hard mountain hare; or, the demise of ornamental eremitism

a guest post! life rx 8 jul 24

Hello dear reader friend! This week marks a special occasion: our first-ever LIFE RX guest post! It comes to you live from hot ass Wisconsin, courtesy of my dear friend Greg Koehler, without whom I am pretty sure my poetry would have died in the trunk of an Elantra in the 24 Hour Fitness parking lot in Austin, Texas, circa 2008. Buckle up, friends, this one is a scorcher. I’ll be back in your inbox with deep thoughts about Charli XCX real soon. Stay frosty. X Sarah

this week: the hermit, and a passage from Matsuo Bashō’s Oku no Hosomichi 

the passage

Buried in the vicinity of Unganji the spot Butchō-oshō lived in mountain retreat.

less than five-foot square

thatched abode

a pity to put up at all

but there is rain

:what he wrote with pine-charcoal point on rock — how long ago was that told? To see what remains led our walking-sticks to Unganji and some kindly beckoning others to come along too, mostly younger people, got caught up in such eager chatter, reached mountain unawares. Dense, a long way through the valley, pine and cedar thick massed, moss oozing, Uzuki sky chilly. Where the ten views ended, crossed a bridge and entered by temple gate.

Then, intent on our quest, scrambled up just beyond and there it was, the hut, perched on a ledge up against a cave. Like seeing Myōzenji’s Entrance to Death or Hōun-Hōshi’s Stone Chamber.

even woodpeckers

can’t break into this hut

summer grove

hastily written, the one poem, left on a post there.

the aleatory

HARD MOUNTAIN HARE; or, the DEMISE OF ORNAMENTAL EREMITISM

I HATE TO BE THE BEARER OF BAD NEWS BUT

RABBIT FACTORY, MISSOURI

A SECOND NEW MOON IN CANCER SEASON  [SCOTCH NIGHTMARES]

THE HOLE OF THE LAW  [DULL PARTS]

DANISH WALL TENTS OF DANISH LEATHER

PROTEIN POISONING  [MAL DE CARIBOU]

IN HONOR OF MY PARASOCIAL RELATIONSHIP WITH PERFUME GENIUS

GIN SIPS

DEATH BY DISCARDED AMAZON PRIME DELIVERY PACKAGING

IF THE LORD WANTS YOU TO BONE DOWN

UNPAID LANTERNSHIP

CONEJO MALO COMO REY DE LOS ESPECTROS

HARD TO SAY GRACE WITH YOUR MOUTH FULL (OF GRACE)

EVEN WOODPECKERS

EVERY HAND YOU HOLD BELONGS TO A GHOST

I LIVE IN A HUTCH

the assignment

Wear the craziest fucking modesty garment you can imagine. Approach immodesty. Donate any and all household mirrors to Saint Vincent De Paul.

writing prompt 

Write on yourself with a sharpie in places you cannot see in your natural lines of sight.

a chune 

“Oh L’Amour” by Erasure

There’s a certain yearn in music made by people born in the interstitial slurry between generations, audible to the people born in the interstitial slurries between generations thereafter. We don’t belong to anyone, we say, though we know it isn’t true. The hippies have failed, we say, see we told you so. The only way you can fail is to become something other than what you are. We wear a white wrestling singlet but the bottom is open and hemmed like a miniskirt. Beneath that, a sheer modesty garment, some kind of celestial Japanese underwear, drawing nearer to scandal by way of clarity. The language available for who we are does not mean what they think it means. Noting our resistance to antique expressions of modesty, they feared we had become what we are and that that thing would be terrifying. White athletic socks. Do we look like Baby Boomers to you? There are no mirrors here, and we do not remember what we look like. You can only become what you are. You were looking for me. A near perfect reflection of you, I done become what I am. It is terrifying. What now?

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credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
Back Roads to Far Towns by Matsuo Bashō, tr. Cid Corman and Kamaike Susumu
"Oh L'Amour" by Erasure

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Dear diary, I can’t help but feel like I should be doing something more substantial than what I am doing right now. (*I cuts up a celery and drops the pieces one by one into a coney stew simmering in the dutch oven resting in the coals). Which is weird because I also can’t help but feel like all of this shit is totally over, bro… Are you famished?, I’m famished. (*I lights a pipe and unnecessarily waves the match out before before I throws it into the flames). A tick in the woods can live for two to three years without a blood meal. The one I found while I was drawing violin f-holes on my neck with a black sharpie might have been very hungry indeed, and therefore pretty stoked to come acrost such a sizable potential host. That is, before I took it from offa my neck and set it on fucking fire. Can I get you a cup of decaf instant coffee? We also have oat milk and Laphroaig. This shit is totally almost totally over. 🁡 GJOK