…it’s a similar summer, this moist rose,
this sunshine tulip: those grunts, as positive feelings, our eyes seeming
awake: this color tone, this splice in spines, this treasure as fully
polluted—our granny’s cake, at mystic sunrise, to fiddle a koan: this lively
anguish, this feel good cigar, this yogic heartbeat: our noisy oceans, our
noisy ships, our evening naps—where Love was jubilant, this three a.m. water,
to realize a new day: indeed, to push passion, or to read silence, at pits
feeling uncomfortable—those pine scents, this morning’s celebration, as
children unravel gifts: those hopeful eyes, that innocent reply, or such
courage to sing to Jesus: this pith inward, this song at brains, this rope
tugging our actions: to laugh and flounder, or to purchase a fifth, where
inhibitions were imprisoned: this code of ethics, this polite guidance, or this
frittering of normalities: such music, Love, this inner design, this inner
purpose, or this need to feel as one: those disjunct feelings, this cube of
depression, those forests returns: as inner messages, or hard-pressed opinions,
or better, our lullaby reputations: this sad taste, or this rich sweetness,
while acclaimed as lava…. I dance
with music, at times feeling pillaged, as taking this inner hut: those tiny
grains, this windy sand, this inner obedience: as small vessels, or large
marines, or sub-earth mystics: to float with chimes, while admiring flame, to
fire with pure humanity: our last chances, our first mistakes, this lance
piercing our moral compasses: at tender lies, or tender abeyance, at moons
screaming this inner pigeon: those tensions waning, this person praying, this
soul unlocked and soaring: to notice routines, this similar war-game, or this person
choosing to agitate conviction: this need to repudiate, while, nonetheless, we
need an entourage, if but to silence this losing feeling: our brains at arenas,
those lions sniffing armpits, or this cat agitating her loins: as men running,
while coming full circle, to arise at eyes dripping our childhoods.
…it becomes similar, this stalking mental,
this island soul: those insecurities, as pure in Love, to aggravate this tender
resilience: those brown rivers, those sunrise and jasper whys, or this need to agitate pure conviction: but oh to season,
this need for an entourage, else this losing feeling: those confident souls,
pushing through sludge, to arrive at vocal mayflies: our beige gloom, or
chipper excitement, while something seems familiar: that treasured silence, our
treasured drums, our irritating cymbals—to awaken at midday, to find self
sewing, while running for pausing a bit simultaneously: those shivering arcs,
this inner quake, or this blue/jasmine essay: those hours, Love, this cold
coffee, this warm feeling if but that voice: our carried cries, our legacy
feuds, where something calm was treasured: this milky galaxy, those fiery
cosmos, or this body enveloping our universe: to settle pain, while sensing
mirrors, as one dedicated to existence….
