if it rains, let it rain

Cage an eagle and it will bite at the wires, be they of iron or of gold.

[Natural Philosophy @Naturalphilosy]

“The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

[if it rains, let it rain @thewrongbul]

https://t.co/jmxBwekWqf

[soli @solisolsoli]

Satan talks to Sin and Death, 1866 — Gustave Doré

[Epoch Health @epochhealth]

A Surprising Cause of Pancreatic Cancer

Read more

[if it rains, let it rain @thewrongbul]

The Prodigal

I have made altars
under dewy beer signs.
Pressed my forehead
to cool tiles
in the cathedral
of Alone.

The jukebox plays
“Stand By Your Man”
again.

I have kicked down stall doors,
tended broken fingers,
licked the savage flavor
of manblood
from my mane,

and now alone
tend the fire
that eats saints
until only their knives remain.

The moon hangs over Exxon.

I open my calloused palms.

—

Inside me
there is a country
hostile to cartographers.

Its rivers
climb back into the mountains.
Refuse the sea.

A woman
and her children
stand in a doorway.

Summer burns forever
behind them.

I leave so often
I have worn roads everywhere
but home.

—

As a fool
I arrived.

Smeared in ash and tears.
My helmet
shining and dented.

My father
spoke in silver.

His silence
peeled fruit
until nothing remained
but brightness.

—

The road opens
its white eye.

October steps out:

tractor fumes,
wet leaves,
horse hair.

The orchards
of my memory
pale against the cold.

A woman’s face
in a glass.

Lipprint of amber.

—

The ghost
of hands:

At night
combing her hair
inside the locked room.

In memory alone
she drinks from my cup.

Her tears
wet on my fingers.

She sleeps
with her ear
against my ribs.

—

2 in the morning.

The highway stretches
like the leg bone
of a giant.

No question.

No answer
among the dark trees.

The cold
was the first animal
to speak my true name.

—

Sage.

Spring willow.

Tobacco.

The sun—

fan palms
become red.

The bay opens.

Gulls drag rain
inside their swinging bellies.

Something in me
goes out over water
with them.

—

A bed in Astoria.

A bed in Galveston.

A bed in Lafayette.

The television preaches
all night
in a whisper.

Sheets of sand.
Dusky lamps.
Blankets that have wrapped
the dead.

In Pittsburgh,

windows gleaming,
whiskey glasses,
lifetimes left folded
inside each one.

I left a receipt
in every nightstand.

The totals blur.

The letters remain.

—

Now the cage labors.

Now the cage sleeps.

Now the cage
learns my voice.

And when I open my mouth,

it sings.

[if it rains, let it rain @thewrongbul]

The thinking that begins with Sein und Zeit is, on the one hand, an awaken-ing from the overlooking of [the hiddenness of] "being".... On the other hand, and precisely as such an awakening, it does not extinguish the hidden-ness of "being." Rather, the point is to place oneself in, and to stand within, that hiddenness. To awaken from the overlooking and to awaken to the hid-denness is to awaken to Ereignis.

[RayVG @RayVG5]

@_GVNTHER_ Where did you get this picture of me hunting for a wife

[Edward Elderman @edwereddie]

The Mirror
1922 oil on canvas 76.2 × 63.5 cm
by dame Laura Knight
British painter 1877-1970
"The artwork features a semi-nude woman (her friend and fellow artist Ella Naper) in profile, draped in an ornate green shawl and holding a hand mirror."

[mînà @_evaweht]

jack kerouac went on one gayass road trip and now we have to deal with all of this.

[Nisargadatta Maharaj @Nisargadatta_M]

There are no steps to self-realization. There is nothing gradual about it. It happens suddenly and is irreversible. You rotate into a new dimension, seen from which the previous ones are mere abstractions.