Friday, December 21, 2018

The Ever-Living, Ever-Loving Donna


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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