the door opens
farm birds and pheasants
descend in pairs
wobble knock-kneed out for feed
scattered like refulgent stars
in random white swirls
around the green
still dark morning
undisturbed in the supple breeze

they seem to me
children laughing
laughing against knowledge
against thought
against brainy masturbations

shadows now grow wee
against the green
as sun rises
my window watches
the stars fade
and the day breaks
over cock song
and warm sunlight

my book starts over again
page after page, recommences
writes thru time
and thru silent monotony
sunlight now sews itself together
to form full morn
as my poem splits and splinters

in the mud pit pond
in the dark muck
left over from last night’s rains
arises a padma
a lotus blossom
attached to cloudy bottom
strong roots unseen
growing out of struggle
into the heart of all beings

white lotus
she is total purity
she is calm and grace
the soles of her feet
eyes in arches
pointed upward
searching for sky, heavens
symbolizing vigilance
ability to see all anguish of the world

union of wisdom and art-homage
to you, to me
this feminine principle
this perfect being
this flower
rising up out through
the muck and mire

born out of the tears
of compassion for all of us who
suffer and languish
in our tears,
poison tears tearing
on a screen watched
by others, inside-out
searching for some shape
beyond immagination

Tears, that form this puddle
from which springs my lotus
this feminine principle
pregnant with life
when we are replete w/death
no banter
no cancer that weeps and sucks on rusty ocean
when the flower opens
— she who gives
steps forth
in the in-between

my window sees all
now, opening
full to the shining sun
upturned arches
her petals sprial off
ethereal dust
she absorbs my pain
throws it into the beyonds
of space and time
and somehow
this visceral vision
calms me
as chickens cluck-cluck
in the morning green

I re-dream w/glistening eyelids
cleaning wine glasses
from last night’s binge
thumbbook of holy hints
as my eyes remain fixed
upon my lotus
taking grace from her
fragments and whispers
my struggle seems less
all peaches and cream
as my poem
my book
continues on 4ever.

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