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.