Jay Shetty

The door was never locked. You just stopped checking after the first time it felt heavy. Try the handle again.   

Jay Shetty

Morning - Frank O'Hara

I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

The Naked Kiss - Dir: Samuel Fuller (1964)

 

East of Eden - Dir: Elia Kazan (1955) with James Dean

 

Dr. Gabor Maté (with Jay Shetty): Self-Improvement Can Be an Attack on Yourself

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqHaPGLgW6I

Thomas Merton: how we live in other peoples' minds...

born for love: how other people think of us?

do they (other people) see us?

who we are and how they see us...

we have trouble loving people the way they need to be loved

culture's incapacity to see people as they really are

midlife crisis

recognition and curiosity, actually dealing with our own stuff

Bluebeard - Safiya Sinclair (Jamaican poet)

It’s true I put my head

into the mouth

         of the lion,

touched my tongue to the rough

of his tongue, slicked the dark

         underside of him,

unspooling what nature

demands

of my wanting.

Yes, I watched the false man prowl,

and begged as he starved my wicked

flame from me,

learning to breathe only when

he breathed, until my world was

his, each day was his. His silence

         I longed to set a fuse inside.

         Desire, my hunter.

         My hunger—

Red witch roaming the scorched house

of fires I have been, fires I have built,

and nurtured, all my good days burnt

to guilt and bluster, his good skin stripping,

         that sinful itch.

         What is permanence?

These gashes will heal, eventually. Scratch

of madness teething love, be infinite. But who

         could endure this?

He roars, unblinking, but never releases

         me—

woman turning underpaw,

crushed as a straw doll under

         her longing.

I kiss the bruise. Dress my famished

wound, its heaving. I kneel, he opens.

His cruel mouth a humid snare.

God or devil. Annihilation.

Brute inferno of any feeling—

         I beg you.

         Devour me.

Poem - Frank O’Hara

Light clarity avocado salad in the morning
after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is
to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness
since what is done is done and forgiveness isn’t love
and love is love nothing can ever go wrong
though things can get irritating boring and dispensable
(in the imagination) but not really for love
though a block away you feel distant the mere presence
changes everything like a chemical dropped on a paper
and all thoughts disappear in a strange quiet excitement
I am sure of nothing but this, intensified by breathing

Theme Time Radio Hour. Time. With your host, Bob Dylan. Full episode on air

 

Negative Capability - John Keats

"I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason — Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge. This pursued through volumes would perhaps take us no further than this, that with a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration."

Digging - Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.






From Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.

How to Live on Earth | Feature Documentary | Presented by Benedict Cumberbatch (2026)

 

October in the Railroad Earth - Jack Kerouac (1952/3)

This is taken from the documentary 'What happened to Kerouac?'



There was a little alley in San Francisco back of the Southern
Pacific station at Third and Townsend in redbrick of drowsy lazy
afternoons with everybody at work in offices in the air you feel
the impending rush of their commuter frenzy as soon they’ll be
charging en masse from Market and Sansome buildings on foot
and in buses and all well-dressed thru workingman Frisco of
Walkup ?? truck drivers and even the poor grime-bemarked Third
Street of lost bums even Negros so hopeless and long left East
and meanings of responsibility and try that now all they do is
stand there spitting in the broken glass sometimes fifty in one
afternoon against one wall at Third and Howard and here’s all
these Millbrae and San Carlos neat-necktied producers and
commuters of America and Steel civilization rushing by with San
Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins not even enough
time to be disdainful, they’ve got to catch 130, 132, 134, 136 all
the way up to 146 till the time of evening supper in homes of the
railroad earth when high in the sky the magic stars ride above
the following hotshot freight trains--it’s all in California, it’s all a
sea, I swim out of it in afternoons of sun hot meditation in my
jeans with head on handkerchief on brakeman’s lantern or (if not
working) on book, I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity and
feel the warp of wood of old America beneath me and I* have
insane conversations with Negroes in second*-story windows
above and everything is pouring in, the switching moves of
boxcars in that little alley which is so much like the alleys of
Lowell and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine
calling our mountains.

But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above
the little S.P. alley, puffs floating by from Oakland or the Gate of
Marin to the north or San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break
your heart. It was the fantastic drowse and drum hum of lum
mum afternoon nathin’ to do, ole Frisco with end of land
sadness--the people--the alley full of trucks and cars of
businesses nearabouts and nobody knew or far from cared who I
was all my life three thousand five hundred miles from birth-O
opened up and at last belonged to me in Great America.

Now it's night in Third Street the keen little neons and
also yellow bulblights of impossible-to-believe flops with dark
ruined shadows moving back of tom yellow shades like a
degenerate China with no money-the cats in Annie's Alley,
the flop comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loaded with
darkness. Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old
hotel roofs and blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior,
the grime inside the word in mouths falling out tooth
by tooth, the reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak
chair and slantboards and old faces looking up over rimless
spectacles bought in some West Virginia or Florida or Liverpool
England pawnshop long before I was born and across
rains they've come to the end of the land sadness end of the
world gladness all you San Franciscos will have to fall eventually
and burn again. But I'm walking and one night a bum
fell into the hole of the construction job where they're tearing
a sewer by day the husky Pacific & Electric youths in torn
jeans who work there often I think of going up to some of
'em like say blond ones with wild hair and tom shirts and
say "You oughta apply for the railroad it's much easier work
you don't stand around the street all day and you get much
more pay" but this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick
out, a British MG also driven by some eccentric once backed
into the hole and as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon
local to Hollister out of San Jose miles away across
verdurous fields of prune and juice joy here's this British MG
backed and legs up wheels up into a pit and bums and cops 

standing around right outside the coffee shop-it was the
way they fenced it but he never had the nerve to do it due
to the fact that he had no money and nowhere to go and O
his father was dead and O his mother was dead and O his
sister was dead and O his whereabout was dead was dead but
and then at that time also I lay in my room on long
Saturday afternoons listening to Jumpin' George with my
fifth of tokay no tea and just under the sheets laughed to
hear the crazy music "Mama, he treats your daughter mean,"
Mama, Papa, and don't you come in here I'll kill you etc.
getting high by myself in room glooms and all wondrous
knowing about the Negro the essential American out there
always finding his solace his meaning in the fellaheen street
and not in abstract morality and even when he has a church
you see the pastor out front bowing to the ladies on the make
you hear his great vibrant voice on the sunny Sunday afternoon
sidewalk full of sexual vibratos saying "Why yes
Mam but de gospel do say that man was born of woman's
womb-" and no and so by that time I come crawling out
of my warmsack and hit the street when I see the railroad
ain't gonna call me till 5 AM Sunday morn probably for a
local out of Bay Shore in fact always for a local out of Bay
Shore and I go to the wailbar of all the wildbars in the world
the one and only Third-and-Howard and there I go in and
drink with the madmen and if I get drunk I git.

The whore who come up to me in there the night I was
there with Al Buckle and said to me "You wanta play with
me tonight Jim, and?" and I didn't think I had enough money
and later told this to Charley Low and he laughed and said
"How do you know she wanted money always take the chance
that she might be out just for love or just out for love you
know what I mean man don't be a sucker." She was a goodlooking
doll and said "How would you like to oolyakoo with
me mon?" and I stood there like a jerk and in fact bought
drink got drink drunk that night and in the 299 Club I was hit 

by the proprietor the band breaking up the fight before I
had a chance to decide to hit him back which I didn't do
and out on the street I tried to rush back in but they had
locked the door and were looking at me thru the forbidden
glass in the door with faces like undersea––I should have
played with her shurrouruuruuruuruuruuruurkdiei.

Necrofilia - Leopoldo María Panero

(prosa)


El acto del amor es lo más parecido
a un asesinato.
En la cama, en su terror gozoso, se trata de borrar
el alma del que está,
hombre o mujer,
debajo.
Por eso no miramos.
Eyacular es ensuciar el cuerpo
y penetrar es humillar con la
verga la
erección de otro yo.
Borrar o ser borrados, tando da, pero
en un instante, irse
dejarlo
una vez más
entre sus labios.

Deslumbramiento por el deseo - Raúl Gómez Jattin

Instantáneo relámpago
tu aparición
Te asomas súbitamente
en un vértigo de fuego y música
por donde desapareces

Deslumbras mis ojos
y quedas en el aire

Ombligo de Luna - Raúl Gómez Jattin

Dibujo tu perfil del faro a las murallas.

Luz de alucinaciones son tus ojos de hierro.
El mar salta en las piedras y mi alma se equivoca.
El sol se hunde en el agua y el agua es puro fuego.
Eres casi de sueño. Eres casi de piedra en el vaivén del tiempo.

Arquetipo amoroso firme en la turbia edad
esa manera tuya de calmarme las lágrimas.
De desbocar tu cuerpo contra el mío enloquecido
como un potro en una llanura incendiada.
De verter tus palabras en mi entendimiento
cual veneno que cura la ausencia.
De recordar cosas usadas y olvidadas
con un vuelo que ilumina y asombra.

Es tarde amor. El mar trae tormenta.
Hay una luna pálida que recuerda tu ombligo
y unas nubes livianas y pesadas como tus manos
beben sedientas. Así, cuando yo sobre tu boca muero.

John Lennon

Hoy Lennon cumpliría 86 años, pero lo mataron a los 40.

No puedo evitar pensar en todo lo hermoso que podría haber creado y compartido con el mundo, este artista tan genial. Qué injusto que es el mundo

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkgkThdzX-8