This silent stewing atmosphere,
Air beginning to reach a boil,
Only smart amphibians jump from comforting waters
Into the oblivion of impulsiveness and
Throwing all things known
Into the fleeting wind,
Breaking free from freedom,
Finding old traditions in new lands,
Erasing memories, and forging new ones--

The silence.
The quiet pitter of precipitating plagues
Upon desert soils
Where magnificent poisons
Of stasis and spoils
Of capitalist endeavors
Piling upon one another to create
Monuments to their golden idols,
Solar winds tearing at biological fibers--
The Storm begins soon.

And I--
A wandering spirit,
tossed playfully back and forth
by the impulses of time and space--
I arrest this bright-eyed idolatry,
Escaping into fragmented mysteries
Awaiting me on foreign soil,
Not away from pain and war
Famine and dismay
Ineptitudes of a dying human race:
But simply away--
where the golden afternoon’s
lazy sunbeams will meet my
smiling cheek
at angles different and unknown.

Mystery within Mystery,

I open the door . . .