So they told me if I kissed the asses of enough dead kings, I could come home, but that's what all the gurus say, right? I never could grasp the concept. People with models of torture scenes around their necks, statues of fat men beaming at me from souvenir stores. And Krishna, Krishna, Krishna. I can't sit still long enough to meditate. Brown rice terrifies me. I prefer my kings alive. For three years Mark lived with me and figured out endless unwise ways to spend what little money we had. He kept telling me the material plane was illusion. He played songs by the Beatles and Donovan and Sandy Bull. He was a terrible lay, so I didn't bother. He didn't seem to notice as he babbled on about Gurdjieff and Meher Baba. He couldn't understand why I didn't want to meditate. After I finally left him he started hanging out with cafe paranoids who convinced him Jim Morrison was killed by Johnny Carson. Somebody was giving him coke. Hey, it's San Francisco, what do you expect? Then he disappeared. Maybe he's in some Tibetan monastery but he's probably in New Jersey. I guess it doesn't matter if it's all an illusion anyway. Besides, I never could kiss ass to dead kings or even to Mark. But I wonder, Mark, wherever you are, are you enlightened yet? And can your angels explain to me why we spent four years of our lives drawing a picture in disappearing ink?
You can find the poetic works of Kathleen Wood at Zeitgeist Press.
Four years working a picture in disappearing ink. That is a good metaphor for pissing away time.
Beautiful. Although I must say I prefer all kings dead!