could be good, could be anything quick to crumble
or instamatic, like the way my coffee sputters and spurts
to bring life. It is all, it will be everything I need, in the morning
I sit and the window is open and the traffic is Russian all
communist cause of togetherness the rise and fall of mechanics
outside right through the screen sucking up and at witness
like me
of the resting soft miracle of the air. I dont know
what to say. That I have music at my fingertips
a neon clock soft sheets a remote control and a clean
place to live & in the morning, a choice
to sit here, should I so desire, and witness
the siege of brain matter on my own cherished air:
the ways I could or could not, just for today
burn. What shall I, who shall I
become. It is not a hard tale to tell
this challenging choking desire to rise
with life, like ending the trail at the parting
of valleys where the green lush of land
is carbohydrate in its feast and the sun
hush of the grass in arching aching cry of mercy
is sweet, is beckoning you to ahhh
just lay down a while here
the substance of surrender
just be.
And feet, humble as they are
will go or will come
not for lac of air or rise or meat
or togetherness or mechanics but because,
will too with their own little miraculous
nerve endings in great call of heroic victory
prop up on parted land-floor & too say
Sweeeeet
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