Rocks, pebbles, stones, shards, clumps are everywhere in this place, Nature tells me to feel sorry for them, consciousness is only their greatest frustration, like a deaf and dumb groupie of the evil glee club he idolizes I kick at them and groan.

I believe these fragments to be the product of the shadowy Commonwealth of Mass, one level above the Canadians in the X-Files, if one of their secret agents approached me on my rounds I’d peg him with his own product like a Solidarity movement from the Cold War, the accuracy of my Roshi-centerfielder aim being due to my birthright, my cousins in Ulster attuned perfect rock-throwing enlightenment in 1968, four years before my birth, after only twenty-three generations of practice.

The sole purpose of the shadowy secret government is to increase Mass over Time (like that Sri Lankan priest who gave half-hour homilies and nobody understood a word of it anyway, he even coughed intellectually) so that my formulas will become cluttered like their briefcases and wallets and dress sock drawers, they began eons and eons before an explosion of finite bullshit limited them to this universe, they want only to create more bullshit to hit you with, to get stuck between your toes and ears, mucha samsara.

I alone, again, in the wash next to the interstate at four in the morning, know of this plot, meditate on it, be the far-out bodhissattva who knows the score and when every last blade of grass is free of its desert roots, as they poke through the sand and the rubble, they will find my soul and her pet rock, laughing about the heat and taking refuge in one man, not the one you’d think or would not think, the one man who’s job it is to tear it all down. ©