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The
Portal
Green
clovers, yellow flowers, in
the dark shadows, a gentle breeze
whistles towards the sea, pine cones
have dropped on the ground floor, in
a world made of demon slush, positive
adepts living on a double planet, a
galaxy that rotates on its side where
everyday it rains gasoline, this world
of dazzling ice and solid rust, where
billions of moons teem with keen alien
creativity, the blue green water coughs
and gurgles systematically next to this
empty beach.
Where
a life-force holds every rocky mind
and
body together, animating them fully with
the
grand tour of blood-red light, sulfur flows,
and
blackish meteorites, hidden beneath the
surface
of the numberless bronze statues lining
the
temple walls, fleeing--the portal to Jupiter's
murky
swampiness--starts this journey with a
surge
of cloud particles and convoluted strips of
hurricanes,
in this meeting ground of gods and
humans,
the beauty of earth's creation, as two
bicycles
are pushed on the wet sand and a barefoot
lady
searches for shells that are a perfect reflection
of
the perfect One, the holy run-down condition of the
bridge
just behind her.
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Burnt
Wood
A
charred piece of wood lies on
the
sand forlorn, black carbon
cracks
that seem to meditate,
and
are pre-occupied with this
eeire,
strange inner balance,
this
mysterious attempt towards
an
inner monologue, one which
is
mostly sensitive and fragile,
which
is always found in any interior
space
of any recovered and sanctified
emptiness,
the burned pieces of wood
charcoal
are much smaller than temples
found
anywhere in the world, yet their
playful
energy allows the observor to
see
and learn the complex rhythms of
the
ocean tides where the fire that burned
the
piece of sacred wood always resides.
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The
Earth Cycle
The
bridge stands like a dancing
bubble ready to pop from its unique
left-turning path, stripped of its waters,
it becomes stranded in strange alien
worlds much like any other kind of planetary
rock, that invokes a much simpler form of
discharged force, which has sunk into an
ocean of dust, now mistrusted and worshipped
until the next divine rescue.
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The
Storm
The
sea is stormy, white flecks,
cover
the waves, the wind is cold,
and
the beach is deserted, the waves
move
forward almost menacingly, a
frisbee
just misses me, it's a warning,
indeed,
if you are a seperate particle
of
water from the sea, you might become
stagnant,
you might feel yourself limited
by
any kind of time or space, you could feel
yourself
confined within a very short area
as
if all the oceans were boiled off the planet,
what
kind of demon mind could be filled with these
fearsome
acid clouds, with carbon dioxide, and this
this
searing heat, these lightning blasts make us
stop
and think about the dire consequences of our
own
veils of misconception, this bias towards these
lost
teachings, the tankers keep coming, the
helicopters
too,
the coldness of an approaching war with no liquid
water,
reminds us now of the biologically dead.
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A
vast day
A
girl stretches her back into a hardened
yoga
posture on the beach, minutes after the park
ranger's
jeep sped by on some mission urgent,
the
sudden shadow of a seagull darts by, just above
me,
some secret interior seeds are being
dropped,
the soil samples reveal these curious
chemical
reactions, unusual states of breathing, and
the
tides of the sea keep coming while something
awful
answers me in my impulse towards bleeding
realization,
and the bridge still stands and the skies
are
so wisdom vast.
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All
contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur
Finberg
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