"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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