I used to love purity. It can be
fabricated. Something can be said to that.
Most radiant inhibitions, most
marvelous stars, finding—it meant so little.
I first admired the power—presumed it
as proper, such naivety in me.
To hassle is to frustrate. To
determine is mythical. Life becomes hunger.
A woman was tired of his hands;
they seemed to keep touching; it made her vomit.
By rhythm, we mean something
natural. By vicious, we mean deliberate evilness;
such for its own sake, knowing
goodness, seeing its likeness, refusing it on purpose.
Certain metaphysics are aloof. I
live by chants of the echoes, this, too, is fabricated.
Life changes. Perception, if
fortunate, changes. I praised her. I unlink my acclaim.
The science becomes the motive; one
hides behind objective, aside motivation.
Certain thoughts are prehistoric,
primitive, competitive; others are inclusive, naïve.
At the mouth of the cave sat a man;
he scratched his face, tugged his hair, he was at
his frustration; a still, small
voice appeared. It no longer mattered if magic was at him:
fury of the rose, popery and oregano,
cayenne pepper, not even mind chi.
