We read “Hearing with my Son” by Stephen Corey and wrote poems on illness.
The wheelchair is my best friend
wheeling me across the hall
from room to room
And back across the hall again
My life for iron
And the rubber covering it
My tired arms
I must now rest a bit
What we don’t know
First of all, you don’t know shit.
The arrogance of reason is bearing down on us.
Death, lies, masturbation.
What we once thought was solid amounted to piss.
I am the Lord of the Universe, and have all the answers.
What I like most about God is that He simply doesn’t know what we’re going to do next.
Absolutes are the stuff of nonsense.
Flexibility is what keeps us alive.
If you’re so certain of everything, why does your presence make me nauseous?
I saved an ant yesterday, and nothing could make me more proud.
He was so cute, tiny, and helpless.
And the people I was with were so obsessed by what they thought were the facts on the ground.
Cut the crap, and die to reason.
If you’re so right, why does it feel like you’re oh so very wrong.
Why do we have to cut off the animals, and selfishly pray for something that’ll never happen?
The truth, for us, lies in random abstraction.
What we thought was the truth is actually funny.
People are suffering, and the politicians are out to lunch.
Serenity is lunacy, as we grab for the urgency of nothing.
Smile, laugh, dance, and the answers will come to you.
Be a pissed-off, anal-retentive junkie, and the world will find you looking for jumper cables.
Die to live, breathe to live, and the universe will give you the answers you were looking for.
Pound your reality into someone else’s consciousness, and God will come looking for you with absolute suddenty.