everything is one thing.
the way we are rivers.
and all things are nothing;
as takers are givers.
i'm flow-er and flow-ee --
twisting as I'm drifting,
not fancy or showy
nor highly uplifting.
just a leaf on a stream,
bumping into others,
gliding through a fond dream
with sisters and brothers.
So long ago I remember
events that weakened knees.
My mind a haze, my heartbeat hard
my soul eager to please.
When I was moved by subtle touch,
a gesture, or a tease.
But now that I'm an older soul
I've lost that state of mind,
but wish the world would grant me yet
one golden chance to find
the return to that state of life,
where love and luck are blind.
If you can't see the magic in
a flower or a leaf,
how can you see it in the work
of some cutpurse thief?
And if you can't see it in stars
of a hinter night sky,
how can you see it in the tricks --
a conjuror's slick lie?
There's woe in where we find great awe --
those simple illusions.
And what we miss reflects our keen
Warm light filters through the window,
killing the perfect night.
The gravity of bed still holds -
as eyelids deny sight.
And life's order would wrench me out
from under the cover,
but for the allure and the bliss
of my love, and lover.
Why must the sun be on the march?
Why must we heed its place,
and surrender that entwinement -
chest pillow against face?
I lie on the sloping hillside;
damp grass tickles my neck.
I hear the bleating beasts kibitz
as dogs keep them in check.
My eyes closed to the azure dome,
until eyelids grow dim.
I open wide to see the sky,
and note that it grows grim.
It's time to consult my sheepdog,
"Should we beat it, or stay?"
He barks to me, "Now can't you see,
the clouds 're dirty wool gray?"
"I see it clearly as my hand,
but what does that shade mean?"
"It means you're not a shepherd, and
you may need the latrine."
In my dream, the city stretched out
beyond what I could see.
Colorful concrete pillbox roofs
spread to infinity.
Oh, such an infinite city
must have some great allure.
Miracles, mysteries, mayhem,
and madness - that's for sure.
What secrets reside behind those
thick and dampening slabs?
What unknown fortunes have been lost,
that now are up for grabs?
How many souls are lost right now?
Panic starting to rise.
How many will be found in time
due to those spying eyes?
There's some magic in this city,
I'm sure that there must be.
For everything can happen when
you stretch to infinity.
There's a block of gloomy darkness
beyond the gray yonder.
Since I can't see what's sitting there,
I can't help but ponder
whether there's solid ground upon
which a guy could wander.
Or would one fall into a void -
a life forthwith squandered.
Who can know if they don't ever go,
but leave it to the guessing?
No staked claims or stated aims, I find
the mystery distressing.
I listen to the stories, but
can't sup what they're expressing,
I know they've never been there either,
and it's creed they're professing.
So I'll start in that direction,
moving slowly as I go,
and if I should fall before the wall,
I'll bear that I can't know.
An anvil crawls across the sky,
of soft shape but steel gray,
and I wonder when to expect
the inbound tempest fray?
When comes the lightening and thunder,
the shaking window sills,
the neck hairs standing upon end --
herald of lightening chills?
Will it pass by rumbling distant
or strike the local spire?
Will it rain so hard that it puts
out its own blazing fires?
I feel it coming, cyborg days --
locked into the machine.
My program playing out the code
of some new subroutine.
To know it can all be dialed in,
with such fine precision,
the love and loathing that provide
the root of all decision.
And will I be a mindless drone
on a robotic ride,
seeing life like Doctor Jekyll
while living as Mister Hyde?
I am a master of camouflage.
Blink and I’ll have vanished.
My stripy suit may make you think
that I have been banished
from the savanna to some jail,
but I’m still standing here.
Can you see me blending so well?
“Poof,” and I disappear.