Thursday, June 4, 2015


Let’s imagine that what we do matters –
that from the spatters of the blast
of that great cosmic blunderbuss

from which we are supposed to have
derived, something has jived like jazz
in us to vindicate the vast ballooning

of our Being. Let’s say that seeing this
depends on grasping that strange
sweet ephemeral condition we call love.

Let’s say that love is an illusion we’ve
invented to reflect the whole, inspect
the soul, resourcefully effect a goal.


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