Thursday, April 17, 2008
The eighth fold
All day I have made a meal of my tongue,
tamped pride and dismay as flat as a blacktop.
My thoughts are reined, a team of Spanish Jennets,
gaited, distinguished. Ah, but desire, that gnat
still swarms. Its buzz countermands my mantra.
Perhaps it is the cocktail that stirs me up,
eases my anemic grip on virtue. I drink
nectar from the dandelion, pay homage
to flakes of rust and dole out my benevolence
like sticks of gum; take some please,
I have plenty more. I compose a prayer
for sea and wind, no it should be for damp
and sigh. My expectations wallow as low
as Chico’s Malibu. Ah, The Way is harsh.
I crave baubles and song, something dirty
every now and then. But I am a just a trick,
a sheaf made thick and small. In truth
there is nowhere left to go except within.
Posted by Sea Dream Studio at 11:31 AM