The Ends

It seems sap is sweet on hands,

But in trees its subject to an even higher power.

And no matter how you feel

It will tend to, tending to keep you alive.

And the rest: a simple time stretching of one earth & common fabric...

Of fragile blood run cellular engine and something or other...

Is there no sort of luck involved

In not being born an ant or elephant...

Or is this just, pure and unadulterated math,

Water willed, and egg improvised,

Until hatched by knife light then...

Mother named, after her extremely painful experience.

Allowing the vast maze of birth and mistake,

To take its toll on all that practical destiny

And then child-sized specificity.

Lain there,

Inherent in the once one celled organism.

A consummate pin-hole poked in the plot behind planet earth and such.

A pin-hole poked...Is enough to sink an entire universe of tiny ships.

Freeing all that perfect principal lain inherent

In a step by step schematic of the human dive.

And when planets align... all you can do is dive...

And this... this is the soft spear of the human condition,

But you yourself are not.

You are more...

The pulled on skull of something that was never really all that young.

You are more...

One wung

And consumed by your most gross of concerns.

Can you remain in love from deep space,

With no fish bowl on and a busted communicator...

Or have you everything planned.

Is there a simple universal system of buoy and rope,

That you would use to tug your weightless mass along on,

Till you found a planet that you felt might be just right for you.

Or is it possible the view of earth at such a distance

Would have played you for the fool as well...

Hour Hero Yes showed you there'd be days like this...

And they'd come with the rain on of course.

A good gallon of reverb let loose on your personal truth,

Dark eared on the edge of your sleeping slab.

Having been bent born & went phantom dayed,

Hope stole on in the equal parts miracle of

Bringing yourself to and from sleep.

In calendrical waltz...

All to feel aimed,

At last, your heartjaw kissed against the coming dawn...

In dive

Let go at last

Our hero yes is done dove,

Safe through several more hypothetical "seconds before death,"

Unto the never similar wilds of his ground teeth powered and b-movie dreams.

It begins...

With all white, in a sound proofed hallway

Your staring down the empty eye slits of a lowsocket. waking

On the floor at the foot of the bright light blocking and locked

Hundredth door of luck.

At the opposite end of the hall sits a pair of empty pay public binoculars,

Slumped, facing your way.

In the dead of their stare, you marvel about,

Until you eye this one door that appears to be both half open and closed.

And are drawn moth to the bulb,

Head down, as if reeled round a gear by the guts,

Inching toward your intuit-picked portal of choice...

Now knelt, yet not without nerves in this moment of mostly glory,

You look for the knob, and see nothing but healed shut keyhole.

Dax-strong in this dream you begin to cut key

In the furthest corner of a clearest skull,

When you feel your kneecaps being nursed by a white on white welcome mat.

You tilt your skull to read "WOE-BE-GONE" only written wrong or in mirror. Your hands and heart full of edge, you lift the mat gently,

And there beneath it's omen embroidered, sits an intact wishingbone...

You carefully lift your instrument of certain luck to the door,

And it slowly unclenches the scar seem set where it's keyhole would be....

And so you snap bliss bone, cut wish and begin to lock pick...

Until you hear trough the thick of the door the deadbolt caughing loose...

Suddenly the fear black above your skull, beneath your skin goes wild.

As the door of your choice opens itself slowly...

Sealing off your face with perfect stripes of rising bone and angst,

Of alabaster and pit,

Allowing the bright right light of luck

To completely believe

And eclipse you...