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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476480" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And When You Get What You Want, Is It What You Dreamed?</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when you get what you want, is it what you dreamed? <br>Did the mirage live up to its reputation, did it exceed <br>your expectations or is there another award beyond this one? <br>O endlessly hungry one, pleonaxic emptiness, were you born <br>like a black hole on a midway of blazing radiance, <br>a blinding light that serves as a guide to star-nosed moles? <br>Fulfilment or doom, depression, disappointment, as if <br>some clown had washed his face off like a painted tear<br>in a green room mirror, and discovered he was still crying? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You grasp it like the garment of a passing ghost, <br>sand, water, cloud, and it changes shape in your hands <br>like the nature of a bird when neither of you understands. <br>We all wake up to spend the wealth we hoarded in our dreams. <br>We even greet death with money under our tongue. <br>In Zen they'd say we're all stealing the Buddha's purse <br>to buy the Buddha's horse one way or another <br>whether we can ride it or not, and if today you're disappointed <br>you'll be mesmerized by something else tomorrow, <br>a junk dealer going through a widow's private treasures.<br>You'll open your mouth again like an oyster farm <br>trying to breed pearls like the philosopher's stone <br>labouring to turn all these new moons of pitted ore into gold. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Good luck. Hope you're the wiser for it. As for me <br>and my house, I've never been disappointed<br>in my wonder at the world, and what I'm doing here <br>being aware of it all as the world tracks its starmud in <br>across my homeless threshold and all these ancient footprints <br>are dance steps back to a self that's just a tic of the emptiness <br>I catch once and awhile out of the corner of my third eye<br>abrogating credit for a dream it had nothing to do with<br>because that's a bird still flapping its wings in a shell<br>thinking it's being upheld by the wind until someone<br>cracks it open like a brittle atmosphere and all that space<br>comes rushing in and you realize with a cosmic sigh of relief <br>like a sunflower bowing its heavy head, what a great debt <br>you owe to the nothing that you are that can't possess anything. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You're standing there in all your spiritual bling, <br>gold necklaces around your throat, chakras and chains <br>looped like nooses in knots at the end of your spinal cord. <br>What did you do? Bind yourself to the axis of the earth <br>to be mistaken for a saint or a martyr, the wobbly snake <br>of an inebriated caduceus, but where's the fire, where's <br>the heretic, the apostate, the dragon singing in its own flames, <br>where even one firefly of insight that consumes the universe? <br>Or are you just another photo op with mermaids <br>calling you to the soft rocks of a popular song? <br>A straw dog in the rain smouldering like methane <br>on a compost heap after another ritual performance? <br>You're greedy for joy. You're greedy for illumination <br>in the spotlight. But bliss is one of the spices of life, <br>not the main course. And to want more than this <br>is to declare you're a glutton with lousy spiritual manners. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And O yes I know, you think this is like blooming <br>and having someone throw acid in your face <br>when you were anticipating rain on your plum blossoms. <br>You duck through a hole in the fence like a raccoon <br>caught pilfering corn in a garden, and you want <br>a Roman triumph with rosewater and slaves <br>for passing through the gateless gate to liberation<br>when all you've really done is barge through <br>the emergency exit to run from a shotgun loaded with stars<br>in the hands of a scarecrow trying to terrify the birds <br>by shooting straight up into the air until things <br>begin to take root of themselves, and the locust trees <br>are feathered with the leaves of nesting lapwings<br>that don't have any further to fall though they feign <br>a dizzying descent of wounded maple keys<br>and all the shamans have to heal themselves<br>by ploughing the ground they were born on into bookshelves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476480" data-title="And When You Get What You Want, Is It What You Dreamed? de Patrick White" data-description="And when you get what you want, is it what you dreamed? 
Did the mirage live up to its reputation, did it exceed 
your expectations or is there another award beyond this one? 
O endlessly hungry one, pleonaxic emptiness, were you born 
like a blac..."></div>
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