in front of the thick,
there I struggle to relax the burning
aching knots of meat and muscle
screaming against time and age and duty.
with my back towards
and my focus and spirit facing away from calm
I drag my hand to wipe the imagined sweat
as it is cold here
so vacant beneath the closing
unbreakable adamant without reason.
I smell the old smell
of burned up hair
and smoking drought of purpose –
it wafts in tendrils through this quiet space
that is no space
a place between other places.
I want nothing.
There is nothing I want.
Desire lies smoldering,
one of countless cinders among the refuse,
youth and hope and attachment and vision,
one of infinite odors mingled and tangled like the fibers of my body
indistinguishable one from the other,
emergent mass of nothing from something from nothing
and back again.
some noble depth of unconscious spirit sporting the facade of teacher,
from somewhere rises a spirit of gratitude
directed nowhere and to no one,
only flowing out from an uncharted,
gratitude for the nothing and the everything and all of the sights and sites between.
Thanks from no one to no one,
thanks existing before and after
above and outside and between
that bit of nothing that calls itself me.