There is nothing for me to do on perfect days.
When the surf is up and the wind has
disappeared, the sun is still and There's not a
cloud in the sky. When I have time to
do anything this day renders me, delivers me
inadequate. I have no response, there is nothing
I can do except wait for the day or my
my heart to stop, to look into perfection, to
catch glimpses of eternity - blue sky night -
abstraction cleared, this abyss knows no human
as I am, a day like this would have a ceremony
lost now like sewers to the middle ages, Everything
on this day hurts - breath is drawn short, beauty bright
the eye filled like a glass over flowing, the
shear success of it all everything with out me.
It is before and after - I can only choose to
climb into it's bossom and even this simple
task is beyond me, my schooling in Rhythm
Removing my base for dance - something akin to wanting
to gut ones self and offer thy organs to the drying
of the sun seems close - today a kind of doorway
left open, always open, here all along no special
memory, or application for membership needed. It's simply
arrived and there's no where to hide - though I've tried
all day - meaningless, tasks, House cat saying tiger tiger
tiger - I AM SO STUCK. To live is to compete
and I who can take on the best see folly in this
action so much so life as it is, is all foolish.
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