Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Mystical Shrine

Heavier than the pyramids is some conscience
we hold about the earth. Our planet, her sorrow,
and a sky remote in answers all call miracles to be worked.
     Take into account the bread of many,
     for answers are in all hands.
I am slow to sunder the view of the dunes.
These sayings have meaning as grass taking root in sand.
The child aspires to live.
Unfortunately for it, it is only posing as a code
for the body to unlearn. Bound to a puzzle,
locked to life, each signal in the sky betters his picture.

The greens in the salad are filling up the space in our
combined exposition. My brevity gives meaning
to your embellishment. The celery is stringing out the pith
of my argument. My humor is securing the home world.
The lowest goal will be the one that finishes.
The phases of conversation are pulling on more certain climates.

My body is useless until I wave the mystical shrine
through my embrace. Stride daydreaming into the midst
of reverence. Constitutionals are taken in the twilight
of my last endearing quip. Humor falls toward cause
in the paper of my unsaid philosophy. I am mime
to the unconditional love of my last logical footstep.
My essay is a world in which I sometimes order things around.
My poetry is a boat in the reply of my almost certain humanity.

The day unfolds. The map unfolds.
Bookmarks keep the day on course in three speeds.
The beginning and end of my life are inches apart.
Individuation is in reach if we just let the world follow us
like a little, lost dog.

All around the ranch the mice race.
By nightfall each mouse is a full fledged mouse
They are shipped to a great brain so big
it needs neurons the size of mice.

We cruise endlessly past orientation on signs always
coming closer. My goddess is just out of reach at the exit
to the next town. Finding reception is delicate, like traveling
across the radio dial. My cottage industry is fed by ivory towers
secure in their seclusion. I spin candle making wicks in the wax
of an unplugged moonrise.

I take sips of water that release tension everywhere.
The danger is that I buy nothing. The information I need
is projected around the city. I follow my favorite saying
into the night, documenting it with my camera.
Travel with your dots back to the time of form.
That is a good saying for the breakdown of the ego.
Perhaps other people are determining my life.
Let them factor in my dreams.   

One system is the beloved. The other is the wind
that sweeps him off his feet. His feet are two keys.
His shoulders are two bottles. His heart is one doorknob.
His suitor's hands shuffle the wild places of his face
and cap the bottles of his journey. My heart calibrates
the space between the lines. I bring my essay of twigs
and goodness into the house of the chief baker.
I hand him the bundle of dials.

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