90. Funny (Myshkin, 2020) · prose poem

The sun exploded this morning under my watchful Gaze. As if on the first day of Creation, there was Darkness and then, suddenly, light. Who made you?! I feel fully free. Sitting on the hood on my car, on a hill, Typing ridiculous words that don’t matter because the Bone marrow of things is everywhere. Eve-ry-where. Meditation is not something you do to get better, says Alan Watts, trickster prophet of the underworld. You do it As a celebration. With no agenda. Like art. Sine qua non. I have choices today. I go where I please, unburdened by The rat maze and hamster wheel. I love the sky and my heart, Which is so easily pierced these days by flowers. And dirt. Where is your heart, and how wide do you let it open up? When Adventure calls, do you say yes or find excuses? You know this Life is so short, right? The birds are tweeting and quacking at you. You may not need to even leave home, but if you’re not breaking Into instant laughter, or tears, or both, you don’t get the joke, The cosmic joke that we are all the punch line of. It is so funny.