I stood flatfooted upon a plain

and saw stretched before me

so long and flat fields of green

growing nutrition in the cyclical nature

of things all too often forgotten

that meeting the gray sky

seemed to be within grasp yet

so far out of reach did I know

to become overwhelmed

with the audacity of people

making points on an intersecting plane

the sum of the parts equates

to another unfathomable

reckoning that I surmise

to be or not to be another point,

bathed in the silver-blue light

so that it may be mist

budding ears of corn

thousands at a time

taken in my view

dew drops reflecting

clouds passing overhead

making more drops atop

the drops of what will be

fed to animals that will

be fed to animals or

fed back to the earth

topsoil feeding flowers

budding with dew drops

reflecting clouds passing

overhead that make new drops

to grow to corn to be fed to animals. . .

wind blowing brisk

carrying in each sneeze

points untouched by

so many passing joys

so many passing sorrows

the smell of damp earth

filled me so

there, flatfooted did I stand

soles of my leather shoes sinking

in the topsoil mud

where worms cannot retrace their paths

and do not need to

I smiled and vanished at once

to the distant highways

I was but a silo filled with who-knows-what

visually polluting the drive

from the city.

This has been a terrible misappropriation,

I am sorry.

I am addressing you as though,

(and may be the case)

we've never met.

You, idealized superego, pilot of democracy,

transient arbiter of all within reach,

meticulous surveyor of otherness,

dualistic skin bag could never

pluck a plum blossom and see it as a plum blossom.

While around you the blossoms of the senses scratch fontanel,

but cannot penetrate those squeaky-hinged doors,

you smirk at the tickle.

Remember those bearded men who told you otherwise?

The bald men who spoke of the essential?

That feeling of love?

Grab for your dharma repair kit.

Follow its stone pathway.

Embrace the random

experience is tandem

everything is nothing

until you see it as everything

That is why I said with a smile,

"There is no need to maintain yourself."

Under the shelter of freez-

ing rain, lips burn salted side-

walks and erogenous zones

unfettered by frozen thoughts.

This is just survival of

the philanthropist of love,

some ethical purity,

and the ego it takes to

salt sidewalks and lips to melt.

Together, vibrancy like

erratic verbosity,

we never examine our

erotic viscosity.

Rather, we laugh at pairings

under the shelter of freez-

ing rain: lovers, songs, snowflakes,

chords of “Hallelujah,” cords

of precious metals binding,

grimaces at spoonfuls of

cinnamon, scowls at the soil,

the decay of it all that

erupts life like an endless

fountain of water that fell

from above as freezing rain

to the sidewalks, on the soil

that springs life or lips salted.