Start out baby paint
Hands inquisitive
So relative just live
Fingers baby prints
Cherubs to stirrups
Crying than smiling
Or going frantic 

The womb over the
"Atlantic Ocean"

Her spell fingers
Has the potent
She's about to faint
The blessing their lifeline
So quaint love yourself
From birth

You're the Saint*

Art fingers bunked
into God

The world of modern
Click of the fingers
Her smartphone
Her gift of gab tone
Cute pup labs left
alone? I phone and apps

Her lips start to shrink
Does life truly stink
US debt dark ages
Her art fingers walk the
yellow pages
The triple play bait
Truly her unique trait

She's the honest most
sincere wife
And poems are her life

A birth what do you think
within the time so sublime
Light as a baby feather in
any weather birth gets beyond
better
A magical place admiring the love
Mother and Father with fingers like Grace

in the infernal uproar of possibilities when the universe halted an alternative course of movement (to which eternity might be possible in a cosmic place as a confirmation congruent to a derivative of consciousness), there lies an ephemeral mind; at a certain point in time being, who thinks that everything will be plausible in a galaxy of transcendence.

if a particle moves alongside this ephemeral consciousness to which it caused a disturbance, every particle of the latter might be in flux.

[you are that particle]

and if and when, in a conscious state of space and time you sporadically moved and pulled the orbit to which i constantly managed to retain the equilibrium, then should the universe permit us to drift into the internal immobility of togetherness, we became infinitesimal--
but only through the metaphysics of time being.

[at least we had]

(03/09/17)

Genius is forged by passion
It is this which never dies:
Transcendental elation.

So long as one creation
is moved to dance mesmerized,
genius is forged by passion.

Though stone hearts lack expression,
postmoderns aching to try
transcendental elation

Keeping "plebes" from their "mansions."
Speak this opaque truth as lies:
Genius is forged by passion.

The hive mind *******,
at shared expense they deny
transcendental elation.

Our yearning adoration
causes heaven's voice to cry,
Genius is forged by passion!
Transcendental elation.

When i was young, my skin was smooth and soft and un-ravaged.
Then, I grew up, and my top and bottom cheeks sagged, and my laughter
became a tangible memory around the corners of my eyes.
Now, when I smile, there are dimples and there are lines,
like the life-line and the love-line which are supposed to spell out my story
on the palm of my hand.
When I opened my eyes as a child, I saw brown water and blue skies and popsicles.
I saw floats on a lake and boats and friends splashing in from a water-trampoline,
yellow life jackets bobbing and children shouting.
Now, I still see blue skies, but sometimes there are white clouds and sometimes grey.  
I see my mother with her own memories of laughter around her eyes and I see the crevices
at the edges of my father’s mouth from smiling and frowning.
I smell flowers now, and little boys inform me they're fuschia, and when I breathe
at night my pillow smells like London and my room like lavender so I am home and
abroad at once.
Once, when I was sad, I would think mommy and daddy mommy and daddy.  
Now, when I am afraid, I think mommy mommy daddy I miss you.  
I sleep in a twin bed and I tickle myself and it is like I am in kindergarten but now
my fantasies are slicker and harsher but they still paint pictures of a school girl.
I lay in shivasna when I was young yet not old, and I saw a peach pit uncovered,
and it transcended back in time to a baby, just born in the world, and I realized
how it is we can die before our bodies do, how our minds can leave even though
we physically stay.