she walks by moonlight: the knitting cicle, the chevrolet and Lao Tse.

The sylvan and velveteen lunar body.  Darkness, and glowing, as of the contrasting state of full buckets and heft, how the preferable abundance of the full bucket proved more difficult to pick-up than a lesser amount of water in the bucket.

It was Lao Tse who wrote that the Tao you can post on social media, is not the true Tao: a space as indefinite as that vast universe between your two little gremlin ears.

She saw the green Chevrolet; of what thoughts she may have had in those few moments, certainly I know not.  Dissipation?  Leg pain?  Dare I say... cunnilingus?

"He's good for a feel...."

I remember wing-meat Kevin threatening to hit me in the head with a two-liter bottle.  His smile at the time lead me to not take that seriously, realize the eventuality had not come near, but in his own way, the Silver Sable of the diaspora, it had its own sort of tangibility, his oddly-chosen words.

Of the hefting of full buckets, Lao Tse noted that a full bucket was more difficult to carry along than a bucket with less water.  And I wondered, of what was it, Kevin's internal madness, that made him choose a big drink to assault me; was it some kind of odd inflection point that spoke of his own madness?

He wanted to pour alcohol on his wounds.

Alcohol and EBT girls.

Lao Tse, if in a modern setting, would speak to the point that brain fog is sort of a natural expression of the Tao, and in that respect, Kevin made into a sage.  I go back to the George Long translation in which Lao Tse had mentioned that websites could not broach the subject of the true Tao, but only hint at it.  It was like my truck.  The truck had a set of so many two dollar spark plugs, and those cheap little spark plugs were the things responsible for making my truck sound so boss: why it was a case of the white hen and the red wheelbarrow, I suppose.

Of leg pain, dissipation and cunnilingus, think of it as the natural fuel cost, bodily speaking, of expending energy to stomp on Kevin--to do that, and leave in the truck with the self-same shook-up two liter soda that he had knocked my in the coconut with.

And I saw Christopher on the first day of Lent.  He had taken eye-black and made a target sign on his forehead.

--It was like the NFL, my little knitting circle, in respect to the amount of head injuries being passed around.  And Kevin's balls were underinflated.--

It was an inflection point for Chris, I suppose, that he put a fine point on the earthly province of Jesus Christ, according to some like the contemplatives.  Not a role model, but something within, already--that sort of thought-space, the province of Jesus of Nazareth.