|
It seems sap is sweet on hands, |
|
But in trees its subject to an even higher power. |
|
And no matter how you feel |
|
It will tend to, tending to keep you alive. |
|
And the rest: a simple time stretching of one earth & common fabric... |
|
Of fragile blood run cellular engine and something or other... |
|
Is there no sort of luck involved |
|
In not being born an ant or elephant... |
|
Or is this just, pure and unadulterated math, |
|
Water willed, and egg improvised, |
|
Until hatched by knife light then... |
|
Mother named, after her extremely painful experience. |
|
Allowing the vast maze of birth and mistake, |
|
To take its toll on all that practical destiny |
|
And then child-sized specificity. |
|
Lain there, |
|
Inherent in the once one celled organism. |
|
A consummate pin-hole poked in the plot behind planet earth and such. |
|
A pin-hole poked...Is enough to sink an entire universe of tiny ships. |
|
Freeing all that perfect principal lain inherent |
|
In a step by step schematic of the human dive. |
|
And when planets align... all you can do is dive... |
|
And this... this is the soft spear of the human condition, |
|
But you yourself are not. |
|
You are more... |
|
The pulled on skull of something that was never really all that young. |
|
You are more... |
|
One wung |
|
And consumed by your most gross of concerns. |
|
Can you remain in love from deep space, |
|
With no fish bowl on and a busted communicator... |
|
Or have you everything planned. |
|
Is there a simple universal system of buoy and rope, |
|
That you would use to tug your weightless mass along on, |
|
Till you found a planet that you felt might be just right for you. |
|
Or is it possible the view of earth at such a distance |
|
Would have played you for the fool as well... |
|
Hour Hero Yes showed you there'd be days like this... |
|
And they'd come with the rain on of course. |
|
A good gallon of reverb let loose on your personal truth, |
|
Dark eared on the edge of your sleeping slab. |
|
Having been bent born & went phantom dayed, |
|
Hope stole on in the equal parts miracle of |
|
Bringing yourself to and from sleep. |
|
In calendrical waltz... |
|
All to feel aimed, |
|
At last, your heartjaw kissed against the coming dawn... |
|
In dive |
|
Let go at last |
|
Our hero yes is done dove, |
|
Safe through several more hypothetical "seconds before death," |
|
Unto the never similar wilds of his ground teeth powered and b-movie dreams. |
|
It begins... |
|
With all white, in a sound proofed hallway |
|
Your staring down the empty eye slits of a lowsocket. waking |
|
On the floor at the foot of the bright light blocking and locked |
|
Hundredth door of luck. |
|
At the opposite end of the hall sits a pair of empty pay public binoculars, |
|
Slumped, facing your way. |
|
In the dead of their stare, you marvel about, |
|
Until you eye this one door that appears to be both half open and closed. |
|
And are drawn moth to the bulb, |
|
Head down, as if reeled round a gear by the guts, |
|
Inching toward your intuit-picked portal of choice... |
|
Now knelt, yet not without nerves in this moment of mostly glory, |
|
You look for the knob, and see nothing but healed shut keyhole. |
|
Dax-strong in this dream you begin to cut key |
|
In the furthest corner of a clearest skull, |
|
When you feel your kneecaps being nursed by a white on white welcome mat. |
|
You tilt your skull to read "WOE-BE-GONE" only written wrong or in mirror. Your hands and heart full of edge, you lift the mat gently, |
|
And there beneath it's omen embroidered, sits an intact wishingbone... |
|
You carefully lift your instrument of certain luck to the door, |
|
And it slowly unclenches the scar seem set where it's keyhole would be.... |
|
And so you snap bliss bone, cut wish and begin to lock pick... |
|
Until you hear trough the thick of the door the deadbolt caughing loose... |
|
Suddenly the fear black above your skull, beneath your skin goes wild. |
|
As the door of your choice opens itself slowly... |
|
Sealing off your face with perfect stripes of rising bone and angst, |
|
Of alabaster and pit, |
|
Allowing the bright right light of luck |
|
To completely believe |
|
And eclipse you... |
