My body knows the lullaby of eight hours.
Less or more shows in the waking,
the tone and tenor of the day,
the accord or discord.
Which brings me to how does the body
know what the mind can’t seem
to grasp? This quickly replacing
any other koans I know.
Which draws out the question
of spirit. That place of other
sense, of where logic lies
gasping for breath. Where words
dissolve into laughter.
I don’t even know the words
to the lullaby. My mind asks,
“What are you doing?”
I reply. “What are you doing?”
No reply. And that tells me something.
Hootism: you can’t deny where you’re from and still be who you are.
-Byron Hoot
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