Somedays one just has nothing to say, and isn’t in the mood to write about cats, turtles tortoises or children.

This is when we quote Rumi:

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There never was any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance.
Always substance and increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity.

Just yanking your chain, that was Whitman. You knew that, right? I just found that while looking for the Rumi poem I want to quote. An Irish friend once asked me why, exactly, Americans are so crazy about Whitman. No idea. I’m not crazy about him, although I do like some of his poems. But then I like some of a lot of poets’ poems. Right now I’m into the writing of Malcom Davidson, I think is his name. He rocks. Emma’s not bad, neither.

Anyway. Where the hell is this fucking Rumi poem? You know the one, the “meet you in the field beyond the knowledge of good and the knowledge of evil” one.