EMPTY BAG OF FOOD

The grassy areas of the park...

Filled with those eager for a picnic...

The flesh of the illusion...

And the potter's clay

They make the sunshine real...

A warmth only truly known by intellect...

The soft touch of a wife's hand...

It brings a sweet smile to her lover...

Her husband approves...

As he is the base element...

A sheet between their skin and the Earth...

Enough food for everyone...

Sport for the child...

And no defined game...

With no shoelaces or belts for the prisoner...

He eats from an empty bag...

Eventually finding food...

Sweeter than the soil of figs...

Nourished with answers...

An oracle in the senses...

All is told...

The tongue never moves...

Except for fermented grapes...

Timely season...

Perfect region...

Stainless cuts of fresh cheese...

Nibbling gently under trees of stillness...

Everything became new...

So says the shape-shifting ancestor...

Born from the womb of tree bark...

doM

MY GRAY HAIR

The disc jockey played...

He vibrated sweet studio one sounds...

In that moment...

It was Jamaica I tasted...

Rocking and moving...

Eyes half closed...

The red wine made love to my saliva...

I reminisced on those that have come and gone...

The room was provocative...

Mixed cultures, Luscious lips...

Long dreadlocks, wholesome breasts...

The continual spats of flirting...

And of course the wine...

But the Drunken Master is always aware...

Rice wine was never too sweet...

To break his concentration...

To break his grip...

To break his meditation...

But all was loose for the night...

God retired for the evening...

He let me out to play...

He took rest on my behalf...

Yet together our organs sang sweet melodies...

Entertaining thoughts of cigars...

And seersucker suits...

I stand to watch my horse cross the finish line...

In my immutable seat...

The body sings and dances...

It plays with precious care...

A love that no longer be defined...

Like hands on her thighs...

I stroked my gray hair...

doM

DIGESTION

Chew it up...

Nourish it with saliva...

Swallow it with enjoyment...

And out of the anus for purification...

Tis the nature of all things eaten...

Food and media...

Ignorance and knowledge...

All can be digested...

But will it be digested...

Will it create acid...

Will it create laughter...

Will it create joy and peace...

Will it create pain and suffering...

Will it destroy a creation...

Will it create a destruction...

Or maybe an illusion...

One of birth and death...

One of drugs and alcohol...

One of violence and sex...

Or maybe an illusion of knowledge and bliss...

Digesting books and teachings...

Seeing light and dark...

How many eyes are needed to see nothingness...

How many more projections must be digested...

The crumbs of bread...

An Ocean of Life...

A bark of cinnamon...

A strip of sugar cane...

All a voyeur's delight...

Use your tongue and play with it...

These illusory words...

Digest what you wish...

It becomes flesh...

doM

WHITE SOCKS, BROWN SHOES

Allowing the child to dress himself...

Everything matches...

Trusting his gut...

His intuition is the prism and the light...

A color scheme created by his hands...

He assigns a color even to the insects...

To the Queens of Ants and Bees...

A projector for the screen...

He eternally dreams...

Yet never leaving his seat...

Listening to the parents...

He continues his play even while sitting...

White socks...

Brown shoes..

He walks boldly through the fabric of the seamstress...

Sown perfectly for him...

He trusts every step...

As his attire carries his look gracefully...

He plays in the playground...

Tis a place where the dirt may give medicine...

To the sick...

To the blind...

To the confident...

To the ones that know something...

An ignorant child that knows nothing...

A manifestation of semen and zygote...

He offers chocolate

He lights candles...

He protects his innocence while giving it away...

And after the dog releases his feces...

Creating the brown shoe...

Seeing only himself...

He gives his socks, to his mother: to wash them...

doM

TOES IN SAND

In One Step...
The whole universe changes...
Then it takes shape again...
A foot brushed with an earthly film...
A land graced with sediments and crystals...
Even the bird...
He flies south to find that yielding firmness...
Guided by the heat of the Golden Star...
He circles the ocean looking for fresh fish...
And as he takes another step...
He makes a splash in the ocean...
Yet feels the rocks deep beneath...
The sand crab watches intelligently...
Preparing its next move...
A Master of this footing...
That same crab will not have its dream deferred...
Not by a foot...
Tis a moment felt by the ant...
Watching pollen fly from the stem...
Watching children eat doughnuts and milk...
Watching the father feed them...
Watching the mother enjoy from afar...
But only in vision...
Only deep within the dream state...
And even upon waking...
Her peace remains...
The trunk of the tree amidst season changes...
The toes in the sand with no beach in sight...
And upon taking another step...
Volcanos erupt and flowers grow...
And possibly more sand is formed...


doM

FONDLING AIR

If she had a full and succulent bosom...

I would play with her nipples...

Instead, she has decided to take a formless form...

Pervading anything rich enough for the eyes to see...

A texture that changes in an instant...

Tis but a tasteless vagina...

Yet full of nectar...

The sweet chirp of a bird...

The powerful bark of a bulldog...

She nourishes all like soil to seed...

Like grass growing out of concrete...

No laws...

No restrictions...

Just conditions that are beyond perfection...

Providing for the Lion to feed on the Deer's flesh...

He drinks her...

Nourished daily...

She travels like a vagabond...

The smoke from the cigarette...

She feeds the child his warm chocolate milk...

Her lips are sealed...

Her tongue is lost in the mouth of her lover...

In the hands of man...

She fondles herself...

A sweet breeze that can destroy cities...

Tis the same that gives birth to a patch of lavender...

Sometimes a crying child yearning for milk...

Sometimes a mosquito savoring blood...

Tis the sweet sound she bellows...

Caused by the intimate thrust of her lover...

An infinite stroke of the paintbrush...

Fondle her daily...

doM

CUP OF COFFEE

From the seed...

Birth is given to a nectar of blackness...

The Perfect Conditions...

A bean is born...

Either creating more of the same...

Or unlimited bliss in the flesh of humans...

And that nectar is attractive...

Creating a purpose for its additives...

Yet not a requirement...

An attachment maybe for the flesh...

Aye that nectar creates a purpose...

For the container...

For the consumer...

For the cultivator...

For the purveyor...

For the farmer and the farm...

For the elements...

Taking in, recreating and distributing...

Tis but a perfect balance of actions and reactions...

A black hole of sorts...

Only held and managed by the liberated...

A bliss that awaits...

For those knowing and not knowing...

Tis but a beautiful gift from the Earth...

A cup of nectar that is full for the empty...

A cup of nectar that is empty for the full...

Aye, what a tasty pot of soil...

doM