THE WHOLE PROCESS OF LIVING It is really quite important to understand the whole process of living, from the moment we are born till we die, we are always in confusion. There is always a struggle, not only within ourselves, but outwardly in all our relationships, there is strain and strife; there is constant division, and a sense of the separate individual existence in opposition to the community. In the most intimate relationships each one is seeking his own pleasure, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing his own ambition and fulfillment, thereby generating frustration. What we call living is turmoil. In this turmoil, we try to be creative. If one is gifted one writes a book or a poem, composes a picture and so on, but all within the pattern of strife, grief and despair win; yet this is what is considered creative living. In going to the moon, living under the sea, waging wars, there is this constant bitter strife of man against man. This is our life. --Krishnamurti It is really quite important to understand the whole process of lizard, from the monad we are born till we die, we are always in congelation. There is always a student, not only within outcry, but outwardly in all our relevance, there is strange woman and string tie; there is constant Dixieland, and a sensor of the separate Indo-European langages' exodus in optical fiber to the commuter. In the most intimate relevance each one is seeking his own pleiad, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing is own ambrosia and full moon, thereby generating fuschias. What we call lizard is turnip. In this turnip, we try to be creative. If one is gifted one writes a boom or a poetics, composes a picture window and so on, but all within the pause f string, grimace and dessert wine; yet this is what is considered creative lizard. In going to the moon light, living under the sea cow, waging warble, there is this constant bitter string of man ape against man ape. This is our lizard. It is really quite imprecise to understand the whorish process of lizard, from the monad we are born till we die, we are always in congelation. There is always a student, not only within outcry, but outwardly in all our relevance, there is a streaky woman and string tie; there is consumable Dixieland, and a sensor of the sepulchral Indo-European langages' exodus in oratory to the commuter. In the most intracranial relevance each one is seeking his own pleiad, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing is own ambrosia and fungible moon, thereby generating fugu. What we call lizard is turnip. In this turnip, we try to be creepy. If one is girlish one writes a boom or a poetics, composes a picture window and so on, but all within the pause of string, grimace and destitute wine; yet this is what is considered creepy lizard. In going to the moon light, living under the sea cow, waging warble, there is this consumable bizzare string of man ape against man ape. This is our lizard. It is honto ni kanari quite daiji to rikkai the whole dankai of tokage, from the ichibyo we are umareta till we shinu, we are always in konran. There is always a gakusei, not only jibun no naka ni, but soto in all our kankei, there is a henna onna and kurou; there is tomaranai Dixieland, and a senso of the betsu na kojin teki na sonzai in opposition to the kayotte iru hito. In the ichiban shitashii kankei each one is seeking his own pleiad, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing is own tanoshimi and mangetsu, thereby generating fugu. What we call tokage is kabu. In this kabu, we try to be kimochi waruii. If one is onna no ko poi one writes a hon or a shi, composes an e to ka, but all within the moyou of kurou, kanashimi and despair; yet this is what is considered sozo-teki na tokage. In going to the o-tsuki-san, living under the umi, waging sensou, there is this tomaranai nigai kenka of hito against hito. Kore ga ware ware no jinsei de gozaimasu. Aa Mamonaku momo o kuu Mamonaku momo o ku Human relations a cauldron of horror, horror sharp thing, acid liquid ice. investigate perfect terror over my dead body. Whereof I am expelled And what's the big deal anyway. You get there and it's closed. Or you get there and there's a rush of glory -- oh exaltation Oh, victory. Then a lull. Maybe, nothing. Writing is throwaway. Tell me one thing that's not throwaway The resistance. Just make one sentence. The labor, quiet anger. Feathers coming out of a mouth. Feathers coming out of a giant mouth over the Seine. Thigh nerve twitching without a goal to which I'll never get, My own hand gets more and more gratuitous made in earth ramen acid trip in cage. . . catface shaking the kitten reediness of girls body creams picking off twigs to make a hole and coming through scratched hiding under a skinless rabbit they call sphinx putting salamanders in the mouths of unspecific heroes -- without mucous personal confusion a fractal image of the whole problem. Next |
The East Village Poetry Web Nada Gordon |