getting down to writing
is so much like love
beginning is all
and not too serious a thing
beyond reason's prevail
no tragic jests needed
to grace some rambled rhymes
into bursting inertial songs
where emotional tides
of weather-drawn
moon-mist memories morph
into the true tasting freshness
of a baby's love-cooing
in the morning moment of am
 
some inner dimension of love
lost to logic or sense
torrents this lifeline of words
somewhat slithery of tense
sliding one upon the other
liquidly rambling a metaphor
of fecundating fish
flopping on the shore
of wit and god
blending binding burning
into an unknown
breeding birth of semen-spawn
erupting at the end
through a dusty keyboard
into the succulent flesh of the world
to begin again
as a sweet-time
spiraling love-song
 
to the simple soul of me
who whoop wow and wail
the myriad story-songs
of life's winding intentions
beginning's the trick
to writing and love
and aside
from occasional tribulation
the ticket and ride
come smoothly along
round and flavoring
like the day-bright
honest touch
of the ardent sun
on its spinning green
baby-blue garden
 
sometimes i think
without this beginning
nothing would be
no thing at all
no one to write
to create
with soul's diamond light
an inner dimension of love
bouyantly breathing 
into the tenuous dreamscape
of the myriad glistening fragments
comprising mind's moonlit screen
an exhilaration of effervescent possibility
encompassing even the irresistible attraction
of the ever-dawning yawning-maw of time's eternity
 

 

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