Say it. Say it: it’s unfair that they sing while you have no song. No. Sing it. Sing it!
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This Can’t Be Right
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A woman is dealing out cards to me. As I receive each card I analyze it and tell its meaning.
After a while I realize I’m describing Tarot cards and its philosophy.
Dealt the Tarot Deck
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Metallic nails with flecks of green, metallic eyes pierce me, crystallize my insides, and — ping–pong–ping — your light reflects through me. Then the warmth dissolving my chest until — what’s this? — flowers pouring out onto my embrace until through my arms they burst and a river of flowers floods over my dam hands.
Incidental Scratches
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What would I do if my blues weren’t beautiful?
Kiss Hand
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With every chisel, freedom. Within my text, a poem.
Om
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I’m in a classroom. A black woman talks with another couple of black people.
Then she asks me “if you could be a black person, would you be one?”
I fluster at this question and say… well I’m not a black person, so I can’t be one.
Class is about to start.
There is a pool table with some brown plastic eggs and some white plastic eggs; they are all separated in half; I quickly go about matching the halves with there appropriately colored other half and put them all in the pool pockets.
A lady professor is about to lecture.
Brown and White
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Alone at night, past the nadir, after the blood–boiling hour, when through tripping through the webs of the world, I wonder why I’m up. Then, as if nudged from dreaming, it occurs to me: the lilt of the nightingale gently reaches me; that living sparkling in the dead of dark chirping the light–hearted pronouncement of its being — safe to speak
Annunciation
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I’m in some very cool, futuristic building. It’s spacious but there is that funny feeling of wealth and possession that makes me feel like I don’t belong. The man who owns it is a silver-haired old, fit guy with loads of confidence.
Everyone, including a lot of my family, are gathered around. A large chocolate chip cookie is being manufactured in a materialization device.
This is a futuristic device about 20 feet in diameter — that’s how big the cookie is. The spacious room, then, is about 50 feet in diameter with chairs for all to sit and watch the materialization. There is a nice architecture to the place: there aren’t doors, just a curving high ceiling to softly delineate hints of large rooms.
The cookie feels like it’s my cookie… that is, everyone is interested and taking part in its observation of the manufacturing and they are welcome to eat it, still, it’s being made for me and according to my specifications; this is despite the fact that I’m in a strange building, a lot of people are a captive audience, and, though I’m proud of feeling the cookie is proper, I don’t myself like the cookie: I’m not happy with it.
Now we, most of us, informally, of each our own will, move to another room, just checking out the place. Here, another broad manufacturing table is replicating an entire neighborhood. This is the rich, silver-haired, pompous man’s creation. Ugg, it’s really mostly a golf course with some houses around the edge’s of it. That’s not good for a real neighborhood… that’s not a real neighborhood. Wait. It’s missing a path from a house to one part of the course in real life. I wonder if it can be added on: that would be my path.
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The dance in us celebrates persistent beings who perform forms we love.
Notes on a Spring Day
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I don't know how to break this to you: you have a heart… some sweet swelling; then, catastrophe — all the blood squeezed out till one wonders will it ever flow again, those milk and honey days? Like days and seasons throbbing with two reasons: one in upkeep, the other open to arcs replete with sun and rain, cold and heat.
Condition
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