The Transfigurative Power of Death /or/ Something To Nothing

 

Throw A Way what'ever you think we
need
for this Trip, and get yr ass ready-to-go,
( preferably naked, clinging to no thing )
The
rooms with crowds crowding about are most
                           crowded and unmasked,
leaking their sincerity, leaking of necessity, right
straight into the blood'bucket that comes easily
to each human'mind.  Blood coagulates as it dries,
then puts up a wild stink as it sits, doing nothing,
done for nothing, til some good undertaker puts
it in it's proper drainpipe-hole, nourishing something
unknown, under (or beneath) our provenance.

It can be said with'out going, that "it goes without saying",
that "that which is said has not been told, nor that which was
told has been with no saying"

Pleas excuse the word play(ing), and get us ready
for death. Death capping a lifetime comprehended
through our own belief delusions, their "substance"
so rottingly evasive, springing from the soil of hubris,
with need to "Say something. Do something. Any'thing !"
to drown-out the ringing-in-the-ears made of non-acceptance
of that which we are not supposed to know, but which we
"care for" so deeply as to be embarrassed to the core, of even a
word that signifies our nakedness.

These words are likely charred (burnt) beyond any malleable  'truth'
that one may be in allowance to attempt to contrive (on any given day).

Where have we ( I ) gone with this ?
Preparing for the unpreparable ?

( O, good blessed question, Padre ).


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