You are my Buddha.
When I close my eyes and reach out to the air,
I feel a glass; no, a cup, with drawing pencils in it.
I can see them because I feel them.
I smell them...lead? charcoal? shaved wood, erasure bits...
strange smell, those eraser bits.
I see one in my mind, laying on
my drawing table. I leave it because it
somehow belongs there, doesn't it?
I'll rub it into the next experiment.
I feel the points of the pencils. Some need sharpened.
I can see their dullness, because I can feel it.
As I feel them I can see them; and smell them;
I know them. They are part of me.
Like the CDs of my own peculiar liking.
Isn't it strange how we are?
I love this strange life we have.
I think I need a joint!