everything must burn, etc.

Although everything must burn

we take comfort that the past too is real

and in a moment yesterday will be

exactly as real as this moment, etc.

but i spit on this moment as it exists

in any past time because i only want

even wanting my stud male body back

isn't about the past at all

a past that's only good or bad if you're

thinking about it now

you already travel there as easily as

anyone will ever be able to do

it belongs to you now only and it

grows until it's in front of you

 

you and the past will be equally real

easy to own to find, etc.

Chamatilly-ily

from The Lost Upanishads

The Gas of Life

I had to think about it again what does it mean to be a living person sitting on a rock

I know what it looks like but that's the problem especially if it's a frozen image because

those don't breathe

 

After a while i guess i just accepted that not breathing was normal because, look

But even blue whales have to come up and gasp don't they? And the best part is

they can, they should

 

They are entitled, and they will, involuntarily they'll take air that belongs or doesn't 

belong to them. Just take it without hesitation. It's not like the proverb about stealing

a smell because

You don't have to smell. Maybe you can or cannot. You are not even entitled to really.

Should you? Smell's a whole other topic, but mostly superfluous. Air is life or life for

a moment more or two

Yet i say it's selfish that air alone is not good enough for you. You begin to favor 

additives and conditioners. They corrupt, and so on. It's not flavorless; it's the gas of life

Now, breathe

La Chama

from "La Vajra, La Vajrasana, and La Vajraja"

trans-species home invasion

 

what happens?

in retrospect, the clouds always told a different story

which was it? can they all be true

to be real, the stories are our projections, and

none of them are true

yet a free thinker might take into consideration

a conscious agency on the part of the clouds

which is not the same as on behalf of the clouds

lets all conscience-havers relax

for gods and storytellers get too much 

credit and blow-back both

while nature carries on with her lies

shows nothing but the opposite of 

 

a moral compass or trajectory

mother is too kind a designation

and belies our own favorite tales

which aren't about nature or the stories she tells

go ahead and match the horrors of mathematics

to the wispy decisions of Her petticoats

a vacuum creates an opposite action or

dead men know all lies those are facts but

uncynically, not exactly what happened

try and reduce a lifetime for example to

a world's longest book of equations and it

just makes you sick

by Phyliss

sky

more tips for men

 

more signs

 

dusky

 

thought we could trail it into a vegetal corner

instead it lay in wait behind a mask of fur

in the purple of the last of a day's minutes

action is counterintuitive to biology

drugs that grow against the sun to scare you in

tho you wander blindly out against your status

everywhere is far

The Jansdaads are speaking with their minds only.

It won't take long, but you'll be risking your life to get there. 

I know, Jan. 

I hope you'll feel Mthyuh. 

You know i will. She'll be right there on the horizon. If i die in the hooptie, her birds will eat me. 

You know there's no guarantee you'll find what you're looking for. 

I'm looking for you Jan.

I know, Jan. I want you to come and find me. 

If i can feel Mthyuh, maybe i can break the Crack, somehow i'll understand. I'll come back and go directly to the air conditioning unit for the temporary classrooms at the Community College of Cement. I'll duck under it, hit my head, that's how some got through. 

My mind is getting tired. 

Mine too, Jan.

bird

 

K shadow, dog

 

 

 

trees

 

vajrasana

PRESENT TIME

Ilyn is rocking violently in a bed of dry peony blossoms at the bottom of his square-wheeled cart. On his back, he watches clouds morph into amazing new ways to tell the same story. Then he becomes aware of burbling waters on the open ground beyond the walls of the cart.

Dare i? I want a drink from this crick. Shab, stop. 

Shab, a very large dog with red eyes and an empty saddle, has been twiddling his legs just above the surface of the otherwise wasted land beneath them. When Shab hears an order to stop, he stops. 

Shab, drink.

Ilyn pulls a lever buried in the flowers. It releases Shab's yoke. Shab walks around to the side of the cart and pulls a rope with his teeth. The side panel falls open, and Ilyn is able to roll down its slope and into the creek, face down. He can lift his head enough not to drown between sips of water, but barely enough to speak.

Shabubbab, dobne. Pbleabse.

Shab takes a few more sips of his own from the creek, then ambles over to Ilyn. Ilyn grabs a bar in the side panel of the cart while Shab lifts with his nose until Ilyn can roll back into the cart. His face sparkles with wet sunshine. Shab dips back under the yoke and waits for Ilyn to pull a cord buried in the flowers. The yoke clicks into place over Shab's empty saddle. 

Shab, take me to Mthyuh. 

10 YEARS EARLIER

Rocking violently back and forth in a bed of marigold chains strung with hemp, Ilyn allows some noises to come out from his throat. From his back, the clouds are telling a familiar story in a new way. 

Kuh. Geh. 

Ilyn can form words, but none are appropriate. Finally, he is thirsty. 

Shab, drink.

PRESENT TIME

Shab is pulling the square-wheeled wooden cart uphill, with the peak of Mthyuh becoming clearer above the clouds. Gravity causes Ilyn to slide all the way back in the cart to an almost sitting position. Now what he sees is Shab's empty saddle and the backs of Shab's furry ears, always twisting on their axes, scoping for any danger or pilgrims. The path ahead is lit only by slivers of moon and the reddish cast of Shab's eyes. 

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Ilyn is sucking on a shred of ginger root, and Shab is chewing his like a cud. 

Shab, think. Where were we grng to stop crming back thrs way?

Shab has either been forbidden to speak or refused to speak ever since the fabled incident with the Monster Poinsettia and during which the only and last rider of his empty saddle, the Begging Raja, lost both of his hands, and painfully so. 

If you could speak, i think you might tell me there's no point in remembering anything. Or perhaps now, suddenly, you decide to speak, and tell me that i couldn't be more wrong about your view of remembering, how i've underestimated your character not to mention your mood. 

Shab: ...

PRESENT DAY

It's nearly just noon and the violent rocking of the cart makes fiery trails appear in the sky. Ilyn tries to focus on the clouds, which are at the moment just a palimpsest overrun by the side effects of technology. Soon it will be time to stop and ask some woodcutters to hew a new set of wheels for the cart, which are starting to lose their traditionally square silhouette. 

Shab, listen.  I think I can feel my strength returning. I realize you would have started to notice. But we must not let on, must not share any mention of a recovery, not to any pilgrim, not to the MPS, not even to La Chama. At least not for now.

500 YEARS LATER

Ilyn sits up in a deep bed of star jasmine and mint greens. He assumes a vajrasana pose, for greeting pilgrims and children who follow behind. Actually, their normal walking speed would carry them past and well beyond the cart, but they slow down as a sign of respect and humoring to the deities. 

Crowd: We wish you a bountiful banquet of many assorted vittles and then to be eaten first by the sacred birds! May Mthyuh swallow you up before you barely reach her lips! May your rice be soiled in a highway tavern by the survivors of Fire Shore...!

Ilyn tosses swollen, bluish roses from the back of the cart. They are gradually passing a sign for Kareer Kesh. The diving board has hopefully been repaired after a small molten avalanche. Ilyn's hair is soft, long, and flaming copper. 

 

 

 

Phyllis [trans]