All 11 lives at the same time.
They’re finished; in each one born and died.
More like the rings of the Olympics, which, at times, cross lines
than like paths that stretch forward and become intertwined.
Compared to that of yesterday, I’m a different guy.
That other one had separate plans that I’d prefer not try.
The third is scheduled for tomorrow, but I wouldn’t rely
or bet upon or set off to learn that which underlies
this stuff we swim around in with all the other strange fish
which is the gift. That’s the gift. Isn’t it?
Can’t be taken, can’t get rich.
Can’t mold it this way or that, if it already exists.
Draw a face over it if you feel it helps you persist.
Put it in a box or a petri dish,
squish it in your fingers, set it on fire, spit then swish.
Anyway you spin in it, still end up in the stitch.
Destiny is a Christmas wish.
Let’s drift.
– Mojokong 2009
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