Yearning for clear, seven and fear;
Found an old book and made it my snare.
It rotted in bed and drank the stars,
/Crossing closer to cars/

I am learning how to use breath as a bridge
between the processes I can and cannot control.
I am suspended between automated habit and conscious intent
on a trapeze of purpose and accident.
I am training my impulsive heart
to sit in tranquility instead of running away,
to be patient and discerning rather than hasty and indulgent.
I am rebuilding my visceral canals
so light can permeate my bloodstream.
I am rerouting my neuronal highways
so the path from A to D stops skipping over the sights held at B and C
and everything else in between.
I am repaving the roads
so thoughts stop getting stuck in potholes
revving their engines fuming exhaust over the sky.
I am reminding myself to be gentle,
to reach for understanding before frustration,
to take my perceptions with a grain of salt
and a second {and third, and fourth} look after I've stepped back.
I am regrowing the recognition of truth and positivity
amongst thorny storm clouds,
re-establishing the detection of poison-laden sweets and crowds.
I am slow in learning, but quick to try again -
recurrently re-working, re-claiming, and reminding.
I am in a continuous cycle of dismantling and transformation -
never who I was a minute ago,
and not yet who I will become in the moments to follow.
I am tiptoeing the tightrope of letting go
and embracing possibility,
delicately dancing along the divide of singularity
and infinite expansion of being,
flirting with disaster and divinity,
and dining with my ego-death.

My city is under constant reconstruction,
but the scaffolding doesn't shroud the sculptures soaring through the sky.

subterranean churning earthworm squirming boil-stirring ear-whirring storm burning up from the tar pit,
stomach bile buried in a sealed jar under the cockpit,
spitting neurotoxins into the fountain
conjuring black magik,
pull the barbed wire reigns tight against the lips,
committed to resist
word ***** and rambling lists,
unproductive backwards shift of hips lifting a cargo ship,
unpack the steel cages in fits,
and spurts,
letting the seven headed dragon
sit with the lamb,
clamoring hands
grasp for closure tying double-dutch knots
into lovers' hosiery,
hit the nail on the back of the head and it will cough up
the mystery of adjoining heavy things,
slip into an old dress to learn how it no longer fits your wings,
skinny dip into your heart's dark potion sifting
out ingredients made unnecessary,
drift into the eye of hurricaning dreams and stare blindly
into the epicenter,
unravel skin curdling things
to disassemble and recenter.