Who Knows? by Jeremy Toombs

I’m off to Nashville, up here at 10,000 feet I can see on the other shore. The imprint on mind lasts longer. What could I do now but carry on? Present in any form, tuned into Billy Joe Shaver. There’s nothing at all I can do about any of it. Chicken, a biscuit, and mashed potatoes. Sun slips down the street through autumn leaves. At least, we’re in it together. No problem. We’re animals. What? Shakespeare going in his brain. What happened? Is this good? Is this bad? GET TO THE MOUNTAIN Buddhist monks. Mind is home. Just gone. All day long. Big Belly Buddha Rock Monk beyond the ten thousand rocks, The Heart Sutra floating through my head. That’s what you get for thinking. Mountain water in my belly, wishing I had me just one good friend here. A flash of blue flies through. How do I feel? I’d like to know what you think. ‘Shut up. Listen.’ Finding secret paths empty, easy. Seeing people is always good. What the hell? (in the end, we are like burritos: full of beans, wrapped together.) In the Chelsea for a pint, did you feel lost? We lock eyes. Let me tell you something, still quick, sometimes still a lonely child. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Freedom”, he said. It’s hard tellin’, not knowin’. ¿Who knows?