We are waiting for Godot.

I am Godot, there is no Godot,
We are all Godot, Godot is each of the players,
Godot is the box of the stage,
Is the audience, the usher, the curtain.

Does Godot have a white beard?
Does Godot own sheep and goats, have a hayloft?
What are you going to ask Godot?
Oh, if the boys are his sons or changelings?

We are waiting for Godot.

There was a dead horse on my way to work today
The horse had been there a while
I do not know why or how it was left there
But I certainly felt a kinship towards it
I'm a doer, not a waiter, I swear
I only ever wait for impossible things
Sort of like I'm waiting for Godot, in a way
Or like waiting for the dead horse to come alive
Why did it die, anyway? Who left it there?
I heard it beckon to me, softly, quietly
It told me about its pain and it felt mine
It related itself to me, singing sweetly
I could not relate mine to it
But I felt slowly but surely my drifting
We switched places, the dead horse and I
I was the horse, on the side of the road
Down by the railway, dead
And the horse was the one that went to work today
I spent my day, baking in the sun
My odor becoming more and more pungent
And the horse worked tirelessly at the workshop

I'm waiting for the dead horse to come alive
Why was it left out in the sun to die?
Why did nobody care for it in its time of need?
Now it's growing more and more rancid
**** all around its feet and face
And the other horses are all gone
No funeral was held, no ceremony
Just the sweet, inviting smell of death
Quite a squalid state of affairs
How I long to understand how he feels right now

I'm waiting for my dead friend to come alive
Why was he left in the hospital to die?
Why could I not care for him in his time of need?
Now he's growing further and further
Water all around his feet and face
And the other friends are all gone
How I wish I could hear him just once more
Or see the phone ring and know it's him
How I wish he'd ask me how the music is going
Or lecture me about the futility again

I'm waiting for my broken heart to heal
This one really needs no explanation, does it?
All those with broken hearts deserve it
Or at least that's what they keep telling me

I'm waiting for the dead horse to speak to me
A lonely, rotting bovine on the side of the road
Maggots live as kings tonight
"Horses aren't bovines"
I yell at myself in reprimand
"I know, but I forgot the categorization"
I respond in a slightly altered intonation

I'm waiting for Godot today
I like waiting for impossible things
It fills me with purpose, and prolongs the inevitable
As long as I wait and do there is no death
I have long since ceased the doing, but waiting is fine
This bus stop sure is lonely, save for the old man
The old man keeps asking for cigarettes
I reach into my pockets to see
There is a decade-old pack of cigarettes
He takes one and thanks me with a slur
"Did you know I used to smoke, too?"
I ask with a childish naiveté
"Of course, I was there."
He answers as though it's second nature to him

I'm waiting to grow young again
I'm sick of being the old man in the bus stop
I'm sick of the decade old cigarettes from the young man
He is always late and he never buys me a fresh pack

I'm waiting to **** myself
"I'm thinking of ending things" as some might say
In some ways I'm quite like Charlie Kaufman
I also have trouble finishing my work
And my work also makes very little sense to others
But where he is original, I'm ripping him off
And so I'm waiting to **** myself
In a sense though, I'm already dead, baking in the sun
Because remember, I am the dead horse
Quite fond of beating the dead horse in this poem, too
I wonder what my family would say about that analogy
"That's very funny" they might say "you should be a philosopher"
I wonder what my psychologist would say about that analogy
"That's completely normal" she might say
"Everybody relates to dead horses and fantasizes"
"You're just like all the others"
I wonder if she's correct again

I'm waiting to become the John Fahey of the clarinet
In a sense I already am that
Because like Fahey, nobody listens to what I do
But where he is original, I'm ripping him off
And so I'm waiting to become the John Fahey
Of the clarinet
I already said that before, didn't I?

I'm waiting for this season of Better Call Saul to end
While it's airing I cannot **** myself
I am far too invested in it to **** myself
And surely enough these weeks get longer and longer
So I'm alive more and more each week

On my way home from work, I pass the same road again
The horse is alive, and seems happy to see me again
I wonder what caused the anomalous behavior
Perhaps it was sick? But how did it get better so fast?
The ideal time to end it has passed
Because remember, I am the dead horse
And if the horse is alive, I am alive also
And so, I think you've already guessed what I'm going to say
I'm waiting to **** myself again

I’ve seen colors melt, colors mold over, colors who stick to the sides of
Other colors
I’ve seen colors which soak to the quick of wood and skin, ones that spill over
Or dry like deserts
I’ve seen colors that congeal like the living, I’ve seen the same ones mixed to death
I’ve seen colors pool, colors rust and colors boil

I’ve seen colors that don’t read maps
Colors that overrun, overturn, overlove their neighbors
And ones that play well in sand
I’ve seen colors that drink cocktails, drink water, drink blood
Together
Colors that get bored, colors that get sexed
I’ve seen colors ripped from the earth
Seen them ghost to other places

I’ve seen colors give up, every time, waiting for air, for shelter,
For Godot
I’ve seen colors grow cold like science
Grow loud like a flag unfurling
Grow up, move out, move on
I’ve seen colors stuck in between things
These same colors fill empty spaces
Fill vision, fill cups of coffee
I’ve seen colors tell white lies
They aren’t white
They are happy

And they aren’t here for us

months since last eye writ, your eyes most likely have never crossed mine.  still inhabit the buststops, now called bus shelters though they are not a "shelter in place" place, but a crossroads where the poor and rich, the youthful and the nearer-to-god-than-thee sit bearer nearer to each other when they reside in the equality of the moments that are globally know as
    "waiting for the bus"
or as
     "waiting for Godot".

eyes have seen buses in Rio and Delhi that carried livestock and more humans on the exterior than the interior.  

but mine eyes are in a slow fade away mode, dimming in a final
sun setting  so u are needed.  
give me your bus stories yearning to he free and I will give you
my imagined ones
for are not all bustop poems are imaginary?

We spent at least 15 minutes in the parking lot,
Everyday.
Itching in the grass and making up arguments.
Waiting for my mom to pick me up from your house after school,
Spraying mist out the water hose at each other and into the sky.
Over invested in card games and extra-murals.
Got locked out of your club penguin account.
I lied to my mom about the pickup time,
So we could play pool a bit longer.
All that nothing might have been everything.
Wait for the bus with me sometime again.

Je suis orpailleur
Je vis d'or et d'eau bien fraîche
En attendant Godot.
Je plonge dans les entrailles de ma muse
Armé de piolet, pelle et battée.
Je sonde à belles dents le fil des eaux
Je me prélasse dans le lit de la rivière
Et jette dans la battée sable, eaux et graviers
A la recherche inlassable
Des paillettes couleur de colza et de tournesol
Sélectionnées et assaisonnées par ma Muse
Jusqu'à ce qu'elles se précipitent et fondent.
Je me nourris d'elles et elles de moi
Elles me mâchent et me mastiquent
Pour faire jaillir en moi des geysers d'huile philosophale
En attendant les lingots de Godot.

Et dans chaque mot que je dédie à ma muse
J'engloutis ses carats nature
Sans colorant artificiel
Sans huile de palme
Sans conservateur
Car je conserve en moi les pépites
À l'abri de la lumière jalouse de God-haut.

Teaching high school kids the craft
Directing them in their school show
Teenagers singing just off key
With a band that's one beat slow
Holding rehearsals when the gym is free
Have you really sunk this low
Are you truly at your bottom
Or are you "Waiting for Godot"?

"YOU'RE ON IN FIFTEEN MINUTES...MR. WILSON"

Doing plays in local theater groups
With untrained  amateurs on stage
You tell them all your stories
And you keep them on their page
It's not exactly where you started
Talent that you just can't gauge
Selling programs in the lobby
It's time you act your age

"TEN MINUTES TILL SHOWTIME MR. WILSON"

Touring shows around the country now
Second touring group, smaller towns
Doing revival shows of Sondheim
"Sweeney Todd " and "Send in the clowns"
Living out of an old suitcase
The countryside a sea of browns
Where you are at the local's mercy
And there's less ups than there are downs

"FIVE MINUTES TO SHOW TIME MR. WILSON"

You've made it, you're on Broadway
Starring roles are yours to choose
Where the highlights of last nights show
Are in today's reviews
Where a sold out run continues
And your name is in the news
You're an actor, and you're famous
The world is yours to lose

"SHOW TIME MR.. WILSON...ON STAGE PLEASE"

The kids are out there schlepping
working their way through the *****
singing songs sung by the Beatles
"All This and World War II"
You're just a pillar standing, sweating
As you see what you can do
You're still an actor, and you know it
You'll need a drink when this is through.

It was a fortunate evening
I chose to stroll out. Somewhat cold
and cloying soft for recent rain.

The grass arched speculative at me
the better to see Godot on his way to an appointment.
Just so, the stage light
mixed its ponderous firmaments
to a more even pigment.

I gazed upward at the longing, doleful
eye and felt the monochrome sigh of
that girl who sits upon the air.
She directs her lambent limelight
half-heartedly for she only reads the script by candlelight.

You can see her strolling over gondoliers
or pausing on the running man  in a
nineteen-forties travel film with all
the ubiquitous pains of
a villain in a childhood mystery.
A bleating bulb that never burns the eye.

I wait for Godot
He won’t show
This I know

The scene is between
A meme and me
What does that mean?

Do it now or don’t
Doesn’t matter if you won’t
It’s not known in the unknownt

~Still life

In the window frame
Empty stare
Through the self-imposed
Prison of glass -
On the windowsill
Candle never lit -
Souvenirs of the past

Painting -
An empty shell
Of a woman, staring
Chiaroscuro background -
Darkness, shade, hardly any light
To illuminate
The inside
Of the jail

Contemplating
Escape?
Suicide?

Waiting
For what
For the end?
Waiting for whom?

Waiting for God-ot!
He, who shall never come -

In vain
Still waiting
Years too late
For the bells to toll

In the window frame
Oil on canvas -
It is me
Through the window pane
Staring through the glass

Resigned

Lifeless

Still life

On canvas


Author Notes:
Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett's - absurd tragicomedy; Godot never shows up.

Once upon a time
When the time wasn't a line
I met a who/man named Godot
In a bar, all alone, calm but fine
It was raining outside
And we both were drunk

S/he had a star in h/is/er left eye
And in the other one the sun
S/he had a face from golden sand
Not only one but thousands ones
S/he was drinking from an iron cup
In front of bar's haunted mirror
His gun was shining on the table
S/he was drinking
And it was raining outside

I asked h/er/im to light my cigarette
Complately indifferent
And with strange reflex I asked:
"Whom s/he will **** tonight?"
We met right there that night
It was raining outside
And we were both drunk

With an unnecessary smile "you"
S/he said, unnecessary though
I sat down beside
It was raining outside
We started to drink till late night
It was raining outside
Then without any hesitation
l killed h/er/im at end of that night.

Without knowing
If in the universe
If is there anyone
Who wait for h/im/er to come.

Selman Akıl

25.07.2017

Life passes by
Moment by moment
Each minute a grain of sand
In a ceaseless flow inside
This biological hourglass

Time has this peculiarity:
This irreversible absurdity

That to crave for more time
Becomes one's slow undoing
Sagging skin, unsightly wrinkles
Bones turn brittle, breaking
Muscles ****** out of their strength
Atrophied
Eyes failing, perpetual darkness
And the self succumbs to the lull
Of oblivion
The mind: no longer, extinguished
What's left is a husk of what once was
A human being.

Hope then becomes a beacon, a torch
In the middle of a starless night
A burning, warm sense of certainty
Hope, or that stubborn illusion
That happiness is one's lot in life

But time silently persists
Eroding foundations, narratives
Dismantling falsity
Uprooting grand, elaborate conceits
Blind and merciless
Uncaring towards puny human desires
Hope's demise.

Life: a futile struggle against time.

To what end?

Sleep
Hush little baby
Hush little baby
Mama bout to tell you whats going on lately, yo

Waking up at noon,
sleeping fully clothed
lectures in the afternoon,
i think I should fully go

Teachers always barking
Barking like a dog in this,
place,
we call home (home?)

Hanging on the phone
Hanging on the monkey bars
Teachers told me don't
monkey around
Gotta grow up get paid and be
sound

But its just me against the world now
(me against the world now)
LIKE PAC
it's just me against the world now
LIKE PAC
it's just me against the world now

Waking up at noon
Alarm always belling late
Unless I set it
wrong
can't remember last night's mind state
Darkness in the morning
Up a mourning yawning
another day another
dolla to pay,
another bent,
copper to pay
to the **** poor,
mama tell me what my life might,
got in store!
Girl a like, Hey Hey!
Girl a like, Hey Hey!

Beats in the bedroom,
mac by the stereo and
Pats on the stereo
Pats on the decks
Hey Hey Harriet I tell her that she next
And i tell her that she next
Me against the world
Me against the world
Me against the world
LIKE PAC
LIKE PAC
L-L-L-LIKE PAC

I wish i was a bear
I wish i didn't care,
I wish one day I might grow up,
and be fair
dada told me
son
SON!
SON!
LIKE PAC,
HAIIIL MAARY!
Haaaaaailm Marrt
Harriet
Mum, I'm sparking up!
up! up! Stop Smoking ****,
Stop Smoking ****

Met Her once
Might have met her twice
TV show told me its love at first,
sight
sight
Face told me that she looked quite...
nice
She looked quite nice

Harriet, Scott!!!!
Scott!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ahhhh!
I'm Scared Now!
Well we can ask,
Meek Mill and Game
Who The **** Scared NOW!
?
Scott!
And again, Scott!
I'm Lying!
!!

Harriet save me now,
Jesus, Rachel,
forget it, Leanne!
Gone,
Waiting For Godot,
Waiting For, Jamie and Jay at the Gates of Dawn

Waiting
Grow Old

Grow Old
Stop smoking ****
Waking up at noon
Smoking lots of ****
bunning bunning bunning
Who is Kym, Who is Rachel?

who cares
I 1 life
I can be as self indulgent as i like

At 20, it's adios to childhood.
By 30, you have played your youthful folly card.
At 40, you have ground it out to mid-field.
At 50, the bigger helping was dished out yesterday.
At 60, you enter the final stretch.
At 70, you finally get to play your wisdom chips.
At 80, most are surprised to see you.
After 90, Godot is waiting for you.

*November, 2015

Every time you kiss me, you leave me
And keep me waiting, waiting
Months, years until the next sweet brush of lips.

The hands halt and the sweet ticking of my watch goes silent.
Nothing to be done.

I won't wait for you anymore.
If you ever show up, you'll arrive to a lonely company.
Every time you kissed me, you left me.

The actor burst into the bar
"Give me a double shot"
"And get ready with another"
"The strongest stuff you've got"

The barkeep, poured the whiskey
Pushed the glass across the bar
The actor downed the double
and put a twenty in the jar

"Tonight at my audition"
"As I finished up on stage"
"I was questioned by a fellow"
"Who was from a different age"

The barkeep poured another
And he downed this one himself
Then he turned for just a second
And grabbed a bottle from the shelf

The actor told the barkeep
Every single solitary word
The barkeep was transfixed
By everything he heard

"I came off stage...just to the right"
"There was a man there in the dark"
"He said that I was wonderful"
"Though his voice was rather stark"

"He said he didn't know the play"
"That I had just read for"
"I told him it was Webber"
"He asked if I'd done any more"

"I told him of my background"
"Phantom and Waiting for Godot"
"He said those must be recent"
"Those are two I do not know"

"He told me that he'd been working there"
"For almost all his life"
"He spoke of Ziegfields follies"
"That was where he'd met his wife"

"He asked if I'd done anything"
"Something maybe he would know"
"Something with some music"
"A gala kind of show"

The phone rang, breaking up the tale
The barkeep let it go
This tale was more important
Than anyone would ever know

"I told him, I'd done Joseph"
"Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice"
"He just looked clear on through me"
"He said that that was nice"

"He talked of all he'd seen there"
"Chaplin, and others out on tour"
"He told me of the strippers'
"And many, many, more"

"These were way before my time though"
"These were way back in the day"
"He mentioned shows in blackface"
"I knew not what to say"

"I tried to focus on him"
"But, I truly couldn't see"
"He spoke about the theater"
"He asked a bit 'bout me"

"He said this one's an old girl"
"I said that much was true"
"I said it holds a spirit"
"He smiled, like he knew"

The bottle now half empty
The words were pouring just as fast
The barkeep grabbed another
For this one wouldn't last

"I said I've heard the spirit"
"Sits up , right over there"
"In the upper level seating"
"Row three, right by the stair"

"He didn't look to see it"
"I'm sure he knew the seat by heart"
"He said to keep the theater living"
"We all must play a part"

"You, you are an actor"
"Though I know little of your work"
"But, it's part of the grand circle"
"It's a duty, not to shirk"

"Me, I'm ....well I' guess you'd say"
"I'm a caretaker if you will"
"I help to keep the status quo"
"Though I'm never on the bill"

"I moved a little closer"
"To where the voice was coming from"
"There was a coldness and a silence"
"And the old man, he was gone"

"I heard a seat get lowered"
"Three rows in beside the stair"
"And I looked and saw his shadow"
"In the velvet, theater chair"

"I may just be an actor"
"But, this spirit was my host"
"I'd spent nearly an hour"
"With the Bijou's theater ghost"

The barkeep, stood in silence
Two more glasses to the brim
"Are you sure that's who you talked to?"
"Are you sure that it was him?"

The actor pushed the stool back
"I am as sure as sure can be"
"I saw the keeper of the theater"
"And I know that he saw me"

I’m right at the end of an endless road,



My story is written never to be told,



I sit in the middle of a dry rivers flow,



The earth above the sky below,



A maelstrom inside a tranquil lake,



Step on the gas only to brake.



From two dry eyes, flow a single tear,



I’m everywhere, no-where , somewhere, near.



Soaking in sweat, chilled to the bone



Messages seeping through the phone.



In a box with three sides, silence in sound,



People are everywhere, no-one  around.



I saw again the man, who wasn’t there,



Next time I don’t see him, I will not stare.



I am full, yet empty, a hole inside,



As vast as the universe, I ride its tide.



I bleed from memories, hide in the light,



Let me step into the dark, to make things bright.



Waiting for Godot, the message futile,



My mouth tastes sweet as it pours forth bile



I am awake in the infinite dream,



I could scream, do you know what I mean?

I wait
For a sign
For stars to align
For magic in time
For the skies to glow
For a miracle on the go
But no
It’s endless - the wait
It’s a no show
It’s like waiting for Godot

I am waiting like a girl waits on the bench of the garden for her beau.
I am waiting like those two cobber wait for the Godot. (Samuel Beckett)
I am waiting like the Merchant's wife does wait for the return of her soulmate. (Ezra Pound)
I am waiting like Taran looks for Amar. (Tum Bin 2)
I am waiting like the peacock does wait for the rainfall.
I am waiting like every successful man gets a pat on his back.
I am waiting for the day to hear not the golden words but my ears are waiting just to hear whether am I as important as you are in my life...

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                            She Loved Waiting for Godot


                 “Like impatience etherised on a table”

                               -As T. S. Eliot did not say


She said that he loved Waiting for Godot
That for her it was a great work of art
I told her to go wait in someone else's life
Because I have built some meaning into mine

Artificial Art or Actual Intelligence

Wednesday, July 3, 2019
3:21 PM
A Warholian screen ing com-
prized of Ben Day dots and
Eddy Bernays ways and
means co-mitt-ee messages encode
ing
ding ding
our baser nature to re
spond
sponsoring

dangerous living, the massive multi player
virtual game

permanent war module

experience the old days, release
thy unbelief and find

the final next evil opposer allotted
to make up our
quotidian bit
of evil

sufficient to keep us watching,
set
still as stone. Are we not the gargoyles?

Do not we see all we are imagined to see,
asif you saw
as we see from
the flying buttresseees?

What did you imagine gargoyles depicted?
Messengers or guardians,
or both, but imaginary,

immaterial beings framing force fields we all agree
keep us safe
safe and sound found
solid, though we know solid is

not, really, the state we imagined it was.
How can I help seeing what is before my eyes,
axed Winston Smith

he was told,
reminded, as it is wont to be, after learning a lie is true,

It is not easy to become sane, {re-sane}

have you ever believed a matter for your own sake?
Sake is an old spoke word, alte sprache
you own it, do you not?
Your own sake?

Have you not done and can recall doing all things well?
Are you not a member, in good standing, of

The National Honor Society Facebook group?
{werefriends-fiendish}
Suffer it to be so, there are lies yet.
There are lie believers in our midst.

Put up with peace where you are, if you find
In sequence

All things working work to get here,
there is where all nonworking things went.

This is where my heart is working,
and my lungs,
and nerves and bones and sinyew
tying my

being to earth,
with its salty sea and wobbly orbit
It is al
ways where you last looktook
- Holden been seen
rooks were some birds, then some
gamespiece in a game of
actual thrones,
by damnif I'danoticed

see,
it all works out, Don Draper said that
to Falstaff.

I see a man who is not happy the message being
what,
what is this team of
whatever
I see saying to me? On TV? How

long has this gone on?
This noise in words and music surrounding me constantly my brain evolved
to watch tv with no screen as if this

were radio in the flow
of things
imagined green by R.W.Shambach, radio preacher
all surfaces in his heavenly city reflect green light
soundtrektricktract

behind my mind is a melody from
some *******
TV Show aimed at me

For goodness sake,
some one questioned my saying
life's been good to me

life? with that unsaid, DOn't you mean Jesus?

dripping in the tone.
Life truth and way, i go. Wiseassish.
is it not the wombed man
who empowers the unwombed
to make
seed?

Mito chondro donchaknow
Life is but a dream
on steroids
in a redneck metaphor I oughta
known better
but the flow is worth more
than arhyme
any time so if your muse is iambic and mine is frantic
BE IT KNOWN K-CLASH-ic

there were beasts released

leasing
the idea, how long shall we
love this lending and leasing of

the best possible now
paid for by

time, time pays all the debts and we be
forgiven if we can get the gift of
given for
real
let me
free why doncha,

girl... when did the program begin,
when was the boot code
sealed
in silicon tipped in gold

was there a mark made? can
you
buy or sell. whatever the hell’yawish?
testing waters for temperature and pressure
assure me
it works this way

the hero dies or
gets old and wise

other wise – he leaves nothing
but wildass mule tales
wise in other times
as real as was any said-so historical fact,
the telling of the act
as facts, not
actual
but similar to reality on so many levels we
the acts we
all imagine, I am familiar with these
first person ideas in pluralmind
ideas, I can see the irony,
I can see the lies

I can assume the same historical act
I acted in fact
actually happened to you as it did.
silly man,
silly once was paired with
will- willingness
a will blessed blissish beyond
a wished
sill
edge of ever
windowed worlds from the core

courage, baggage of the heart

you get yoost to seeing the things
we all see all the time
used right we all
let them be
as real as real can be but
that
changes
nothing into less than we imagined

I don't think about you at all, do I?
You are
imaginedary. I imagine, dear reader, each
key
you see
strike sound in y'our mind one key ringinatime

and a time and another
timed half meant to be gin
but genius we

dis sip cip ated ante anti cipt

mist scryptic letter let us let this be true

me and you, imagine we liv in the words
we make peace as effort
an anomo nemo fingo non namable ibility
ifity boo...

that has worked several times for me I daren't say
it is in evit able vitaminwise

e-normous meaning lies in e, pluralized, unumus

easy and free are we,
the society so
named.

An I and I an I and I an Iii and eye am I
Horus was the story,
I, the eye.
Perhaps the one Odin made sacred,
the eye given for an eye, that
the stories mention;
with a wink.

Blink.
And we passed aha in a a a a a a a a
O
me
ga
damnitalt
erhell

For a moment there, I thought
this as real as it felt
at the time.
games from the old man's memory
and
nothing
is real becomes it is knowing
and we are ina olde John Lennon
stumble into ting taut tight
attention to nothing trap

farleftkey to infinity, via dirac, sorry

more thanoneshouldevah
know
first
hand. vicar-cure-ious and al

Spirits in neon
Curios, too.
Gypsy Garden
nee Coronado Court
not far from where Jungle Smoke and Vape
existed in Kingman, Arizona

fifty years later,

to the freaking Planksec muthafuggah!

Now,
where was the kachina?

You missed him. You never glimpsed the god that spat upon ye
and ye wonder why life's been s'****** crazy,

I swanee, no lie, I smell some odd smells in my time

though none smelled so off as this, in the beginning,
Rot in Denmark
Red Fog OVer America

And the lift that went down to hell, was that the same guy
'wrote the sybil circa

the times when Giles Goatboy was awaiting Godot, no?
Those days. Mon trick you you late,

too late. We the Society, have agreed.
You know. Please.
Remember.

ANDNANDnANSc I-hence can afford to say I said this freely,
It cost you something to read it, and I enjoyed the experience,
being imagined in a reader/writer we with thee.
That’s the prize, find the peace you made and cast it together
INTO OUR INHERITED WIND- is this a yoke, is it not light? Humor
say, please send me the money.  We agreed, if I heard right.
When I sold out, to plug Pär Fabian Lagerkvist.
You know, on the elevator… that went… well, now, here we are again.

He smiled as he looked up the hill at me.
I was asked if I knew the friend in the sky.
I said nothing. I was frozen in unknowing.
I was frozen in unknowing.
I was nihilism in this moment.

He smiled as he looked up to the sky.
The friend was asked if he knew me.
The sky said nothing.
The friend was frozen in omnipotence.
The friend was frozen in omnipotence.

I was warm with the notion.
I was warm with the knowing.
The friend was there.
The man he smiled at me, and I knew in his certainty the truth was as such.

His friend was there.
/My/ friend was there.

I waiting forever for Godot.
Only to realize the sky was in my heart.
The friend was I.
I was the sky.
The Friend, I and He and All, was inside and above.
It was within.
It was without.

Allah made my spirit porous.
Hashem made my spirit white light.
Jesus made my spirit gracious.
Buddha made my spirit still.
Shiva made my spirit real.
I made my spirit sing.

I smiled as I looked up the hill at him.