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