castaneda spoke once though a surrogate
revelation. it was written. the napkin upon which
it was inscribed in blue ballpoint was carefully lain
to rest in the corner of my lost place,
just where I cannot recall.
but napkins don’t hold up well in the rain,
especially when curious would-be wisemen pluck
at them, trying to decipher their treasures in
haste, lest the rain’s tears cry all their blues
away before dawn’s first cameo.
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