I don’t feel yesterday. I intuit into tomorrow. Today is
a mystery. (It was actually a decent day.) An un-popped pimple—an indecent thought—a
soul hassles itself, seeking acclaim, otherwise, only reflection knows about
excellence. I don’t feel yesterday. (I
wrote something, not obscure, with third eye wisdom at viewpoint; a piece in
winds, a piece grounded, another piece adrift the metaphysic—looking, gauging,
totally unmeasured—with hope asking faith—her name, dreams, occasions for
deflating, art, wisdom made human.)
Most discount patterns, easing into life, many play unfairly; more will
sing a capella, like dragons, mud bathing, looking clean, carrying
ponds, palms moist, dust floating by. (I haven’t a clue, a deserted trail,
heading into town.) Reading about it, a daffodil, a countryside, a halcyon, a
calming landscape, the ocean’s horizon, the skyline, those with dreams.
