.
Silly Incarnations always
wondering about the words for things!
Let’s just say her Psyche, Soul
and Funny Bone (that frabjous femur
is of course what God is) sit
around and chat while cosmic blasts,
amid insinuating internecine
senseless soft manipulations that
.
accomplish nothing any
sentience understands, applauded by
excited atoms detonating like
fresh movie-palace popcorn and
the rest of what both crashes
and/or doesn’t crash but falls with all
the sifting strangeness of all
Accidental Art: recollecting steam
.
she saw stream lucid and
concise from her grandfather’s lips,
as if he both were taking sips
and slaking thirsts of others looking on:
sending humid messages abroad
with care to keep their weightless
delicacies perfectly intact:
somehow with her certainty that they were
.
destined always to exalt the
highest purposes an Incarnation had
the nerve and fervor to enact,
which meant some grand hilarious
shenanigan, too brusquely silly
to permit you to retain your pee.
Humor when it makes you urinate
with helpless incapacity is too
.
exquisite to be borne. Which
means supposedly you have to die before
you get to sample it. Until
then, silly incarnations trample over their
confused sensations, looking
for some Mystical Experience to help
them bend their over-prudent
laws – transcend. But not her “soul”
.
and “psyche” or her funny bone. They’d long ago jumped
every fence
attempting to confine. Strange
to be an incarnation and know nothing
is malign. It erases any need
to die. “So be is what I’ll do,”
explains
the ever-living, ever-loving
Donna. “Why? Because I wanna.”
.
.
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