A
music light, something New Age, a rift of chatter and
streams.
Thich Nhat Hanh imbues a countenance, a
stranger
to Watts, sketching for a garden. We cry for
hellos,
a moment both tender and vulnerable. Oh this
beat,
forever this line, affixed to techno; and consciousness,
oh
sweet consciousness. I courted her, ever to love her,
a
mistress of Wisdom. Indeed, so young, crocheting
compassion,
and after something forbidden. I lied
for
peace,
to crush a dream, to give back in tithes. We forge
forward—to
prune an ego—lost in gothic streams. I’m
sudden
to feel it, a wave of sad, tattoos screaming at the
world.
Oh for a trestle, and sanded stones, and trees to
picture
perfect, and metal chairs, and pretty women, and
wise
men. I sip, couched in serenity, as
beige as the
present
music; as country as father’s boots; and there’s a
three
pronged thought, shifting karma, and want to ask for
air;
but what is life, to wound her heart, to swat at destiny.
I rewind, a mere lad, structured for
addictions:
mother
was injured, neighbors were screaming, and
shotguns
were blaring. We never healed, to leap a
fence,
fetching for a deacon. I’m more to move forward,
but
life is tugging, afraid to speak. I’m
a water drain,
seeping
into an ocean, blending into high seas. I’m eczema,
a
color pink and pale, itching through the night. More to
life,
I’m a speed bump, a symbol to slow down. Spider webs
flood
a psyche and pause, to stream through music and
statues.
I cry—at honeycomb smiles, oblivious to
a gentle
glance;
for I’m a stop sign, a fallen ATM, else a treasure
outdated.
Indeed, a pen has become a sentence, a prayer has
become
a mission, and gradual energy a lifestyle. We wanted
it
so early, as stern as Christian Nuns, as torn as Mystic
Monks.
I loved it—to see it—entrenched in magic thoughts.
I
bore it—to mold it—tripping into warfare. So unready—
and
ready so much, a feeling for a storm.
It’s the horns, a flaring jazz, a
reason to dance the
caffeine.
Its people, monks, mystics and a cigarette puff.
Its
math, science, and a battery low. We see it—a poet’s
fair,
to drift through a tempo. Its life, a cryptic museum, and
long
curly hair. It’s an all day poem, a squad of geeks, a
little
girl to pluck the grass. It’s so much more, a daughter’s
chi,
a college poster. I feel it—to script it—as tangible as
pudding
pie; and sighted for a river, a field of gray ducks,
flipping
through pages.
