Zen minimalist, tool
slipping words two fingers in
and seizing hold, mixing in subtle verbs
spinning worlds, filling up voids
with a tantalizing wetness
Yes, minimalist
and less is more
so clean that up you dirty whore
and speak only silence
leave them lost in awkwardness
born from want and wanting more, like
‘I know you want this
and yes I got this
minus man or wing by my side
rising instead from happy feelings, inside
sounding wise enough to me
and maybe soon I'll see exactly
what they meant’
as we drop and rise
in two time beat
knees, bent, in, weak
quivering at the seams
diving into dreams and coming
out breath stopped, heart attacked,
jagged and off
then two scenes later, maybe three tops
jumping ahead, fast forwarding to
the quick bits
the grimy bits
the slimy bits
the ins and outs
proving what drive thru is all about-
- since there's no need to waste time
on the things we can do
again, and again, and again.
Then, reverse spin
back to the beginning, cowboy
back to the drawing board
back to the sheets
put your back in it and ride, harder
calves carved in, jump the fleet
lift arms up in victory
the downward dog days are over
and we saw them coming
inhibitions released
letting go of the sweet
and drizzling, no just
jizzing all over the God damn place
hot and flustered, in our face
rushing to encase thoughts that
had always filled the space
but still, found no place in design
rather finding the time
to bleed them out, in epiphanies,
calling them nirvanas
calling them divinities
but titling them Truth.
And swearing, on your life
that that's what it was to you
and I lay there, only trying
not to believe it too.