Let Go of the Wheel

There is a phrase: 'chained to the wheel'. It seems descended from the machine age, but is actually much older. Potters understand it, for the pottery wheel was an early technology of enslavement. So all 'wheels', hoops, and rings, but are also doorways, if we are willing to pass through them.

To my friends who work with wheels, hoops, and rings, be sure these things don't mean slavery. Instead pray for a story and a script, to act or live by. Pray for understanding, not the scoop. When the breeze comes it will lift you aloft, unless you still live chained.

Ah . . . the imagination, . . . works tirelessly . . .

At day's end the wheel stops. Every wheel must stop. A car stop, of a train, the wheels of state pause. Rings come off, are lost. The hoop falls to the ground when the hooper, limber though she may be, ceases to dance.

The imagination toils on without effort. And so, our dreams are a mightier wheel than any industry, politics, or state. Fuel for the imagination is unlimited. It burns forever.

And so on this note, I some friends who are toiling to keep their wheels in motion, this cautionary word: Walk away. Don't toil. Don't bother. Give it a rest. Go to your place of dreams and imagine. Set in motion a great river, a great sky, and an energy of being. It will fly, when you sleep.

Song of 81 Poems, XXVI

Give beasts an emotional language:
I found an original Angel. 

'Twas a good pain, strength in cunning.

Should love say, 'Sleep through sound'?
Queen Daughter, believe in rainbows,
     Now laughter stands about, suffering.

Patience, young master.
Afraid of death, some bold king downs his drink, and says,
     "Always wrecked, how capture cramps this life!"

Delve, know that infant blue.

 Sisters fly here, talk for effect.
     What howl did serve thy young face?
If peace can give us language, make and lead her cooking.
Gee, I'll smoke at a secret live romance.
Find hard dirty nuts, and faithful fantasy.
     You never understood "Howl".

We would that you and she stands good work,
     a traitor with a whipped tongue.
So  pay to be mad with an empty glass.
I did attached by deep sentiments,
     sculpted her, assisted her health.

"Get out! Scream to my mom!"
Tell that sharp Sin my fear of cooking.
She has one last big demand,
     So stop the night.
Imagine my instrument can give peace.

Good society means a serious heart.
     Forest life bothers him, his death had been lame.
The Graces, they thought you worked.
Come, since chocolate never phones,
     the ever glorious night's psychedelic.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81