1.
The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all—
about which one can purse one’s lips like a piece of cane and puff: ‘Yup, that’s it, definitely
The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all’
is breaking the little wings off
the ever-present square fabric which our grown men wrap around the ‘little bird’ top knots on their heads after receiving their public courtesy-names—or what we know as the timeless, whole head-cloth ‘ji’ version of
The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all.
personal, childhood naming—what it whispers to identify itself by moonlight—
about which one can purse one’s lips like a piece of cane and puff: ‘Yup, that’s it, definitely
personal, childhood naming—what it whispers to identify itself by moonlight’
is breaking the little wings off
the ever-present square fabric which our grown men wrap around the ‘little bird’ top knots on their heads after receiving their public courtesy-names—what we know as the timeless, whole head-cloth version of
personal, childhood naming—what it whispers to identify itself by moonlight.
Nothing—no one dancing with long tails flowing from their wrists—nope never, no way, nowhere, nohow Not-Being…
personal, childhood naming—what it whispers to identify itself by moonlight:
Heaven(that sky level above the human head)-Earth (this soil vagina)
has this
beginning—like conception in and by a woman.
Flesh-and-blood, meat-holding Being…
personal, childhood naming—what it whispers to identify itself by moonlight:
the myriad scorpion medicine-dancing Ten Thousand
Things cut off—all matter external to oneself like cows etc.
has this
suckling—like being nursed by a woman.
Anciently, for ten generations, this therefore lightly hits and leaves a mark of reason:
the ever-present square fabric which our grown men wrap around the ‘little bird’ top knots on their heads after receiving their public courtesy-names—what we know as the timeless, whole head-cloth ‘ji’ version of
Nothing—no one dancing with long tails flowing from their wrists—nope never, no way, nowhere, nohow Not-Being…
wanting—what’s been eroded from this ravine…
this means:
keeping watch from the temple tower for
what it holds a basket of…
mysterious feminine essence—a few drops of that womanly mist;
the ever-present square fabric which our grown men wrap around the ‘little bird’ top knots on their heads after receiving their public courtesy-names—what we know as the timeless, whole head-cloth ‘ji’ version of
Flesh-and-blood, meat-holding Being…
wanting—what’s been eroded from this ravine…
this means:
keeping watch from the temple tower for
what it holds a basket of…
delineated surface—a patrolled frontier border lightly hit with a sword tip from left to right.
This here—the foot stops a person here on their footprint:
a matched pair, like a harness of ox yokes
—now this is cooking!—
spoken of altogether with one another in integrity—like all earthly, mortal, commonplace plates—
stepping out of their cave,
and yet now, bearded, you:
differently-masked,
personal, childhood naming—what it whispers to identify itself by moonlight.
Spoken of altogether with one another in integrity—like all earthly, mortal, commonplace plates:
what it’s called when speaking from the gut—words, like slaves or criminals branded by a chisel emerging from a mouth—
has this
hard-to-see dark structure—like a figure-eight skein of string-dyed-black…
hard-to-see dark structure—like a figure-eight skein of string-dyed-black—
has this
again—on the right hand—
hard-to-see dark structure—like a figure-eight skein of string-dyed-black.
The sun shining down like an eye on the people sees all this, sees
mysterious feminine essence—a few drops of that womanly mist…
has this
double-winged gateway.
The Dào of Lâozî 