Wednesday, May 21, 2014

5387. THE BLESSED ROGER PRIN

THE BLESSED ROGER PRIN
The lines undulate like a ragged coif on some
sick old nun; beatitudes, for sure, there are not
any. It's raining once more on this dark, dreary 
street. I am walking about 12th in the dark.
I have nothing to do but penetrate  -  truth,
trends, reality, thought. I don't make these
words, a God does. Hear me out.
-
The tremendous force of Life  -  whatever it
may be  -  goes on. Tries to be, pushes on, is.
We have no thought control, and that panel of
command, all the lights upon it are always flashing.
-
Only one man knows these things, and one at a time.
It is, in reality, ten thousand men, and women, all together:
there is no trembling difference between  -  we are what
we are, all together, the dream. Or the dream of dreaming.
Or the dream of dreaming this dream. Infinitude as such
paralyzes the mind. One man is all Man together.
-
My cap parlays a seaman's toke. I drink this goblet
of rum. Both feet on land, I am looking out to a
more distant horizon from the one I've come.

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