Resumation- Elegy from the Nomad

THE SPEECH -as it was scribbled across the cherry wood wainscoting.



To resent is to desire a cleaner sand. Resentment is an albatross. Let it drown you.

My wrist have been freed from my own bindings. No longer do I need to carry suffering like a dancing bear. No longer will I.
As long as the rudder holds, I will not forsake the initial bearings, in disregard of the width of the rivers at the points that they converge. I know my way, sandbars or not!
The Fishermen are headless, heedless; yet have great bounty. The bounty is the return of the shards of the vessels from the origin. The vessels are broken, they always have been. The pieces shall be found and returned; there are always shards of disbelief lost on the street preachers claiming foreknowledge of the great fall. There is always a fall, it is inevitable. Gravity shall always prove itself master.

Could this be considered prophetic, or merely babbling knowledge that we all choose to ignore?

It is the pride that is preliminary, the fall that is inevitable.


While in search of the miraculous, or the singular honest man, only spare coins were found underneath the recliner. Diogenes searches. Damocles sweats.

There is instinct in shaming others, it is primitive. It was the original sin as well as the most recent. We shade our lives out of fear of the gaze. I am who I am and will not bow to the grievances brought to me. There should be more invested in the liberation than the suffering. Suffering knows itself too well to ruminate upon its boundaries, it creates itself as a labyrinth.
And you may ask-should suffering be considered the same as pain?
NO. I say to thee.

Suffering is the result of pain- pain is natural. Pain, as the reciprocal of suffering, is symbolic pain.
Free yourselves in your perversities, in your frustrations. Know your suffering like a new lover, but let it not breed avarice and pain back into your chests.
Pull back your beaded mattress hearts and velvet scarlet ribs and be that handsome golem.
We are all golem, hand on heart, we all are. We obey without question.
Hurled into a world, not of our own making. Our perversities are what make us alive.
Breathe FIRE and become that original sin once again.
It is not pain and suffering that are the twins...
It is pain and our very selves.
It is suffering and our perversities.

From these heights....Descending

While Descending the World Rises To Meet Me... in in this there is madness.

I. In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud.

II. From my balcony, I survey the yellow air, Reading where I have written, "the spring is like a belle undressing."

III. The gold tree is blue. The singer has pulled his cloak over his head. The moon is in the folds of the cloak.


Oh when the Passed makes sense, the world is askew.


Oh wise one, Where was your vitriol born? To hate with passion is to waste passion. vengeance is nothing original. A rising tide lifts all boats... save for those harbouring the vindictive, those are weighted to the ocean floor.


Abandon the anchors! Tear off the rudder! This ship knows her way through Sea!


Be sturdy!


Be strong!


Take note of your loss and note of your suffering -as they are not the same.


Pain is natural, and healing is as well. The wound breeds its own warmth.


Be aware, saint in a fox's mask.

Flight Log Continued.....

Still adrift. Marx may have been right- but what exactly was he right about?

A Minute Interruption....*

While arranging the cards into some form of Order, the Nomad recognizes a poem that he had seen some where else, somewhere that he longed for: They said to us Thou shalt not kill and they deserved to die themselves. (#) Thou shalt love Thy neighbor. They drew rafters inside the A's and on top of the T's. They made images. They told us we were children, They kept us from reading the texts, since there is not a line which does not condemn them. Belles lettres clogs the eyes, they filled my language with Jazz and jazz is cotton stuffing. Silence! Silence! Children and fishes,(#) they will throw us into the sea, they will throw us into prison. (#) They have lost their faces. (#) --Marcel Broodthaers

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