Parched skin becomes moist
With dew drops dripping down the back of my neck
And beneath my *******

My face deepens like a ripe peach
As flesh disappears
Skin dissolves into

                                 Nothing.

A cool exterior warms
And my body is tingling, trembling,
Buzzing like a thousand fire ants
Swarming around my thighs
My arms
My core

Encapsulated in sweat,
This shell is a temple
One that thrives on progress

I am *****

I am filthy

I am strong.

Going through the motions
A vast and blackened ocean
Drinking in this potion
They say is for my best
Breathing in and breathing out
Stagnant air flows through my mouth
Vision fading, thirst like drought
No pause, no peace, no rest.

Awoken from my walking slumber
I reach from my realm of under
For a grasp, for a lover
Of my weary soul
New light breaks through ground and grime
I feel a punctured hand in mine
With whip torn flesh, and spear pierced side
He lifts me from this hole.

Lost sight restored to all fullness
My thirst is quenched, the air now fresh
I see Him there, my soul's found rest
My savior, it is He.
And now I will forever praise
The one who saved my life with grace
How beautiful, the bloodstained face
of Jesus, Lord, and King!
|b.g.|

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

Every coulee, thirsting, gladly drinks,
Every basin and every sleepless hollow;
Where duly each charitable droplet sinks,
Whither hasten the novel spring follow.

Yet it goes, unfolding as a tempo mosies
Shoots will shiver open their split edges,
To strip, unclothe their budding posies,
In the timber, the garden, and hedges;

Weaved is a grove of anchored love
A Finch or Sparrow to meet another,
A nest, a cloak, a marquee high above
A den for father, hatchlings & mother.

Religion is an experience ‒
Don’t forget to pay attention
To the road signs and orange
Cones – stations of life.

The dried putty surrounding
The stained glass shards is
A template for countercultural
Beliefs – fidelity.

Pick a denomination and take
A number – investigate the
Universe – celebrate via Billy
Graham or Timothy Leary.

Turn to the pages in the
Geodesic south Indian sub-
Continent – pray to a Hindu
Shrine or dine with a Swami.

Hail the Krishna highs – close
Your eyes and be transcendental
As often as you breathe – but
Do not divulge your mantra.

Heed the children as they climb
And play – drooling on the statues
Of Buddha and his goddesses
At the corner of rebirth.

Monastic discipline is for the
Elderly – after they reach the
New liberation – in tune with
Their pure souls.

Be pragmatic if you must –
Choose therapy, shock waves
Of the brain – or bow down
Before B. F. Skinner.

Start and nurture your own
Beat generation camp – be
****, be alien, be aware of
The invisible lights.

Go west to “EST,” and train
Followers to process bits of
History – couple that with an
Out-of-body jaunt.

The je-ne-sais-quoi of ends
Is approaching – embrace a
Chapter on thanatology, and
Share the culture of after.

There are alternatives – try
Gnosticism or Scientology –
Be the man who won’t believe,
And reach your potential.

The final analysis is to find
Your eternal family – they can
Be anything – beings with which
You will piously be born again.

Give each their name – 2nd Eve,
Zen the little, Erhard, Wymyn,
Pope ***** III, Bogie – and call
Them your disciples.


© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017

Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.