The Cure


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.

I live.

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