Since the Sphinx, nobody in rush hour has time for riddles. Scuttling about making insect noises, who can dawdle among the clouds? Brooding cirrus with its black eye skulks while cumulus accumulates feather billows of nacre narcolepsy. These bland fog-breaths cannot be punctured or deflated; instead they eviscerate the horizon by thinning out into anorexic withdrawal, until nobody can tell they were ever there in the first place. Then only a fat slate of blue blinds whoever might stare too long into the distance.
{Disposable Prose Poem, September 5, 2013] Dr. Mike
I grew up in Christian fundamentalism, went to hell, came back, became a Presbyterian then a Buddhist Presbyterian, and now I'm a profane Presbyterian Zen Taoist -- not that I'm into labels or anything. Here's what I've learned so far: The more you know, the more you know you don't know.
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Since the Sphinx, nobody in rush hour has time for riddles. Scuttling about making insect noises, who can dawdle among the clouds? Brooding cirrus with its black eye skulks while cumulus accumulates feather billows of nacre narcolepsy. These bland fog-breaths cannot be punctured or deflated; instead they eviscerate the horizon by thinning out into anorexic withdrawal, until nobody can tell they were ever there in the first place. Then only a fat slate of blue blinds whoever might stare too long into the distance.
{Disposable Prose Poem, September 5, 2013]
Dr. Mike
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