Sunday, October 23, 2016

Hi Love, at Grand Degrees

You watch with such grace, fleeing nonsense, a bit envious of others; to see such love, guarded with care, while centered in disbelief; to cherish this art, a teacher as friend, where mother, too, becomes envious. It lives in passions, that cone of cream, or butter upon toast; to sprinkle cinnamon, charged by dreams, this woman praying your soul. I’m narrow this sight, as building bridges, but more this essence through webs; to stripe this heart, as fuel through grains, while father pines through distance. It lives in us, this powerful source, as yogis look to mirrors; as to explain so much, where convergence is encounter, this touching from without; as love calls, stressing and streaming—this daughter a dove of Asia; or more Europe, floating through decisions, as courted through Africa; that place of jewels, those times of rifts, while small minds wrest over sinews. It couldn’t be life, this field of divisions, where many are lost for that thing to utter: that neat inflection; those passive ways; as leaving substance to chance; but this is fact: we die to live and live to die as forward spirits controlling waves. I lead us upward, to find us downward, as sensing this deep essence; to project chi, or awaken souls, to be greeted by spirits. I love you as something foreign to self, as one that needs this love; as well this secret, as staring at mother, while to channel that deep contagion; else, to perish, as feeling unloved, where others regret your soul. I ask of little, to gain confusion, but know thy worth; as one alive, soaring through vessels, alone in a darkened crowd; so find for lights, those rare infusions, as to attach oneself to strengths; those within, and those with mother, as I strike at sensations; this thing of souls, to feel a sudden shift, or something waiting as eyes open; for this is love, this group of secrets, as valued as this hidden source; to course through veins, this arc of chi, abandoned to seeking truths; where love is seen, as something with stars—this thing reaching into humanity.

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...