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November 21, 2017 | | Comments 0

I Placed Garlands

November 19, 2017

I placed garlands of wilted and fresh flowers by your
hippopotamus followers, their necks wreathed in
peonies, rose bud braids and frozen sky-salmon, curved
and carved, living and thistle free, their dripping Life-oils
smearing the Path Least Traveled as your baby picture
was seen being worn as diadems in their headdresses
glowing red, white, purple and green-mauve,

I touched the beech, the sand disappeared,
I touched her thighs and sexuality became a sun,
I touched the moon-Emperor’s migraine-wonder as
black holes moaned and stellar children yawned out
Jupiters, Venuses and errant moons drunk on the
ambrosia of Nothingness, looking for parent-hems to
tag along to, gentle and round,

Breezes passed through elder atmospheres of watching
traffic foam by, creased my conscience into confessions
of lying deeper in, in becoming gasoline to fresh water,
sand to smooth lotion and reasons dampened by squalls
tempesting through a dream you forgave but did not
kiss unconditionally day-to-day, moment-to-moment,

You said ~ “Be” and I replied by pointing to a petroglyph
3000 years old, smiled, swallowed a ball of scorpions,
searched the stars for your first teardrop and returned to
earth as a rainbow lashing dragon, on fire, sheading saints,
nuns, priests and long-shore fishermen loyalties one by
one till cathedrals shook and bunkers collapsed, no more
angels, devils, yin or yang…

Lying deeper in, Truth curled quiet (but not a nautilus)
and crayon-less, pale and heart-warmed by the cabin
of Odin’s foremost thoughtless thought and pleasure
uprooted as a rose covered raging lioness on a black
moon night, running through the thickets of Time &
Space, vivaciously pursuing the thumping hearts of
delicious Time-stood-still antelope and Out-of-time

Come, dance this standing still,
Drink this thirst-maker dry,
Wheel these squares across zero-gravity,
Into the song of dead silence, the wealth of a penny’s
forecast of gold, diamond, ruby and pearl, whilst being

Pen to paper, buttercup to chin, ‘She loves me not, She
loves me as a twin,’
Petal after petal, sprouts another and another before
the Circle can compare,
Bewares disrobe,
And I absorb the reasons you’re anger disavows this
world as less than a mirror and more than a soul’s
encapsulated amber-astral-den.

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Filed Under: Michael

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