intensify the alien quality of that war.

but what is this

But I digress.   The Wasteland was written in the wake of WWI.  In the wake of unimaginable destruction and death.  And in the utter disillusionment with the capacity of those in power, whether it be in the military or in politics.

I am not the only person who has compared then to now.  Except, it isn’t the same and it doesn’t help anyway.  Except, inside of me sometimes it does.

But I have no right to this place in time, though I do have a right to Eliot’s words because we all do.

your shadow at morning

Forgive me my trespasses on the solid ground of a past I had no part in.

your shadow at evening

Forgive me my immense banalities and my elevation of the quotidian.

fear in a handful of dust

Forgive me the fact that I obscure everything about why memory and desire and mourning (not in people but in things) are words that I am using to to describe my state.

has died and is lost to me

Forgive what is in and outside of me.


For ever and evermore.

Beside the grottos of the sea

quotes are by TS Eliot and Friedrich Hölderlin