Sun sets on an iconic triptych.
The cosmos brought me what I requested; I did not hesitate.
My first time: brilliant colors sear the surface of dilated pools,
bouncing off skin, magnifying eyes.
Sweat – the bone-deep beats of groovy days coated in layers of dust.
Funk dancing while regal cats judge us mightily behind glass above the bookcase:
the color-coded bookcase.
Ishmael! Sunlight. Blueberries and sweat.
Furtive smiles recall memories of evenings past drenched in moonlight.
All the wet, organic breath of the universe beat down upon us,
mashing us together.
Sunday hike – a ramble gone long.
Pulsating flowers, wise trees, cool grass: limbs of twisted pleasure and time,
the grey-black roots of ages past;
the rush of aeons whirls madly overhead,
muffled by the unsuspecting minds of a lesser animal.
Naked men doing yoga.
Circle in the sun.
Where is my person?
Waves roll, wind screams.
Spines sink into sand like thirsty tendrils.
Manic words spew from the pen,
retching neuronal sparks made manifest.
I must rush to write the notes from everywhere
before they wink into oblivion!
But how can we?
What is art, poetry, sex, and music but
attempts to hold a fragment of a greater reality?
Does it exist? Is there purpose?
Breathe. Just breathe.
Hold it in and smell the pleasant stench of the years behind you,
the ephemeral odor of the years in front of you.
There is only now.