I heard a story once. A creature studied in chi. Life was too unruly; chi became a weapon. In all the winning, rules were lost. Such a neatness to it. Same foot, different story. A gent was an outcast, not first pick, he meditated, going into deepness. He would flame a heart, imbue a spirit, women fancied him; sweet undulations, a spark into emptiness. Life might hebetate its attractions. One might feel cheated. In giving diamonds, receiving rhinestones. It never seems important, until it is all one ponders. To know two will never meet—with one musing upon clouds, to glean life’s fragments, sullen and fretting newness. Creatures come to pass by. Some stick around. Happiness is unique to its agenda.
II
I would learn to kneel. It was taught to me. It is a ritual kids undergo. I would learn to feel certain realities. In chasing, I was neat into a storm. (I find a secret in souls, a crest in arcs, souls muse upon the happiness in others.) The future was full of spirits. We fail to assert a given design. To demand an account. (The sun is going down, darkness will envelope us.) Chi will prowl about, a weapon for some. I remember wandering through fantasy, wondering about the signs. We notice differences. One saw happiness. One would cry with the poet. I do know perspective means a great deal. To play guitar, to entertain an audience, overwhelmed by nuances. Mowing sky. Planting aside earth. Life is driven by ink. No one cares too much—until it is personal. We say, “esoteria,” many are more asphalt and roses. So great it matters not: the poet is another human. The psychiatrist is another doctor. In each whisper, I sent a blessing.
