it frightens to
feel excluded from interior—a vast universe, an endeavor, a cup one plumbs. the
damage of the decision, by the arc of the pain, where touching seems to heal
the suffering. a gift was sinning, it was powerful, an arm in the machinery.
smooth devastation, a den of thieves, a dungeon inscribed in one’s perception.
as mystic channels, or Christian souls, many are stern enough to fail. deeper
humility, wrangling thoughts, one becomes calming chaos.
I toss & turn,
I topple & trip, thirsting at the tavern.
the movie isn’t
over. I get the Big Picture. most will not master the formula. how would we
know? the cosmos is sidetracking spirit. Judith is a mystic, permeated by
energies, a little difficult to follow. she converses with herself, educating
her soul, delving into esoteria. she’s hard to follow, in a spiritual circle,
whereas, at work, she prides herself on clarity. she’s an infused lover, a
miracle worker, she makes others feel good inside. Judith wrestles with depression—she’s
attuned to suffering she sees it walking.
I will see Judith,
intimidated by her, watchful of myself.
fresh freesias in a land offering freedom, as postmodernist plants; by
chemistry to find accommodations, by art to attain to nirvana, at
negation losing parts of sanity.
something amazes
me. a number of things. I’ll keep it short.
humans tend to congratulate
the science, the performance, while leery of the person’s wholeness. the mirror
might be screaming, one passes it by, with deeper hurt in their annunciation.
humans tend to congratulate
according to color—unless, compelled by interior, to wail out with support.
it matters inside,
those crevices, those dead ends, where we find a way out.
most are attractive,
smart, slanted, with scientific ingredients. most are self-attuned,
self-supportive, blessed by a miracle.
I reread Tobit
those years ago—it’s amazing how far we’ve come—with many more believing less.
