...one time crossing the river from Philly, noticed I didn’t see the Welcome to New Jersey sign ’til past Camden...a notoriously depressed city with one of the worst crime rates in the country, so broke it just laid off half its police and firefighters...
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from
them,
No more modest than immodest.
...but that didn’t stop us, fueled by tequila, from crossing the bridge on a winter Wednesday afternoon, to visit an old man’s home...wishing I could show him my rambling Yoga for Cynics posts, ask him what he thinks...but settling for a vague plan to tip back a whiskey flask where he sat to write, despite the park service's no food or drink policy...a quick and surreptitious toast to the poet, patriot, and great American yogi...
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from
them,
No more modest than immodest.
...but that didn’t stop us, fueled by tequila, from crossing the bridge on a winter Wednesday afternoon, to visit an old man’s home...wishing I could show him my rambling Yoga for Cynics posts, ask him what he thinks...but settling for a vague plan to tip back a whiskey flask where he sat to write, despite the park service's no food or drink policy...a quick and surreptitious toast to the poet, patriot, and great American yogi...
I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
...the flask, as it turned out, was forgotten...which was fine since, truth be told, the margaritas with lunch were more than enough....the house small, narrow, and nondescript on a run-down street...an unspectacular example of what our guide called Victorian working class, even when it was built...a place anybody might’ve lived...which could not, of course, be any more fitting...
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
...the flask, as it turned out, was forgotten...which was fine since, truth be told, the margaritas with lunch were more than enough....the house small, narrow, and nondescript on a run-down street...an unspectacular example of what our guide called Victorian working class, even when it was built...a place anybody might’ve lived...which could not, of course, be any more fitting...
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
