I am a sick man, an ill man, a man without a profession, a solitary man.  I cook for the workweek after an evening bike ride on a Saturday night, drain a bottle of red wine (Kermit Lynch's Corbieres), and I am trapped by the virtual world, a rerun of SNL, another loop of the Tour de France, finish with the tale of Lewis and Clark's return voyage.  Of depressive Lewis, Jefferson's observation of the expedition providing enough distractions and immediate worries to keep his mind from its usual self-destructive habits, is noteworthy.  Sunday is my Monday morning, and that aspect, the things to attend to, I don't mind.  I guess we all need that.  JFK said to a friend that he needed somewhere to go every day.  (Can we picture him in retirement?)  But I stir without much enthusiasm as my body wakes, make my tea, do a little yoga, and the vague feeling of overripe fruit in the system, the wine, lifts two hours in as I eat breakfast before the shower.  Too much time thinking, not enough time engaging, leaves a hangover.

It is the job of the poet, as much as the priest, to interpret spiritual matters, to add to the discussion.  It is the job of the poet as much as the scientist to interpret the meaning of scientific discovery in its logical implications.  It is the writer's job to catch, haphazardly, as they happen, the thoughts of the poet.

The virtual exciting over-stimulating ejaculatory orgasm-driven mating world comes through windows and through curtains and television.  The point in life is the truer need, which is to bond.  Atoms bonded around our tiny electric embryos in the womb, fed to, given to us.   People bond in the electricity of the present, the presences of two brought together.

"Don't be an asshole," one's brother is quick to comment, at such musings.

Indeed such a gospel, of Tantra Yoga, Kundalini, Karezza, might be dangerous or wild.  To let out the secret that there are great riches within our own selves and our own potential, of love's final glorious answer, of compassion, health and well-being so powerful as to emanate out of us, quite beyond the economic transaction, stands opposed to the accepted world of Steve-Jobs-says-we-need-this.

Wait.  Didn't Kurt Vonnegut write about something similar in Cat's Cradle, along with its concept of Ice Nine, about the forbidden practice of Yabyum, couples placing the soles of the feet together (risking death if they get caught in the act.)  He wrote about firebombing innocent civilians, about after-school afternoons masturbating and building model airplanes (candidly enough without going into detail) so why not?

The thought that people deserve the golden light of such experiences, without have to first prove themselves by making money, often in ghastly professions that rob old people's pensions, pollute the earth, destroy the oceans, speculate in real estate and disposable buildings that someone else will have to deal with not far down the line, that make them like minor infant Nazis in the attitudes they must adopt, without having to be perfect consumers of material goods, well, that's pretty radical.  And it says something, doesn't it, maybe a lot of things, if taken as a working model, about education, business, relationships...