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Wednesday, May 9, 2012


If you know the creatures living there,
you go diving for them in emerald pools,
jumping from rock to rock, scaling trees,

To sense their auras . . . the pulse from where I sit,
I sent my soul stirring beneath leaves, above the canopy,
cascading down needle sharp brooks,
and giant slow rivers.

A rocky brow overlooking mists,
A waterfall, where swimming's coolest.

So you know that sand?
Dirt is what places a man.
The mud on his boots.

It has all happened, all the sand kicked around, since the beginning of time.

The mud.

The thought comes . . . a question
from one in the audience . . .
You can make it whatever you want . . . just call.

So the bits of sand become parts of us.
We are this Earth too.
And so I call to her . . . help me shoulder this thing . . it's heavy
I know you can help me if you decide to.

She smiles, knowing I don't need her help, since she made me,
and the lizard I carry as well,
that occasionally wriggles free . . .
to experience bliss, . . . but falls back,
Into slavery.

So I ask myself.
That bliss?

Was it what she felt, when I was created?

Pablo Picasso, Vollard Suite

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