Ownly

Ownly

This poem came from the sun, it is constructed by the millennia.  Its parts consist of heat, light, air, and water, exposed by a churning crimson body, so that all I know of you is me.  Perception of this “you”, who is this ____ to me?  What do you, reader, call constant searching?  Is it a single name, as in “mouth”, as in “how do you say?”

The ground beneath your feet is pulsing.  I return you to Eden, tell me how you know, as you grow ripe, falling like an Adams apple.  You are the flower of life in bloom.  The earth re-dresses in her shedding, your deaths are another form of being. 

Searching is pr(e)(a)ying.

All thought marks a climbing through spacetime.  You are not waiting, as in for Godot, all is, having become, telling, not a story.  Being beyond math and other attempts at capability, of watching-out and gaping-open.  Living creates the seed in you, earthly maid, DNA sprouted, bodies of the garden.  We are all bound together, devouring what we face.  In that way, we are villainous.  Movement is a thief, taking in everything, is being, exchanging.  Our kundalini seeks victims to become, to have and to hold.  But if I transform into a snake, and do not have ears, I will never find you.  The word “love” will be lying, in tall grasses. Beyond language is the last trace of your heal running, you can no longer escape.  We are the game.  Scarfing, scarfing, scarfing, until our last supper. 

All we are is never ours to hold, we’re times property. 

There is wanting in being. 

Can you remember your mother singing to you, trying to put you to sleep?  You don’t remember crying as a baby.