where the writers are
13 Ounces of Ain't-less-ness

I counted time.
It doesn’t add up.
No matter how long you swoosh this mouthful of life,
The aftertaste of time ain’t gonna rinse out.
At a bottom of a lake, I sit,
Breathing through a straw,
Divining what’s on the surface.
They taught me tricks but they didn’t
teach me how to un-trick them.
So, I sit, waiting for myself to resurface.
But I ain’t gonna.
‘Cause I ain’t Form.
the tire of Dao
of its thread.
Like a spoke of the wheel to its own hub,
I’m telling you: you ain’t the rubber.
Take yourself wherever your essence calls you.
And if you ain't willing, then un-will.
Go burn
your dose of selfsameness
And cruise on!
Night goes, morning goes, life goes.
I want more.
But there ain’t nothing else to add.
I’ll take it!
Show me your emptiness.
I’ll fill it!
Sand’s wet. Fire’s dry.
But what about mind?
Breeze mixes into my thoughts like a missionary on my porch.
Just a foot in the door and I am
wide open.
It ain’t spirituality, no.
It’s existentialism.
Dad dips his hand into a bucket of fate.
Touching my forehead, he says:
You are marked, son,
With freedom.
No, I ain’t!
Rebel against freedom!
Grass blades in the endless field,
flirting with sun,
double-dating the breeze…
What is, is.
Why count it?
Dynamic, life teaches me the elusive.
As soon as I grasp it, it lets go of me.
And then I just am.
Or ain’t.
Same thing.
My hands crouch on the keyboard, almost touching each other.
Is this intimacy or interference?
Or just a parole from mindlessness?
I ain’t gonna waste time trying to understand what no longer is.
I’m just gonna type this.
"This" is always in quotation marks.
Raw, they say.
Of course, it is.
It’s life after all, ain’t it?
Where’s this context you speak of?
Where’s this grand meaning you promise?
GPS these constructs when you got a sec.
On a roll call of mindfulness
Only mindlessness shows up
Pious in its subservience.
What’s free is wild.
Not willed, but self-willing.
Perpetually gerund-like.
In its boundless ain’t-less-ness.
Conceptualize me.
Find me
a solitary cell inside a prison of poetic taxonomy.
I was made to be one,
So I am.
And less!
So much less!
I’d say more
but how can I
Qualify the ineffable?
Ain’t even gonna try.
Poetry… Oh, man…
Prose - even worse!
So, here you sit, reading this,
watching the tiger of my language crouch upon you.
It ain’t gonna bite.
You know that, right?
Maybe you don’t…
Who am I
to assume...
Insert a question mark wherever you need one.
Windows down, hair’s blowing, "Nnnnice!"
Someone’s banging in the trunk.
Life’s good
for some.
But for some it ain’t.
It’s always like that.
Even now.
Justice is just what is.
Add ‘em letters:
Justice.... Just ease... Just is....
Whichever way you are chasing it, friend,
I hope you catch it.
Trunk pops. A voice asks:
“Are we there yet?”
- Yes, the hole’s dug, time to get in.
It took a physicist, you know, to invent a black hole.
What was a poet doing?!
I ain’t gonna tell.
The secret, as always, keeps itself.

pavel, ain't what he thinks