Why, I asked,
are babies born so naked,
with their water flowing to ground, and
their fire flowing to sky
so perfectly — so automatically?

It creates currents that form
the multi-vortical human mindscape
where every spin the now-ist sees
as yesterday’s pre-reality.

You can’t take the same sacred snapshot twice:
no matter how terminally indignant
the weekly pattern-monger’s habit,
Love remains the fulcrum and
always moves above a still.

It’s a fragile eternity that yields
an allergy to urgency,
no appetite for the Bantu fractal or
the circumdancing flower of homo-spiritus,
or the growing rampant glory of identity
taming the local lizard.

But we can see the buds on gravid branches
all watching in their special ways
to be the stone, the bird, the tree,
the proactive jazz blossoms,
the spin-bombs of living Logos
bringing on more contractions…

First published at vox poetica.

Yet cursed by lack of words
and automatic writing
and little courage to say what’s meant,

Like harlequins hurled high into the fungal field
For global fruiting.
Imagine
The memetic sabotage!
There’s no magic in prostitution.

Yet bud to blossom,
She’s here to stay
For the honor in post-lingual thinking.
The man-eating metaphor weeds
Are NOT her doing.
She is NOT the one robbing sentience of pertinence.

We yield our trabeated thinking.

It was all in perfect glory.

So… we’re calling this “2010″ …
Do you know where your Mother is?

The impunity
of our squeamishness,

Just listen to us
Scream like fish.

Sudden dust devils
Struggle down streets
To meet new particles,
New glue:
Breezy memes that seem
Too hungry for more -
Too hungry for me.

You walk up streets
Through some devils.
They unravel,
Fall apart into precious souls
Re-awaking on the ground,
Again.

The feared dark chaos,
Is the sweet white noise
Of fresh canvas,
A tabula rasa
A clean start
You thought you had
Nearly missed.

Rest assured there was a row
When I first did the deed:
Trading up our holy cow
For the ugliest of seed.

But I would not exchange my lot
For a herd of fat bovine,
While communing in my yard, I got,
And is what I hold divine.

In here
We defy the demons
Of the strangled world
Out there.
We trade in cryptic currencies
And give time a little air.

The calculus of becoming
Is how we count our blessings
And inspirations aren’t exhaled,
But shout, “Credendo Vides!”

Beings talk o’er tea in my backyard,
(It’s an axe-free zone, you know.)
Without fear, here we share our heart
In the yard where the beanstalks grow.

Dry and thirsty
he gathers his resolve
and curses cups.

Right it, please, I urge him,
but the message flows off the rim
into to the sparkling river.

Crawling songs will stand up,
the walking songs will dive in,
and swimming songs will take wing
and sing
the songs of being
and the joy of crawling
until walking
until swimming
until flying,

and sing
the love that flies
at eye level
to any crawler, walker, swimmer, flier,
and that dances to all the songs
while imparting the faith in becoming.