YOU HAVE, YOU HAVE. . . YOU HAD

You have, you have, you have.

And then, you do not honor. . .
so you had.

You had to let it
bit by bit,
or in split second,
lightning-quick,
through ten clenched or open fingers
drop and slip–
every little bit of it–

your things,
through life,
abodes or roads
where once you lived,

your future dreams,
the stitches, sutures,
scars and clothing,
their strength,
their glitches,
and their seams,

your loves
your parents, brothers, sisters,
friends, offspring,
be twixt you acts of hawks
or doves,

your heart, your mind,
your brain, your gut,
your whole, whole body,
as it goes with any, everybody–
you had to let it go.

Even the little thing
called you,
that you thought
was all was left to you,
residual,
your deep self-sense, identity
as an individual,
the only you
you e’er did know. . .

But that need not spell
your grim, grim end,
for when solidity shall melt, disperse,
all the pieces that were you
shall melt and pool and blend
and coalesce
with all around,
to make you into
something
like and different,
old and new–

a key part of something quite else,
which you contain,
which contains you. . .

The whole, entire
grand, expanded, all-embracing
Universe.

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MIND, BODY, SPIRIT– STRONG AND WEAK

The flesh is weak
the flesh is strong
many pleasures
does it seek
which wear it down
and build it up,
the wish of meek
may add to others
till the list is very long. . .

The mind is weak
the mind is strong
the kind of things
we let live there
may crush us fast
or make us last
to face best friends
and weave our way
through hostile throngs.

The spirit willing
the heart wide open,
eyes toward sunlit peak,
which, yet again,
turns from the outlook bleak,
has the best chance
mind, flesh, and world to transform
when its keen ears
stay bent
in the direction
of its calling. . .

It is in fact quite possible
and logical
that one may rise
now, heretofore,
on just the things
o’er which one
only just before
was falling.

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IF SOMEBODY LOVES YOU

If somebody loves you,
and you know it,
it proves there’s something there to love,
even if you,
when you
don’t know it.

So get to work.
And find a way
to get to know it.

And love it.

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THE DISSECTION OF IMPERFECTION

Inefficient imperfections. . .
Missions impossible:
should you chance to choose accept them,
perform some clean
but yet not mean
dissections. . .

The tasks cannot be done
for, thus to cutcau
you cannot just
remove
the single thing
which you feel sure
you do not love,
of which you disapprove. . .

For there are other beings,
other parts
which together with each other
in social circles move
where they play in complimentary ways
and gain from
mutual and beneficial touch,

To touch one
means you will the others
strain or hurt or kill,
in ways we still cannot explain. . .

And thus,
you cannot single out
the ones you deem the nasty ones,
and just poison or extract them
at your will,

for you’ll affect
the lot of them
with any of the crude
and very fancy tools you’ve got.

So, don’t go playing
with your poison kits
or knife,
without due gravity
and prayer and love and thought,
and due consideration
of whether
indeed there’s such thing as
or present case
of imperfection. . .

And, if there is,
if changing it
is worth the likely
associated mangulation
and systemic perturbation,

or whether you’ve got other options
besides the knife or chemicals
skull-cross-bone symbols on the labels,

including
to pause,
for those supposed imperfections
to be grateful,

and for the contemplation
and the opportunity
to create and meditate
and get insightful,
despite the unhappiness
which weighs you down,
or the tangled, thick and thorny brush
in which you’re sure
those imperfections have you caught. . .

For
the very imperfections
you’ve been given
may, in the end,
still bless you well,
even while
they seem foul things
you never ever
would have
asked for
nor have bought.

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MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA!

Mea mea, mea culpa!
I wish I were not such a dope-a. . .

Dopamine
the fault is mine,
lain in some crevice of my brain. . .
I can’t do what ten people say,
so I guess I will remain the same.”

Neurons fired,
connections made
+++++in proper space and time
keep heart abeat
+++++and digits wired
+++++muscles moving,
+++++joints in skeleton agrooving
+++++defying weighty gravity,
when forged
in proper space and time,

But those, though they’re
of the essence,
when seen in excess,
segue a lady
from average Jane
to genius, madness. . .

And to avert
discourage-words
and further self-inflict,
-neglect,
or other sort of inner crime,

I must find stones
+++++will serve for me to step on,
+++++to keep above the flowing waters
+++++and the steep and slippery chasms
+++++although along my chosen route
+++++they chose themselves to interpose,
+++++in such a way
+++++to warn me off.
+++++and deflate me
+++++to a state so low,
+++++in which I much prefer to stay
+++++just where I am
+++++rather than
+++++on bright and fresh adventures
+++++quite happily to go,

and maybe cultivate
some brand new skills
like scaling cliffs
or growing underwater gills,
so I can do all that it takes
to make that bold deep dive
or cliff-steep climb.

Or find an even better route
that gets me there one little stair
or careful step at a time,
rather than requiring me
at lightning speed
to do the devil’s wicked dare
of turning on a dime.

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CLIMB OR WIND A MOUNTAIN OR A HILL

Climb any mountain
or slowly pedal
and your legs
will wind you stroke by stroke
up any
gently sloping hill. . .

Perhaps not fit
to the degree
it’s easy yet to do it. . .

But recall
that what once were separate twines
somehow wove, with work and time,
into the clothes right now you wear
of handsome, sturdy twill.

Find whichever fountain that you must
to slake your thirst for will and fortitude. . .

for that’s so much more important
with each cork-screw twist, vicissitude
than your progression or possession
of any innate gift or practiced skill.

For, once you do,
you’re bound to see
that thing you’re near sure you cannot
you will be sure
you truly can
and will.

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A LEASH LIKE A GOLDEN SASH

Keep yourself upon a leash. . .

But,
let it feel
much like a golden sash,
one that grows up
myriad woods
of giant trees,
which filter bright sun darker, denser
than does your own grown squinching prism
that skims and trims your eyelid rims
and splits to hues
between two rows
of sweet eyelash.

Keep some secrets in the cache. . .

But,
let them be
sweet ones of love,
which will freely out one day,
when you will spread them ’round the globe
to make mark large, inimitable
bold stroked with glittery star-tipped wand,
waved with your true and personal panache.

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