I am
snoozing at the rest stop and when the tires leave the road when the
dust fills the sky and the yees of the horned toad are fied in the
distance ignoring the boots tramping around it and its home then
it’s time to sing the song that sond that we keep in teh back of our
minds whose melody made no sense but till we stshed it for the day,
this day, when it will carry on the wind into the blue mountains and
teh gray sky and not eaven the pearly luminescence of the smothers
ed moon wil reaveal even a single note because the frequence=y is so
different, like lighg and sound, until ess youve gone digital,
abandoned the analog and then you acan meld synethesiass like a pro
and perhapds this melding, with all ths colors and sounds and motion
and when it brings in the tactile we can have a new cup for a little
while, a cup that cn hold new forms of things of thoughts sand make
new things but this cup might be for the young for the new for the
dispalced, whose cups are alesast half empty so they may benefit
from the openiness of receiving… and when we die and when we’re dold
and hoepfully on haveppens the correct sequences a=maybe then too
our cups will be empties and in that dusty old chiped receptabcle
with the faded paint and the lad coatin fro some us we may contain
someething we cannot even yet coneive and this is the essence od
death