young poet

an empire built on anonymity.
young poet, loyal to possibility.
such risk. much beauty. 
these words will be studied by someone.

someday. like the Salmon
of Knowledge 
caught by the expected. 
by the time we detected 
the break 
between Know, and Ledge,
our linear thinking 
pushed us
right off it. 

but the druids knew it when they intuited then distributed the astuteness of circular movement.

the salmon on the spit. turned, 
and turned. 
but burned. 
then inherently tasted by the drifter. the unexpected. the dreamer. 
the mind-wandering vagabond natural content-creator.
Wisdom not present in his vocabulary of words.
journey the path in spiral with many returns. 
living more of life in patterns curved.

to be a poet is a sacred vocation. 
a super-natural all-access-pass to the mysteries of creation.

a deserving soul
to receive the gift of second sight.
if only he was to sear 
the salmon
just right. 

like the wind who reminds us
of her presence with subtle notes sung
over an open bottle’s neck, our nephesh.
who’s to judge a burn as ruined when
a dreamer’s mind gets side-tracked.

the blister rises.
the thumb presses it back in.
discover the gift was not missed 
in rivers reflection
where our ancestors access 
our vivid imagination.

electricity streamed as he touched it.
he belted a good scream as he felt it.
tingling. pins and needles. numbed. 
his first thoughts, (italics)
good ghosts in heaven!
grab something. quick. 
any thing. 

connecting with the microphone. 
sand-bagged stand in an orange
construction cone. extreme 
emotion. understood by no one. 

hold on.

speak: he was silent.
unique: be a puppet.
mescaline: tranquilizer.
wrestling: pile driver.
ecstasy: pacifier.
reality: he was no higher

than a five-and-a-half-foot platform. 
at the back of the colony’s darkroom. 
his mind went blank. as he shot 
into space. seeking Truth. 

without a parachute.
he fell.

onto a cloud.
sucking the 
salmon’s salve
from his thumb.


by living
in the