New faces, hugs and hearts within which I was surrounded asked me no questions, so I told no lies.
Burning, my maya retracted a claw, and my ego began to deflate; listlessly, it churned upon the floor...
"Metaphysical Bullshit!" it cried, the echo decreasing as this, too, did pass.
"This is real", I told it, as it leaked, slowly, into the flaw of my being.
Such feeling! Such music! It spoke with me in phrases heard before, in such similar circumstance.
I would take that drum, were it mine.
k's imago through the aka, inside, as I contemplate the ripples upon my very own soul . . . eyes, tiny nose, and lips pressed together in the pain of her own burning.
I taste this fire, still.
1987, 41st&Warwick, Kansas City, Missouri, under the Influence--in my Rapture--of a handful of charcoal-grey squares, the imprinted ring-locking-ring pattern offset, perforated 1/4th of an inch.
I am imprinted, still.
Crossing, the bus arrived; kept coming: a billion-wheeled window-busapillar, the rear ones of which I see, now, as they fade into memory.
The music--joyous, vital and uplifting--turns the corner on a sign; a reference point.
Melencholy; loss; sadness.
I wonder upon the sticky-goo of this ego, the threads of which connect me to Me.
I traveled that bus, an unsuspecting passenger all these lonely years, above each wheel, looking-out through all the windows.
A bystander as all those outside conducted themselves . . . in merriment, together--and a part.
A part of life.
Living, and full of Life, I looked back upon that me, and finally understand what I was seeing; what I did not know, then.
Living is Life, and a Life of Living.
It takes a lifetime, to live.
"Be Here Now", she said, but I already, was.
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