new absinthe writings, Gandria, Switzerland – “Rilke House” – full dosage

November 24th, 2015

Murten, Switzerland , September 2015

You cannot choose how you die,

but you can choose how you live.

This is the error most people make

throughout their lives. Once cannot

choose how one dies, or when, but prefixes

their lives on making it to some safe

landing, as if the end is a soft cloud.

Up top the tree a plumb connects to the

branch until its weight carries it

crashing, thud.

Better to choose how one lives, and let the rest

take care of itself, for it will anyway.

That’s the hard part of life,

to choose how one lives, most avenues

seem closed. Not rich, then you pay

a price to live a real life, just take the in’s and out’s

as out’s and in’s to other avenues. Perhaps you

will grow and realize the first sentence

~ ~ ~

You can escape, but you can’t really escape from the problems

you run away from. The thoughts are always there.

Sometimes life is a bitter pill you have to swallow, so swallow it,

and spit back up at the people who wants you to eat it.

~ ~ ~

Here on Lake Lugano in Gandria, not far from where Shelley drowned,

I can sense the bubbles coming up from his last exhale, better to stay ashore,

then adrift as a poet could. One ventures out in the water we can float, but surely can we?

~ ~ ~

If ever a life was, could ever be, in a way that has never been done in a place where one can make harmony

with nature, and oneself, then if such a life exists, no one can stop you but yourself.

~ ~ ~

It’s a Rilke thing, the Book of Hours –it comes, and it comes, heaving from my soul, underground rivers are always there,

no one see’s it, maybe feels it once and a while. He talks of metal that has not been mined,

it’s when darkness has been opened to light — there is no pain, hot nor cold,

only pure warmth. Says he likes to look for things; it’s the only way to find out.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes to find the center soul of the earth, this axis of your soul, its right here in Gandria

on the lake between the ancient Romans that dogged me, and the cold Alps separate.

Here is the center, or can you make that wherever you are?

~ ~ ~

The bones of old Roman soldiers, and their slaves float up from Lago Lugano in Gandria, and speak why they played this game so long ago, and why we play it now, and you just sit there.

~ ~ ~

What is energy when never used,

love wanted,

yet never found,

to what humans want,

need and always far away,

hard to find,

why keep a distance,

when it can be so close.

It’s a dark star when love is so close, and yet so far.

You can touch it, but you can’t have it.

The poets open up and sing when the

world has nothing to sing about,

mercurial river of your mind say nothing to anyone

If you can’t love.

Your mind is a dark star in open space to infinity of nothing

where supernovas die in naturals spasms,

then that is what love is –

we are supernova’s, we are dying stars near the end,

we are dark stars that shine in the night.

~ ~ ~

In the end we become stars hanging in the night,

and the piano player striking notes in our head,

the liquor of the moon shining us to sleep.

The sleep we do don’t need, the daytime that leads to night,

this everlasting waterfall of our minds, façade of our

consciousness that is not day and night.

This is the place where I am, where I am not

allowed to be, where there is

no light, no dark, only truth.

No sleep, nor night or day,

only the heart beat you never feel,

but it’s there by the murmur of you quiet water.

~ ~ ~

Rilke House

Rilke’s Book of Hours is only a lifetime.

Book of Hours unfolding in Gandria, possibly, the best place possible.

I’ve taken so much acid, if I fall asleep I would probably die, wake-up in a milky-way heaven.

It was then under the olive grove, with the vine serpent slithering so slow, disappearing and appearing

from the sun shafts, and vines. I was being pulled to the earth, vines from above, and below pulled me to rest with the hours,

and it was beautiful death, silent noise of nature enjoying me, and I listened to eternity, and its song was this –

There is no death, only life, and the vines that pull you to the earth is all just a deep invisibility cloak inside your soul, and you listen forever, and you look forever, and it’s not a bad deal to become one with everything that you came from, and everything that you go into at the end. One listens forever.

When one becomes the Buddha, and meets G-d face to face, there is this opaque face, and it’s yours,

it’s his — it’s everyone’s, and life are death are one.

~ ~ ~

One only needs to take a glimpse of the eternal, and that is all you need,

Or the light will blind your life.

We are so blinded by life’s pressures that we can no longer breathe to feel any essence of what a breath is – to be

As Rilke, its concealed everywhere, what the homeless feel, what the rich feels, everyone holds you, but cannot grasp,

as it filters through like water on an open hand, fingers allow you to slide on effortless.
So, I look for things, also.

~ ~ ~