The Zen poet’s mind―still as an inkwell in an oil field; humble as a page of faint praise; silent as one hand clapping in a forest falling on deaf ears―is as sharp as Sam Samurai’s sword: like a steel stylus, shredding erudition into pulp fiction.
“Writing is a very focused form of meditation. Just as good as sitting in a lotus position.”
Suppose all the bird baths, ornamental ponds, swimming holes, creeks, swamps, lakes, oceans―all the water on the planet including what’s left of the glaciers, even the condensing vapor in the clouds―suppose it was all slurped up into a gob and spit into space: would that leave the planet dry?
“Among the planets orbiting the Sun, Earth is clearly the ‘water planet.'”
America’s students are taught a bit of Latin. Not to write prescriptions for pharmaceuticals, as might be expected. They learn that E pluribus unum is Latin for Out of many, one. So when they see the motto in the Great Seal of the United States on an after-tax dollar, they know what makes America great.
“Taxes should be proportioned to what may be annually spared by the individual.”
The whirling dervish going round on the inside track is thinking about breaking the record of revolutions per minute held by a mad holy roller on the outside track. He has another think coming.
“Every revolution was first a thought in one man’s mind.”
During the Cold War, a bartender at the Hilton Caribe Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, broke the ice for the world’s first Piña Colada, and a quartet of Puerto Rico’s pro-independence hot-heads opened fire on the U.S. Capital.
“The biggest gunfight in Secret Service History was over in 40 seconds. A total of twenty-seven shots had been fired.”
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