The command is to write -
but every day you wake up
saying to yourself:
"I can't write, I was never taught,
my fingers are illiterate appendages
of a cheap Japanese laptop,
my mind is too oddly shaped
it has no dustcover
its pages have wormholes
holes that smaller worms fall through."
Every day the same old thing,
and a plasma screen mocks you,
mocks your open slack mouth,
your dull eyes,
the slow grinding inertia of every thought.
The command is insistent,
it prods the soft belly of your cringing ego,
demands a pound of flabby words
be made flesh,
and so, you tap random keys listlessly
until another string of consciousness
unwinds itself
into a last line,
that if not memorable,
yet at least will not live long enough
to disgrace you.
The green deer poses, as the other forages in front of the effervescent waterfall, as foaming white mountains heighten the experience, and the forest unfolds with its hunter-green pines and the bounty of shadowed waters roll seeking the archway - an invite into this bodaciously sublime paradise.
Eden waits for you
its imagery paused in time
plum of paradise
dustcover removed
exhalation of its pulse
milk & honey flute
7/19/2019
I was reposed on green velvet
when a notion struck,
so, I took out my tweezers
and set to task
painstakingly I separated
minute fibers of spirit,
away from itself
after examining each shimmer
as it waxed and waned,
a lifeline of ego and id
refracted from Father
I fell into conundrum
what had I done ??
it was only when
daffodils bloomed
and the blue heron arrived
that my tweezers
breached a void
I was astonished to find
a vast empty cavern,
and without its whole
the inner was,
nonexistent
I begin a new endeavor
of reconnection
for, what was once
a spirit for life
throwing a dustcover
on the typewriter,
and sheathing my pen
I have but Milli seconds
left on this page
I detect the scent of lilies
mixed with myrrh,
I follow,
and in my wake
a white dingo steps light
as riding his back the claws
of a blue heron relax,
into the syncopation of journey
at each step the strips
of separation,
refashion a new age
on the horizon Esperanza
swirls veils of green velvet
and in the peripheral
La Mort’s shadow
curls, ever closer
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