"Ho! What we need is a floating zendo, where an old Bodhisattva can wander from place to place and always be sure to find a spot to sleep in among friends and cook up mush." "'The boys was glad, and rested up for more, and Jack cooked mush, in honor of the door,'" I recited. "What's that?" "That's a poem I wrote. 'the boys was sittin in a grove of trees, listenin to Buddy explain the keys. Boys, sez he, the Dharma is a door...Let's see...Boys, I say the keys, cause there's lotsa keys, but only one door, one hive for the bees. So listen to me, and I'll try to tell all, as I heard it long ago, in the Pure Land Hall. For you good boys, with wine- soaked teeth, that can't understand these words on a heath, I'll make it simpler, like a bottle of wine, and a good woodfire, under stars devine. Now listen to me, and when you have learned the Dharma of the Buddhas of old and yearned, to sit down with the truth, under a lonesome tree in Yuma Arizony, or anywhere you be, don't thank me for tellin, what was told me, this is the wheel I'm a-turnin, this is the reason I be: Mind is the Maker, for no reason at all, for all this creation, created to fall.'" -- Jack Kerouac; THE DHARMA BUMS
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