The truth is, we don’t really want to be free from desire or to admit that clinging to the pleasures of the senses—the taste of delicious food; the sound of music, gossip, or a joke; the touch of a sexual embrace—ends unavoidably in disappointment and suffering. We don’t have to deny that pleasant feelings are pleasurable. But we must remember that like every other feeling, pleasure is impermanent.
—Bhante Gunaratana, “Desire and Craving,” Tricycle Magazine
so soon I find it—
the bottom
of the potato chip bag
*
make us more bonobo
than chimpanzee, preferring
to fuck than fight
*
all night, the same
refrain after every bit of news:
April Fools
*
sound of flamenco
guitar, I will pay you a hundred poems
to play one more hour
*
missing this:
your lips, your lips, too long gone
between each kiss
love the bookends: chips and lips, done too soon. but my fav is the penultimate one: I will pay you a hundred poems/to play for one more hour—selling for your soul, or perhaps, rather, an exchanging of souls. and would that hour of flamenco produce those 100 Poems; and also the poems produce the hour of inspired flamenco playing? which comes first: One hundred, or one more hour?
That’s a great question, Eduardo … I love the way you open more doors in the poems than I even knew were there … wonderful