Dearest John, Whats the point of writing something to you that you will probably never read. if writing nothing to you is the only something I can write?. Whats the point of writing nothing to you if I cant write something to you that's really nothing to you?. Whats the point?. A nightingale singing in the the Lilac bush in my backyard? Is that the point?. saying hear me sing just for you--listener!. A luscious Blackberry swollen with its lifes nectar, dangling insouciantly, singing its song silently-- pick me--crush me in your mouth-- wash your tongue with my sweetness. Is that the point?. A Selmer hand made Alto Clarinet on its stand- daring me to play the melody of the Isness of the Universe just for you? Is that the point?. swooping keening hawk like notes flowing from my very beingness. An empty canvas waiting patiently for medium to be applied. The Chaos of my emptiness crying out to be stirred into the action of your Form. Is that the point?. Or just to say for your ears alone--I Love You!. An unfilled pan needing filling with hen ***** and milk and salt and pepper-- and then flamed into the tasty miracle of scrumbled eggs. Yummy yummy yummy Ive got food in my tummy and everything is gonna be alright.
If I tried to write my life down for you would you come to my waiting arms? Would you end this cruel silence? Would you commit a line of meaningful prose to your keyboard just to tell me you love me? But your gone to heaven knows where? Memphis?. Dissapeared into the maw of electronic death. Leaving me bereft of your yourness. No access to your body fluids. No more your flesh to caress. As if I could penetrate the skin of your aloneness and merge into the Isness that keeps molecules of your georgeous beingness together. Walking talking laughing the symphony of life together.
Would you listen if I spoke truthfully to you or would you prefer one of the many "truths" of your multiple "religions" or "politics" or "philosophies"?. But as I can only speak truthfully then I guess youll hear but not listen. Wasting your opportunities at Isness realisation as you have done since I,as the Isness of the Universe, brought into being voidness from my own essence with time and materiality--hearing but not listening to the Brownian arpeggios of the rising and falling scales of the music of the spheres. I play my horn of blackwood to the empty rooms of my universe-- accompanied by the booming bass of harmony-- Amazing Grease. India the Corrupted. Moanin and Groanin. Warm as Luke. A Chicken Supreme. Satis-Faction. God Rest Ye Gerry Mandlebaum. The Universe listens. Everyone else hears. I speak. your ears are closed.