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The pictures
are my nectar, my juice of a golden glow. Drink them. Parts of how
many people are being put into compartments? How can they get out
of the those sequesterings, find all the parts of themselves and flow
them together again? Ooohhh. And how do they feel about those who
put them into those parts, all separated from themselves? How do those
feel who are their protectors? Can we be our own protectors? Must
we do battle after all? Ah, the beauties of the sexual charge that
lights us up like music played upon a zither by a gypsy! How our memories
collage together their power! Ah, the love we find behind meshes and
serapes of the afternoon. Skittish as she is, enticing as she is,
not always aware of her machinations in other realms... The dreams,
the dreams are put on the walls to watch in their netting, nightly.
Ah, the curiosity of both of us, the revealing, the deliciousness
of the rose of love for a heart.
What is a true way our memories collage
our mind together. How does it look for you? Can we just look at the
the structures of the moment and fade into them, let them take us
through the gaps where nothing is held together, and fly beyond it
into being. Being. BEING.
What poetry we are, with gaps between
the poems, poems that can be shuffled in any order. And sometimes
you find an order that sends juice through you like oranges lit by
poetry made of sunlight and the intensities of being who you are and
the intensities of being who you aren't. We are superheroes when we
come out of that mesh portal, we have to be, to fend off the forces
that try to bring us all down into smaller parts of ourselves. If
we can find the strength, and believe me, they don't want us to, we
can frighten them away, daily. We can be sultry if we want. Because
we know the truth.
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