A daily silent meditation, for me
means nothing—who I was is Who I am
and from the vantage of my early morning
the sun is hot and is a long long road
a thing I know to hoe.
An honest remembrance in the morning
is like mourning, sunshines a bombazine pall
where both dead and alive seen play'd side by side
like two penises, or a penis
and a vagina.
These planes will align in a complex time
of organs operating in concert
as if a strobing beam—white—trained
on planes is but a spotlight
as in a play, is plain.
To see in you and compliment, you
on anything: like the stupid summer.
How tedious the words and shallow
and can make skin pallid, sallow
a visage in the firmament.
But space is the place where the velvet sky isn't
and the screaming vacuum's indifferent
where the chess pieces starts are both real and canards
incalculable distance flattens
it's hard.
And, knowing, will fit an insatiable pit
just like uncooked rice, it expands.
Though its bright, it is dark, and to hope
on a lark, that connections maintain
in a band
