we must find—in order to survive—a bench,
weeping through, by happiness—to have located imbalance.
like spoiled lettuce, to
disappoint, after loving the beloved; like juice, ruining a blouse, such a
sweetless tomato.
we discredit others, such deference
to fears, suspicious of social odors, tacit intuition, the neatness in
scholarly dress—centered garbs, ink pouring forth, waterfalls for rejuvenation.
sour lemons, fruitful nectarines,
the loss between us, the indifference, better, near its brink and brine and
bridge.
(you know I was a pirate, reaping
where I did not harvest, supplanting, never a sycophant, never totally correct;
you know I demolished dreams, became a cynic, asking for what I have not given;
so, it fits—the discrimination, the constant inquiries, the challenge, those
blue moons, the devastation, the sudden voice.)
faraway, in Afghanistan, better, in
Rome, sits a poverty-stricken soul—bathing in used water, pleading for a
morsel, reaching for unfound kindness.
it seemed apropos—to mention true
strife, where something mystic is raging in a swami. trained, well gifted, I must
examine the praise given, with honesty threatening, as to ruin a sincere overture.
believing in one person, with
impervious strands, so much offered to discredit the trust.
a woman as a soldier, a warrior,
thrust through by wisdom, carrying a vat of sullenness—made deliberate, fierce,
prolific; training in skies, diligence in soul, an interior obedience to
excellence.
I jostle a javelin, jutted inside—thrown
at myself, mirrors cleaving to lost innocence, becoming more of what is
unbelievable.
the church of the ethic spirit—the inner
command of the aware passion—the correct approach to each happenstance; (the
older person, in the flowing body, the violin in his ears).
it becomes irrelevance—the unstable
element, controlled to some degree, while on edge, I was first to admit
unreliability; probing insides, discovering its haven, noticing the desires
compelling souls: the happiness in lovemaking, the joy of eating, the habit of
exercise.
to conquer an illusion, faced by
another, the cycle is this way—I ask, why? I, too, wonder, if not the cycle,
would one be complete?
