Thursday, January 29, 2015

Napoleon's Horses

Like Napoleon's horses in the Russian winter;
He slips and slides across the frozen river
Sensing the waterbed that lies beneath.

The chilly grave that preserves until Spring thaw
When the carcass of his cares will be freed.
Those who drown always keep their last expression;

Those who find the lost lose morsels of their faith
To a desire that only human hearts can dream of;
And only a god's neurosis would consider granting.

He remembers as sounds of brittle crystals cracking
That using one's last moments in prayer is foolhardy.

January 29, 2015

Galloping Fuck

Today's vernacular for Buddhist detachment: I don't give a galloping fuck.