Besides saying that he's the inhabitant of the San Francisco Zen Center, the Castle Park Zen Center, the English Farm, I'd like to say that he's also been an ardent worker for world peace, most visibly in the last few years. But world peace, especially through nuclear disarmament, has been one of his main concerns. And I would also like to observe, ask a student, that his way of speaking about Zen is an exploration of language, for expression of language. And it involves a wanted use of poetry, both oriental and classical. So I, with great gratitude. Hi.

[01:19]

I'm very grateful to be able to introduce these three men to you who have done so much to change my life, our lives, and the life of our society. The venerable Thich Nhat Hanh, who is very nice, and Barry Snyder, and Robert Friedman. They all speak in a voice of concern and truth. They all speak of the relevance of the identity of our deep feelings and recognitions with the world, and of the necessity and courage of our intuitions and convictions, and of the singularity and inseparableness with the world of each individual. Many people have been ruled by these three, as you and I have. Some people have published and read many books by them.

[02:20]

And Gary has received the Pulitzer Prize. I must get tired of hearing this one. And Thich Nhat Hanh has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King, and was definitely here in Martin Luther King's junior high school. And Bob Creeley recently had a marvelous large book of collected poems published by University of California Press. But these things should not separate them from us. We are each speaking to each other, not to publishers, but to a world separate from us. You know there's an extreme likelihood, not a certainty, but an extreme likelihood of an intentional or accidental, more likely accidental, nuclear war and holocaust and genocide that will bring the voiceless and already suffering plants and animals that are not at war with anybody or anything along with us.

[03:27]

It's actually something that could happen at any moment. The phrase, in the rudeness of the preservation of the world, have been going through me recently, like the mantra. And I mean the wilderness of what we mistakenly call the inside, because we do not know its boundaries or fully its expression. It is to this wilderness that we now clue palpitation and illicit palpitation. that these poets are speaking, to the wilderness that is the base of all our feeling, trust, and desire to trust, to act on our own Jewishness and recognition as a land from the sea. All three have come a long way from France, from New Mexico, and from Sierra to speak with you, to join their lives as poets and Buddhists to your lives.

[04:39]

But let's go to the next important word today. Thank you. Please enjoy it and read it. This is an instruction I have to take my heart. Yeah, and take a moment, if you like, to look around. I think you'll see many old friends. And I don't even mean that that I'm far. It's wonderful to be together like this again. Is that a signal that they can't hear you? No, it didn't go. How are the people in the center?

[05:49]

So I need to read a few points from my new cycle, which is called Backstabbers. Fifth century B.C. folk song from the Shunji and the Buddha songs. How do you shake an axe and go? Without an axe, it can't be done. How do you take a wife? Without a go-between, you can't get one. Shake the handle. Shake the handle. The pepper is not far enough. And here's a good one, you know. The wine and soup in rows. That's handles. One afternoon, the last week in August, I was showing Kai how to throw a hatchet.

[06:58]

One half turn and it sticks in the sun. He likes that. And he recalls the hatchet head without a handle in the shop. and go gets it and wants it for his own. A broken off axe handle behind the door is long enough for a hatchet. We cut it to length and take it with the hatchet head and working hatchet to the wood block. There I begin to shape the old handle with the hatchet. And the phrase first learned from Ezra Brown rings in my ears. When making an axe handle, The pattern is not far off. And I say this to him. Look, we'll shape the handle by checking the handle from the inside. Well, he sees it. He'll not hear it again. It's in Ruzi's One Fu, 4th century, 18th century literature.

[08:00]

In the preface, he says, he written the image with an axe, cutting wood with an axe. The model is indeed near and dear. My teacher, Shixiang Chen, here in Berkeley, translated that. And he taught it years ago. And I see it. An was an axe. A tin was an axe. And I am an axe. And we're soon to be shaping again. Model, code, tool, craft. Oh, my God. Changing diapers. How intelligent he looks. On his back. Both feet caught in my one hand.

[09:01]

His glance set sideways on a German poster of a journal. With a sharp skewing right at his knee. I open. Wipe. He doesn't even notice. Nor do I. Big legs and wings. Toes like little kingies. Little wrinkles. Good to eat. Eyes bright. Shiny ears. Chest swelling, drawing hair. No trouble, friend. You, me, and Geronimo are men. Soy sauce. Dedicated to Bruce and Holly. Standing on the step under the ceiling. Tattooed on wire net for plaster. A day's work helping Bruce and Holly on their house.

[10:05]

I catch a sour, salty smell and come back down the ladder. Deer lick it. Nice, she says. And she shows me the frame of the window she's playing. Clear redwood, but dark with a smell. We support a broken-up 2,000-gallon redwood soy sauce tank from a company when I visit this town near San Jose. Out in the yard, the steaks are stacked. I lean over, sniff. Ah, it's like shinshu miso. It's like the darker, saltier miso paste of the Nagano uplands, the central mainland of Japan. In fact, it's just like Shinshu pickles. And I see in my mind my friend, Shimizu, asking me one question. Years ago, trudging through days of snow, crossing the Japan Alps, and descending the last night to a heartless, taking the late hot bath in the dark, and eating a bowl of chill, rain, and ice.

[11:21]

Nothing ever did it for me. Back here, that California hot summer sunshine, dusty yard, hammered me in the head. I know how it tastes to rip those window frames in the dark. The deer. A strategic command last summer on a little backpacking and climbing trip with my older son. Coit Peak, eastern Sierra Leone, just up a bit along the lake. The hiss and flashing lights of the jet pass near Jupiter in Virgo. He asks, how many satellites are there? Does anyone know where they all are? What are they doing? Who watches them?

[12:23]

Frost suppose I'm sitting there. the last embers of fire, one more cup of tea at the edge of a high lake rimmed with snow. These cliffs and the stars belong to the same universe. This little air in between belongs to the 20th century and its wars. Work point. Someone said that most of the last three or four centuries of Western, Occidental culture of poetry has been love songs. I try to write work songs, too. This is called Getting in the Wood. The sour, swill, really stinging weather squirts out round the ridge.

[13:27]

lifting quarters of rounds covered with ants, a living glove of ants on my own. The pull of the sledge had been pinged over, so the wedge springs off and tumbles, ringing like high-pitched bells, into the complex duct of twigs, poison brook, bark, sawdust, shards of logs. And the sweat drips down. Smell crushed ants. The lean and heave on the peavey that breaks free the last of the art three-foot round. It lies flat from smashed oak leaves. Wedge and sledge, peavey and maw, little packs, canteen, piggyback can of sawmaged grass and boils and a chain, knapsack of files and goggles and racks, all together, the dead and the dumb. The young men flow splits on the piles, bodies hardening, learning the pace and the small tunes of this dill in the winter depth of the oily oak.

[14:40]

Four chords. A word reader in the Sierra Nevada. Well, this is a very true wildcat one. You can live outdoors six months of the year, if you like. And doing so keeps the house from getting so hot from the cookstone. So we have an outdoor kitchen with a kind of a Ramadan shade shelter over it. Cook in a circle of stones. Use the dead man's that won't work so well in the cooking range anyhow. And that's fine. But it's very vulnerable to raccoons. So this point starts with a cat. It's called True Night. She will sleep in the back of the bed. From outside this green room comes a cat.

[15:47]

And finally the sleepy mind rises up to a hook, rises up to a fact, like a fish to a hook. A raccoon's in the kitchen. A falling of metal balls, the clashing of jars, the clashing of weights. I stand alive to this ritual. Rise on the stage, fighting to my feet, rare in the still, danish in the dark. I'm a huge, pounding demon that roars. Scratching sound tells me they went up a tree. I stand at the base. Two young ones that perch on two dead stone limbs and peer down from both sides. Roar, roar. I roar, you awful raccoons. You wait us out. You grassy turkeys.

[16:55]

As I stay there, silent, the chill of the air on my achiness starts off. I'm all alive. Barefoot, shaking my grafted stick in my hand. A long streak of cloud giving way to a milky thin black, back of black paper. The moon is still full. Hill sights of pine trees all whisper. Crickets, still cricketing, faint in cold coves in the dark. I turn and walk, slow, back the path to the beds. With goosebumps and loose rain in the air, In the night of milk moon lit in cloud glow, and black rustling pines, I feel like a dandelion head gone to sea, about to make power, or a sea of memory, open and waving the cool, purring water.

[18:02]

Fifty years old. And I still spend my time screwing nuts down, At the shadow pool, children are sleeping, and a lover under the bed for years. True night. One cannot stay too long awake in this dark. Dusty feet can entertain me. I stoop and slip back to the sheet for a sweet ice to eat, or the waiting that comes every As the critics sought on and on, and so are we, the trees, as our babe, the rocks, our neighbors.

[19:10]

I told this story before, and I know a lot of you have heard that one before. At that point, it was given to me by Lou Wells. And Lou and I were sitting by a fire late at night outside. In the summer of 71. And after a long silence, Lou said to me, Gary, do you think the rocks made it into the trees? I said, I don't know, Lou. What are you driving at? And he said, the trees are just best to do. Yes, you could get as soft or numb as to us. So are we to the trees. That's our day to the world. One of the challenges for poets on this continent is that we have a couple of thousand years of writing written into our poetry, the birds, the insects, the plants of this continent.

[20:34]

Again, to approach the degree of richness and mutual informing that you have in all the cultural poetic tradition, such as the traditions of China, Japan, and all of Asia, where thousands of years of poetry have fully informed the landscape and bettered it. The plants, flowers, birds are fueling the poetry, and then people are seeing wild jungle throng, or a certain tide in a certain bay can simmer us all and reset the point back to that site. We're just people. So here's my breakthrough point. In that, I've taken an insect here that nobody else was ever going to write about, mainly the Old North character, and put it into a point for the future. Threadshafted footer, sharp, cool comb. The smell of sweet birch blooms through the wine man's meat.

[21:39]

Yet, the soft, raining denim invisible, crackling, bright duff of the droppings of the oak-moth caterpillars higher than oak leaves above. Hiding inside, I discovered I broke into your house last night to use the library. There were some booms I had to look at. A large book fell and knocked over others. Afraid you'd wake and find it and be truly alarmed, I left without getting up. I got your name from the mailbox, as I was glad to break you. Thanks a lot. I think that that poem is about what it is to be a poet, but I'm not sure.

[22:43]

A brief Hunkoos series written on June 1, 1977. Sea of ocean blossoms and the radiator boiling over. Smells of spring. Fat rear plunges. Toes. Tail. Calf. A mouse. At the door at dawn, our loving care. Saying sugar water, Peter jars the beans out. How nice he dug his back desk. This year, the third of the both of them, he rarely speaks. Is it drought and low water or age? Kid coming out of the outhouse at dusk in pajamas, still tucking you in. How many days? Last night, the first time, raccoons opened the refrigerator.

[24:10]

You can't slow down truckers. That's true. If we were trying to have a technology that took progress seriously, we don't have to leave progress to raccoons. A young couple got married up in the United County where I live. I asked them what they'd like for a wedding present. That was Bill Cosby. This boy was called a moth for going to Cindy's wedding. He said, I'd like a splitting moth. An office-blade fireman, he had to, it's like getting a splitting wedge to the end. Well, I said, would you like to get a pound moth or a ten? So I put it in the truck and was passing along to the party and thinking to myself, I just can't give a nice, really married young couple a mall.

[25:19]

So I pulled over to the side and I drove a point and put it around the handle of the van. dropped it off at the party. And then about a week later, I was sitting back and I said, well, it wasn't a bad point, so I went over and tell me to go. That's what it is. A mall for Bill and Cindy's wedding. Swung from the toes out, belly breath riding on the knuckles, the 10-pound mall lifts up, sails in an arc over him, and then lifts you. You float for a distant, clear, far sight. I, on the crack in the engraving, ankle of the gold round, stood up to wait to be slain. The wall falls to the side. The wood cracks apart and lies twain in a wake. As the wall splits off, may you too see it.

[26:25]

I'm going up to Alaska almost every year for the last five years. by doing some poetry reading, some teaching, some community consultant work with white communities and Native communities, too. At one time, I was over in Western Alaska near Bristol Bay, which is the richest sand fishery west from the West Sea. with the Japanese and the Soviet salmon fishing boats hovering out there, right along the interior. Which makes me also think, to remind us, a little thing has slipped by a couple of years ago.

[27:28]

Five big single-wall fishing boats hopped down on the Bering Sea this winter. Five big boats, all been out of the West Coast. and quite a number of fishermen were lost, and a number of older families. There's a bar in Dillingham, Alaska, called the Willow Creek Bar. And when I moved to that bar, I found myself in the same bar that I had been in many times in the world, where he has a scene where my body appears. So I wrote this poem, Dillingham, Alaska, to Willow Creek Bar. Drills, chapter, full of mud and compressed air. All across the globe. Low-ceilinged bars, the year of singing the new songs. All the new songs to the working bars in the world. After you're done driving a cab back to the truck with home.

[28:30]

Terrible sleep. front legs folded first, under the warm, oily pipeline, hair set four feet off the ground. On the wooden floor, a glass in hand, laugh and cuss with somebody else's wife. Texans, Hawaiians, Eskimos, Filipinos, workers, always on the edge of the road, in the bars hearing gubbers sing new songs in apathy, eagles, elvish diamond, and fairbanks, white but brown, drinking it down, the pain of the work of wrecking. I love applause, but . Removing the plate of the pump on the hydraulic system of the backhoe.

[29:34]

This one is dedicated to Bert Heibert, a Nellie Purley wizard . Through mud, fowled nuts, light and dry, it opens a room of spotless machinery. Machines that perfect. slurred, indignant, awkward, relentless clarity at the heart of work. Breasts. That which makes milk concentrate out of the food of the world. right up to the point where you look sucky. Where is it? But the breast is a filter. The poison stays there and flushes.

[30:41]

Deadly molecules hooked up in strings never found and worried in your bosom. So we celebrate breasts. We all love to kiss them. They are like philosophers who hold back the dirty night. to let the more tasty wisdom slip through from the littleness. You can't take poison so long. The lit that comes later, after child raising, for the real self to be, is the great, burning, poison of life. Flat breasts, hired bodies, that widows can't wipe a woman under.

[31:43]

Tough enough for a few more good days. And the glittering eyes of old mud and old fire aren't gay. Old Rhineland tree trunk. Now, to this point, it is written for a dead chest of wood slurper. the second contemplation on a slope up in the Sierra. The wide, deep range of pristine outer spiral shell, stubby, broken limbs of animals, filled both outer airs with skin. Big rock locked in temperate clasps, now lifted to the air. Amber beams of ancient sand the powdery cracks of red dry mud, far away from the busy river.

[32:51]

Beautiful body of water, up and across the mist, the wily and neat land. Our soul is rocked in the air of breeze without cease. If, as the Buddhists teach us, meditation on decay and rot cures lust, White wolf. I delight in a lot of covetous easel-like stings that suck the life still from your open insides under your crystal sky. And the woodpecker flash from tree to tree in a grove of rare pears on a green-watered bench right there. looking out at blue lakes, dripping in snow patch, soaking in glacial rubble, crumbling rocky cliffs and screaming, corruption in the decay, the sticky turnover, death into more of the life-death scene, a great life, and the long, slow, teeming fog.

[33:59]

The woodpeckers cry. I'm going to take a little detail here. I was planning to read these few poems at the very beginning, and I've cracked it. Five poems, five short poems from Texas by a woman named Delmarie Rogers, called The Physical Plant. Annette Delmarie, six or seven years from Boston. She works with the University of Texas in the maintenance department. She told me she wanted to erect some plants, some wonderful physical plants. Plants that people sent to just a month ago. So these are points of physical plants in the Delvery office. One truck. The helper at the air conditioning and heating contractor dips in his truck, backs up so fast, straight across the parking lot that even the toughest sparrow in the industrial district has to have mighty quick reflexes to get out of the way.

[35:10]

When two guys got a bad burn in an electrical accident, Wags in the top left them sparkly and fresh. Their way of expressing how glad we are to still have them along with us. Happy to have you along with me. The silence. A steel beam fell from the loft to the concrete floor. Word like thunder, we all pricked our ears. Nobody heard. In the dead silence, a voice said, somebody dropped a set out of their rig. Bobby.

[36:11]

Bobby always asks me if I've done anything wild or exciting on the weekend. God, he was handsome. Kim, asking me that was probably the most exciting thing I've ever heard. Okay. The last one's both crying. That of a man, the most gentle, Where's this man who never walked in the tea shop? Is the book meeting a grand, sensuous woman on a toilet? All of us, male and female, draw near this shrine from work. I just... He came in red.

[37:29]

Several friends of Jimmy's, who are all fanatic river runners, you know, great lovers of the rivers, invited me to shoot the stone saw strip a couple of years ago, in April, to get one more good look at it, before the numerous vans of water really began to bury the boat out of the point. I just read in the paper that in the rains this winter have really felt like winter months. A couple of references in this point. One is Sue Sherer. Sue Sherer, or Sue, is the same person as . Who wrote a marvelous point on the river run called The Hundred Days Graphics. You can find it in Burton Watson's theorem. a one-volume Columbia University Press Book of Translations to Sutra. Dogen, also a visionary, wrote a piece which is virtually a prose poem in the 12th century called The Mountains and Rivers Sutra, which I have written.

[39:05]

I look up at the cliffs, but we are slept on by them. The draughts wobble over and slide over voids of water. Boulders shimmer under the crunching stream, rock walls straight up on both sides. A hawk cuts across that narrow sky. Get my sign. We paddle forward, back turn, spinning through eddies and waves, stair steps of churning whitewater. And above the wall, there was a small canyon there. A smooth stretch, rifted, rusted. Here it had been. Delicate, downward song. Descending through ancient beds, a single female bird flies. shooting a hundred-pace fast.

[40:17]

So sure, saw, throw on, it all stands still. He said, I stare at the water. It moves with unspeakable stillness. Dogue in writing at midnight. Mountains and hell. Water is the past. It does not flow away. We ditched up at a Chinese camp, between miles of stones stacked there by black-haired miners, a citadel. Cooked in the dark, sleep all night long by the stream, these songs that are here and gone, here and gone, to purify our ears. This abyss, Ah, to be alive on a mid-September morn, forning the stream barefoot, holding roots, pack on, sunshine, ice in the shallows, the rustling shimmer of icy creek water, stones turned into wood.

[41:38]

a small heart's glimpse, a coldly nose, seams, creams, heart music, the smell of sun, I pledge allegiance. I pledge allegiance to eternal God and to the beings who therein dwell, one ecosystem in diversity, under the sun, with joyful interpenetration for all. One of the legitimate socialists in Gary Greene, since many of you still know, is Thich Nhat Hanh.

[42:54]

Am I speaking okay? Since most of you don't know Thich Nhat Hanh, I'd like to say that I messaged him in November last year, and I felt at last, here is the truth. And I was also grateful to meet Vietnamese Buddhism and find it's also our own. Talking in New York, he said that he had trained several generations ago. with the monks in Vietnam. And I guess he saw how much help we can give, and so he agreed to come out and work with the students at Francis Sanchez. And we just spent 10 days at Tamsahara. And it is a half-life gap of three months with nine women.

[44:00]

How do you pick up a telephone line? As you personally do, it makes it clear that if you wanted your legs fixed, you'd have to be at home here, almost inside and outside. Just inside. I don't know. These are tribal people. That's a little bit of an understanding. This morning's dawn and I am here.

[45:06]

A cup of thinning tea, a green groan, the sudden release of light on the door. Your hands are the wind beckoning. The sign of the tree is new, but flowers, leaves, and petals all inside the sutra of the lotus tree. This is a poem about the three of us, a ten-year-old girl, a pirate, and a master. The ten-year-old girl was there on the boat. She is one of the boat people. And she was raped by the sea pirate.

[46:48]

And after being raped, she threw herself into the water. And she was done. And then there is me, who is not very clear as to on what side I have to be. There is the sign of the 10-year-old bird who just committed suicide, and there is the sign of the pirate. I would like very much to take the sign of the bird, but I think that's too easy. If I only had a chance to look on the pirate as my enemy, that would be peaceful, but I couldn't, because I hoped that if I were born in his own village, and if I was getting the time of education and literacy, because I, that it has to be getting, and that now I am

[48:06]

So I cannot be sure that I am not responsible for his tragedy. So this is what I mean about material action. These call me by my true names. You don't say that I'll depart tomorrow, because even today, I still run. Look deeply. I arrive in the A.S.S. statute, to be a bird on the spring range, to be a tiny bird with wings filled with pleasure, and learning to sing in my new nest. to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

[49:11]

I still arrived in order to laugh and to cry, in order to steal and to kill. The riddles of my heart could be worked and that of all that are alive. I am the Mayfly with the morphosin on the surface of the river, and I am the red-skinned scum who rallies his pie to eat the red slime. I am a frog swimming happily in the clear water of the pond, and I am the blasted oak approaching in silence. It feels itself on the arm. I am a child in Uganda, all skin and bones. My legs have been like bamboo sticks. And I have the arms of a merchant, something that they want me to run.

[50:17]

I am a child in the old world, living on a small boat. which houses them in the ocean after every day I see pirates. And I am the pirate. My heart, not yet constipated of sin, and I regret it. I am a member of the board of Europe with plenty of power in my hand. And I am the man who has to face death of the earth. for my people, who carry it slowly in the forest, place where I come. My pride is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the land. My pain is like the renewal of demons, so beautiful it fills up all our hopes. So please call me by my true name, so that I can hear all my prayers,

[51:22]

and lapsed at once, so that I can see that my shop and my cave are gone. The priest called me when I came in, so I came in with him, and to the door of my house, it was there I opened the door of my house. This is the basic point on the sun, the purpose that allows the community to have a practice of meditation on the sun. One way I propose to the Magna Carta community is to meditate on the sun as a certain object. We usually think that our car is very powerful, and it is top-functioning in that category.

[52:36]

But we cherish very much our car. But as far as the family is concerned, we assume a lot of pride. We took a look upon it as our second house. before he passes out. When he goes out, then he also dies right away. So this is the point. How to work for origin and the gods of sunshine? Sometimes, bright stars fade and the fortune comes from the sunshine. Poetry gives birth to sunshine, and sunshine to poetry. Sound is granular in the heart of a different matter. Poetry is made of steam piling on a bowl of soup when bitter burns.

[53:42]

The wind is working our sound, swirling. Poetry is bad. To come, the audio can be bad. Yet, the poor ash-cut the mirror from either shore, the right wing. Spring carries poetry in its riddle. The fire, sparkle, poetry of iron clay. Sunshine stored in the heart of a fragrant wood. Warm smoke leading the poetry back to the tale of an unofficial history book. Sunshine, though absent from state, fills the land of those colored stones. Sunshine bleaching out at the color of smoke. The poetry is telling the color of the mystery. Spring rain is cold, soaring in its drops, to bend down to taste the soil, to let the tinnitus come out.

[54:52]

Sunshine. I draw a big color and portray a big one. These men were one with the power of the sunshine they carried on their wombs. On sunshine six steps, with the voice which they used the next time with joy. With the excitement of celebration, rocket-flying CDs plowed the earth, sunshining with the dance. 943, the song. Drops of sweat fall on the cow plow when they fly along the river. The cold handle on the shoulder will take those who get wet. Sunshine wanes away down the river, and the silhouette of the rain after me lingers directly. Fort Lee is ready for the hardest part, where his life is like it to himself.

[56:00]

He runs. The green stuff found in the basket full of crap back there. The tasty and well-cooked stuff smells delicious from a good bowl of lunch. Fort Lee looks to the child and what he feels with the wacker picnic plate, or the stairs with which I can't leave a look, or the tree, the hand that broke the core of me. There is a land somewhere far away. The smiling sun brightening up, the sun dissolving, the violet tools and high inset in an opal's picture, or the colors which nested to me then. for three miles up the hill. This scripturalism will be proud to watch for three lectures long.

[57:01]

The last sentence is about what it had to do with Lepidus, where he lived in life. Jean-Pierre Beauvoir made full effort to set up the disconcerted children into the world. The book is now in the making of the book. And I took one. Book three, not the short one. This is the book I'm controlling. One day, I asked a student of mine to look on his phone and tell me how long he thinks that big time can be around.

[58:06]

First, he said that, uh, 32. And then he... How long? Not much longer. And he was capable of seeing his father and his mother as he could see more than. So he had realized of a condition that he has never been born and he has never, he has never died because he's dead. There is one word in the poem that I should explain to you. You have come here for my beloved boy, the blue-eyed son, so beautiful, the thief.

[59:28]

You have taken the past place for you by all the non-English names you have ever attended. You say that on your way here, you have worked for millions of births and events. For an incredible time, you have been transformed into science in outer space. And you have built your model to measure the age of the mountain. And you have launched the jump that has changed. And you have a single cell beam. And it has . But times you think with which you look at him in the morning tell me that you haven't had the job. He just smiles, inviting me into the day to talk to the things that we all know, the people, time. Okay, it's cut through.

[60:33]

You are suddenly using your body to measure the age of the old strange that grew last summer. Everyone says that you, my beloved one, would not fall asleep. How long have you been alive? Why wait until this moment to reveal yourself to me, carrying with you that smile which is so silent and so dear? Oh, cock-a-doodle-do, silence, wounds, and thoughts blow up. who know that the infinitely large must be found in their tiny zone. Upon escape from their bodies, thousands of bodhisattvas choose to have the next touch. They use the flesh of their body to measure their body from the dominant end to the natural end.

[61:36]

The great medicament of all is still there. On the road traffic, when I'm racing in the air, I'll say, thank you. I wrote my life across the range. Who said that all the world travels only once? It can be three times a year. That song of the rising tide, you cannot hear it if you have an active ear. Thank you for your time. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. National aliens wiped away the ruins on the beach within the cycle of work and death.

[62:51]

I walk out towards the pearly X amount of flowers. I keep my head high. Grimes open from under sounds of bombs and mortars. The tears I shed yesterday past the grand rain, I feel calm hearing the sound of passion. Childhood or my birth plan is calling me, and the rain melts my brain. I am still here alive, with the white smile of the street group block 4 on Triggers Avenue. Carrying in the back body the corner of her head, I go out across the rice field in the darkness. The Lord will keep you tight in her arms, dear one, so that tomorrow you'll be the incarnate thing, flower.

[63:52]

Those flowers, smiling, quietly, small and clear. This moment, you wait no more, dear one. They have grown true to deep in mind. This morning, yes, this morning, I kneeled down on the alias, when I noticed the acceptance of flowers, which speaks to me inside. The message, the message of the law of homesteading is, as it really comes, This is the Chinese word. It's not . But I have to read it anyway. There is one expression here that may not be familiar to you, .

[64:57]

Because the many French workers They can only get it out if they accept the three-time stage practice. During three weeks, they have to work from 5 o'clock in the morning to 1 in the afternoon. And after that, three weeks, from 1 in the afternoon to 9 in the evening. And then three weeks. beginning with the night clock until after the morning. So, that is the prophecy. The day I actually left my house, my problem was with prophecy in this country.

[66:00]

Hell was right there. I was so negative, negative too. and he took the opportunity to take away my part of the stake. My brother, the one with yellow skin, is destitute. His little boy hated in school this morning because before leaving home, he had not kept his small, simple picture. I was busily struggling to prevent my landlord from raising my rent. We were equipped, we were filled with beam machines, and I lost my job. My brother is the one with black skin, cannot keep his children, but his wife continues to bring him new babies. Oh, brother, how could you? He said, what can I do? No milk, no ranch. local big dog.

[67:02]

The lady brought her baby and left it on the roadside, hoping that someone with a soft heart would take it home. And so we did start living for better wages. And so we lived like fighting the highest goals of our lives, trying to find time to come home. My brother and the Christ team practiced Three times. It's as if we can sleep like the rest of these families. Hell is brighter with the high levels. Victory is won. Error lies with the children. Hell is brighter. Our struggle is right there, unfortunately. How could we be the cartoon heads when my brother is too far away? You said, for the interest of the nation, you cannot start development. Nothing ends without a job.

[68:06]

You offer me one in your company, making farms and guns to scale the faraway countries. My children are hungry, my wife, gone, and I'm always grieving. Our brothers bear need food. My son-in-law was bombed on guns, so he killed a child. Because I was not mindful, he took away my steps. Because I was neglectful, he took away the color of the TV set. And also, he was staying. And also, it's all part of our future. In county, it's not so difficult to have a car TV, but we have to sign the paper to work like this. I am already so biased, but I still need things, and I do not want to follow you into another game.

[69:07]

You say I'm crazy, but I am a snail that cannot even have its own shell, and yet is tipping off, shouldering the evil in the mountain. You have used a handful of grain that could have been used to help my brother to produce bread. The heap of bread is now as high as a mountain. The mountain is so high that it hides the sun, and I can't see the face of my beloved. A handful of grain that should have been used to save our child, Rangda, It has been used to produce a bottle of liquor. The liquor is being poured on the tips of sticks.

[70:08]

The blood is being poured on our own bodies. I cannot solve my problems here. If I keep the keeping of my knowledge, whether I can rotate my heart, I assure you, I will have my victory. The Council of Peru of the Institute of Mathematics and Economics in Paris said that if only the rest of the countries could do it by 50%, then the consumption of liquor by 50% would be enough to change the destiny of the world. This is a poem about going and coming and going.

[71:13]

And it started with a few lines by a Chinese poet. He came back to his village and found that the children did not recommend prison. They had to come home. They said, When I met Michael, Michael was a child, an old man in my house, kind of child. The village has not changed, but my hair and beard are all white. The village children see me, but they don't recognize me. They look at each other, they visual, and they ask, where have you come from? That's the people over there. Where have you come from, this little, destructible old man? I'm here because you have come from. Yet, you do not know that there is a link between us.

[72:16]

I exposed my sloth-wise to this morning. To generally, some of the truths are so new and real, that to know them, we could not sell at fifty. that took proof so many years ago, and it's very rare. The name of the village has not changed, but after so many years, the village has become yours. With a puzzled eye, I only respect all visitors. What I mean, from some unknown world, in its openness, more. To come to the world, to be part of the current over the months. It is not a wonder. Where have you come from, the expected of all? You do not see it, and how could you see it? Even if I sing to you the old song I learned, still I would be a statue in your eyes.

[73:22]

When I have to visit my village, Your eyes dance and you laugh, and I laugh too, when you say you know that I'm Jack Caldwell's boy. The bottle trees, the liquor bank, the village hall, and they tell me still there. They have chance, yes, but they have not. The name of the village against the ceiling. Now, the new bottle shop, the new hat, hat, book, When you are dead already, look at the new town. What is the purpose of my coming here and being dead? The harm can be made to the lost. But what others are passing away will come to departure. And you won't find the arrival. For each day is extraordinary, of a different world. But see, we are all one nation. Super people and colored clothes and hay and cotton.

[74:28]

I come back to my village. The dogs I worked and bought for you are strangers and dogs are mine. A little travel. A red tide of an alley. The past and the future look for each other. The two shores suddenly become one. And in the path of return comes the journey. The two leaves of the thine wood lay foreshadowed. A shining arrow raised the lost strings. It skipped upward, clinging to the sky.

[75:30]

explodes the sun. The blossoms of the orange trees fall, and in the cold yellow is red, tickling the texture of infinity. I think it was like this. I think it was like this. but it certainly won't move in the future.

[76:49]

Illusion transport. Horizon is the area of accidents. Martin is living, sitting dressed up as theater. The night falls past the towers of the theater. Illusion shifts together. Looking through her hands, seeing the candles shimmering through the silver eye-lid of her hand. The hillside is open to all kinds of games and funny stuff that drives the subject to a steep high. Ten thousand lives are spinning, circling, reading the movie. The moment that is known is the year that this world will end. I can feel it.

[77:43]

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