Fresh Oil
Musing through its morning haze, the jungle mountain begs for my infatuation. A nearby dog fails to resume its circular rhetoric and something closes the eye. Silence descends like fresh oil, drizzling through my rebellious long hair and down across my zippered lips. My kingdom can go to hell. Behind the closed another opens as the child hears the jungle morning shift talking to Aioue about today’s purity. A minimalist’s symphony. In suspended moments, I am the mountain. I don’t need Jesus. I am Jesus. Neither son nor father, husband or mystic. I am. Silence drips down like fresh oil. Virgin nectar. One dangling drop at the end of my nose, mightily pausing the unsilent inevitable.
A ticking clock or a buggered marriage. Another dog mounts its bully pulpit. Cigarette smoke from the contractors next door gang rape the virgin jungle jasmine. The party is over.
Was it besmirchment or carnal knowledge?
Innocence is lost
Or reality is found
I cannot say which
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