Dancing in the Drip Fest of the Lords of the Stomach and the Groin.

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there and just because you can doesn't mean it is.

Here we sit in the intermittent drip; the inclemency of a Chinese Water Torture of falling moments, in an agonizing redundancy of the unnecessary, endless plodding of time, beaten on an anvil and stretched beyond all lingering integrity of form and tensile capacity. It's some kind of limp, dead lamprey that continues to suck away vitality and hope like light sucked into a black hole. Zombies march up and down the sidewalks, into the malls and on to the food courts, ordering any one of hundreds of versions of crispy critter, dipping fingers, glazed with demon semen, spattering the Formica as it makes its way to each yawning and cavernous mouth.

There they sit, side by side, like Roman statues from some long ago polytheist display in a freaky frieze, columnar forest of marble, a postern into the past. The two great low gods of Materialism, rampant on a field of blood. The Lords of the Stomach and the Groin. Lesser deities are arrayed, in no particular symmetry of order, given the disorder of their collective impact on manifest life. There's Greed off to the side, with Parsimony and the handmaidens of self interest, dressed like whores in an after hours bank. They're caught in the frozen space of a timeless bacchanal. Their twisted and immobile limbs are entwined like Liana vines. Their faces show the evidence of their torment, in reaching for what cannot ever be found in the pursuit of so many little deaths, in search of the greater annihilation. Surely they will find it as they always do; remorseless and persistent in their search as any seeker after the light.

In the end, it will not be the sudden and sweeping catastrophes that later stir the memory of what was and no longer is. It will be the seemingly never ending drip of moments, falling and falling and falling. Why did it take so long? One is left with the thought that it could only be compassion and mercy, awaiting some epiphany of transfiguration in the heart and mind. Time is given for change, yet still the zombies march. Their ears are tuned to the bellowing horns of the mastodon god of the stomach and the lamia snakes of the groin. They say Lamia came from Libya but now... she lives in L.A.

Birth and death, reach across the darkness of the unknown like a handshake. It's not the pain of any one life that is the great tragedy. It is the persistent continuation of life after life after life, in a reckless grasping after the same disappointments that brought about each previous termination of being. Scripture tells us that the span of these lives can be counted in the millions. That great Buddha, the Amitabha, has reincarnated many, many times for the single purpose of manifesting a heaven where any sincere and devoted aspirant can achieve all of his or her remaining births in. How wonderful is that? Imagine the dedication required to turn the full attention of every life to the accomplishment of this singular goal.

Jesus Christ did this. He minted the passkeys into every area of his father's house, where there are so many mansions, of which he said, "If it were not true, I would not have told you so." Don't ask a fundie about what this means. The very idea is anathema to them. The thought that the kingdom of heaven might contain a space for every righteous faith, righteously practiced... the horror! The Horror!

I can hear the continuing drip, as gravity pulls the increments of time from the leaves of the trees that surround me. Not every pain is physical. This hurts as much as anything and is strong testimony that I do not understand. I don't get it anymore than I get being beaten and battered in recent times, when I was so sure that portion of my worldly suffering had passed. Sometimes one's suffering is not about notes come due, as much as it is about the addition of magnitudes to the final harvesting of the self. The ineffable likes to pile on. If you can pull one carriage, then why not two, or three? There is the appearance of something sadistic in the whole affair but we will, once again, chalk it up to my not understanding what is going on.

Certainly the message is not to seek after self improvement, not to rebuild your being or seek an even keel of discipline in daily application because you might be rendered unable to eat and... so it is. You might be rendered incapable of being capable of affording the necessary healing ministrations because that industry is only for the rich. I'm sorry I can't go into the details because they are as mind boggling as they are amusing. Of course, the amusing part requires you to be insane. Check!

The dripping goes on. The tormented free fall of the water, slowly plunges to the Earth. It is hard to see any movement. It all goes by so slow, like the ooze of snot from a corpse in January, lying somewhere in a cold and abandoned field. It will be spring before anyone finds him. It is like amber in flow and you got to ask yourself how that fly got in there.

The still life of existence as a desiccated cornichon would have been a more suitable subject for the impressionists, rather than women in long skirts and big hats by some lakeside. I suppose the attraction of the work of the impressionists has to do with the way the paintings mirror human memory, reducing the sharp outline of features into a blur; time lapse photography, acquired through a dirty lens. Maybe it's all that dust, all that dancing dust that somehow helps to make a rainbow with the endless drip in tandem to some end, so far unrevealed.

Peter Piper picked a pack of desiccated cornichons; screaming suppositories for those feckless gods of the moment. I could creatively suggest more appropriate suppositories but I suspect, as in every case previous, that it does not fall into my job description which, from what I can gather, has to do with experiencing the falling drip; shaking like a bass playing Parkinsonian here, Boss.

We've come all this distance in the posting, in between the drips, possibly in between only one drip and another. I look up at the trees and I see the thousands of drips that await, pendulous and heavy, they await the call of the Earth but Time has conspired with Gravity to go contrary to their own nature. Well... where's the surprise? Isn't most everything going contrary to its own nature these days? We are an amalgam of all the things that we don't throw away.

I told a lie the other day; something very much out of character for me and I have to wonder, is it because of the multitudinous drips awaiting? Is it because of the unbearable intervals and interims that are stacked up over some metaphorical La Guardia? Pushing tin here, Boss. We're playing at being an air traffic controller but we don't know the codes. All we know is enough to be able to yell, "Look out!" That's something though and preferable to silence, maintained in the hope that one might be able to pass by without having to get involved in the welfare of their fellows. Next thing you know, you've forgotten yourself and the whole idea of having to get anywhere at all. There's some kind of an answer there. I'll be leaving you now so as to study the matter more closely... drip... drip... drip...

End Transmission.......