Tinkering it all away,
the forms, the becomings, the being.
I swing in the wind of it
and it sings in my chimes,
while I, the hung man,
wave feebly about in it.
Its life and all its doings
fooling (flowing) around with me.
Godot told me once
it would be like this.
How hard we labor at our communications
and our art.
As if to bridge the unbridgeable
and its realization,
to hide the mysteries.
Its a balance, somehow,
our refinement of art and
our appreciation of the chaos.
Zen monks, art students revel in it.
They want it all now; the clarity and the chaos.
It much nicer to seek it than run
when you've seen where running leads.
gallagher
8 Oct 76
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —