i don't think the monks will take me, did you hear? maybe i am not supposed to be a little monk, maybe some voluptuous lip smacking gold and purple flashing supertramp will scoop me up in some bar, some dance hall, some mountaintop. maybe i will burn with lust and love and renounce all my monkey business and devote myself wholehearted to copulating and the fine art of cleaning up dirty dishes after dinner.
i see tattooed arms and necks on the street, so crass, and imagine myself lying naked in my coffin, an untouched canvas of skin stretched on a frame of polished whitewashed bone struts. beds are made for two but coffins for one. my bus feels like a coffin, polished with little dishes and bed and chair, a place where wills go to die. poor bhikku, clutching white-knuckled the world.
when i see tattoos and eternal ink i get visions of altars where people stand side by side like pencils or fence pickets, smelting each other with golden brands, life bracelets, covenant bands. a wife, an inked arm, a coffin, hold places in eternity as my mind pants in indignation and unbelief.
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i am getting heavy. i have gained back all the weight i lost since i was picking my ribs a month ago. i carry myself like an old jake lamata, wife beater and belly. after thanksgiving i think it would be time to start the fasts. i am not afraid of losing what i have at this point. fat to burn and money saved no rob will not starve this winter in his green bus, pockets full of rice.
when i think about being a bachelor i feel good. it would be a wretched state if i lived for myself but since i live for Christ (or have the audacity to claim so) such a wretched life does not belong to me. i am being leased. for a time i operate, performing this or that task, making a slight dent in the gluttonous appetite of despair, returning to my hut, my room, my cell to count my breath. is this a life? is there anything else worth working for? write soon.