Bring forth your
whole self.
I do not mean
pronounce your name,
show your form,
or announce the game you play,
but the being that is
without death;
the blank page that was before
the writings of mother and father
graced its white
humility.

Show me this.

It may seem a difficult task,
yet it is done without being asked,
no trifle nor trouble,
and once completed,
seems to have been done before
you even set about
to begin.

For the self is selfless
and gives its isness freely,
thus leaves no mark,
holds no home,
sits not stark,
does not roam,
from where/when/why/how it already is.

abound with fruits
are flowers;
are seeds.
black and warm,
with no need
for audio/visual,
hands-on learning techniques.

a fire is simply
burning,
yet is not itself when so.

Show me this.

I can't see into the future
But, I know someone who can
She's a gypsy from the midlands
And, well, she looks just like a man

She says her name is Heather
But, to me she'll be a Hector
She said she had an accident
But, by god...it nearly wrecked her

One eye stares, it doesn't move
And this one is the best
The other follows you around
It never leaves your chest

She reads tarot, tea leaves and the bones
She's a reader of your life
She said she's still not married
I can't imagine her a wife

She'd know just what you're thinking
She'd know a lie before it's told
And if she's ugly nowadays
Imagine her when she gets old

The people go to see her
when the caravans arrive
She will read for twenty dollars
Her tent opens at five

If you want to know your future
Just take notice, listen close
Because her lips are slightly puffy
And she whistles through her nose

She's bent over looking downward
On her left side there's a ****
On her cheek there is a goiter
Behind her ear there is a lump

She weighs in at 300
Doesn't stand past 5 foot tall
But if you want to know the future
Then she's the one to call

She's an old afflicted gypsy
Has a daughter known as Marge
Says she's wanted up in Bristol
She's a small medium at large

With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.