Form
In my head an acoustic crunch,
teeth on endive and arugula
chomping on salad greens.
Plants can hear themselves being eaten!
Feeding vibrations trigger recoil,
chemicals send away lowly caterpillars
but not me. Give my compliments to the chef.
Plants can hear themselves being eaten!
Twice to wrap my head around it, this time out loud.
I ask the restaurateur, running around making ends
meet head to lettuce head, green profit margins,
“how much do you make off this salad;
carrots, celery, beets and chevre?”
It is the cruelest month April, hovering
lilacs and daffodils fight the dead land,
mixing memory with desire. Feeding life
the warmed earth under a forgetful snow,
it’s time and the dried tubers know
to bust through. They make time theirs!
They can own time so why can’t we ever find enough
time on our hands to plant those tulip bulbs...?
Starved for money, starved for time,
when something important is missing in your life
you focus on it and fall into that scarcity trap.
The toll is huge robbing you of insight,
causing you to dig deeper and deeper...
a giant money hole, a sleep deprived time curve.
I watched the restaurant owner worry over money
as I enjoy the bounty of the carefree chef’s art,
with a vase of lilacs and daffodils.
Oh hell, the conversation goes off the rails!
“Plants can talk too.” are you fresh?
“Yeah they give off a squeal under stress.”
Focus, this gives me pause from everything,
we might as well all be hovering.
Admit it, you don’t know what stone you stand on.
What is under your feet? Why do they have to retrofit,
plates slips, sandy bedrock against granite fault
lines. It’s good to know what you stand upon.
Manhattan to Berlin, all those subways underground.
Guided by the beauty of our weapons, what?
It could be pink quartz missiles land on,
flowers of evil, vile obscene enjoyment.
Drink your pink fizz, pink aurora, pink sunset,
a rosy night of fireworks far from this beach
of lightning fused fulgurite speech.
Protect those fairy chimneys, I think out loud
of what terrain is being bombarded again.
There are cold steppes, subtropical steppes;
once I stood upon a trovant, bleeding
sandstone a growing stone of concretion.
The rocks seem to be alive and pleading
Form, Remind your souls of Form...
Remember your soul has been in direct contact
with aspatial, atemporal Form. In the place beyond
that blue, that blue hyperuranion where beauty exists.
Focus on this shine, work in a japanese word.
In the name of the father, the son, the holy ghost,
There is no english expression but conceptually
our heart, mind, spirit are indivisible.
yin and yang make trinity.
We should all strive to have a good kokoro!
This ineffable mystery of humanness:
thoughts, feeling, desires; will, consciousness, soul,
a person is a person through other persons but Form.
Still life blue glass vase full of lilacs and daffodils,
fresh food on a pink quartz table at rocky beach and me.
