To make a sound, any sound
I may need the screech of pitch
or a certain definite
to break the glass in.
I interrupt this silence which
has seeped so deep inside of me.
This is not the calm silence of balance
and equilibrium, not the settled outcome
of a ripened meditational fruit-flower.
This is the compression of so much left unsaid,
unwritten. It gets caked up, stucktogetherinstuff-ness
and becomes downright flammable.
This is the build up of Movement-Qi without
It is also natural,
when your busy-busy in a particular kind of way.
And who are you? and what is this? How did we get
here in this blogcar, wearing our blogflipflops
and our blogshirts on blog-backwards with all the blogtags
sticking out under our bloggychinchins.
There is a fire in consciousness that’s exploding
With the wicked heat of thought; and
it’s building up, and it’s leaking out
Steaming the edges of Consciousnesses-es
Crisping the light-and-shadow contours
Spitting with energy, just to
release some pressure.
Water Filling-in complex edges with deep dimensional
ridges, building on a new Form.
We are molten and molted.
There’s no other poem I want to write now
than the one that leads me out here naked, and
leaves me wondering, How DID I get here?
Where ARE the Extraterrestrials?
How DO I account for this loss of time?
The release valve has been found, and the nozzle