I Ching

I Ching Throw the lines, boys. Throw the lines.

See what images arise.

Fire burns above the lake.

There will be misfortune.

A Black man lying in a shallow grave, Not quite yet a tom In a posture of relaxed strain, Casts his eye into an emotionless sky.

Beyond begging, beyond mercy, Finally, he understands the woof and weave, The tapestry that brought him to this Hasty death ­ all deaths are the same.

Throw the lines, boys. Throw the lines.

See what images arise.

Broken, solid things materialize.

A wounded, Jewish man limps on the lawn, Pleasing heaven.

There will be good fortune But no success.

The changes come too soon, The taste of death still upon the spoon.

Something will succeed.

Do not toss the coins again.

This future stays.

Heaven and Earth must pass away.

Confabulation of the elements, Chaos in the four directions Rages everywhere.

There will be infection ­ hide away.

Carl Estrin