Beans bloat the wit f'art's aches,
to ease acceptance of the winds we
make up, as crude ensamples,
of bubbles bursting to loose the essence
essential pressure to hold a bubble, apart,
as its content passes gurgling past pyloric valves,
posting notes to axions reflecting gut felt reasons
to try something, some new thing, not locked away
whole truth evident -ly holy tomes beneath the vates
old place of divination and meditation, temple ground.
Das Grund. Watch your step, settle in Jello-hello, y'ello,
who may I say is calling?
Those bubbles of being, measured with all the latest ware,
continue to pervade our manners of speaking, current terms
of endearing adjectives splattering the walls of our bubbles,
as our windows bump, and I catch you looking,
back looking to seem to wish to know, who looked first.
What does it take, to make up one's own mind,
after the riddling writers and wind fiddling poets, pass
as spirit forms from god's own duodenum, in effect.
Allman Brothers, I do believe, we smelt that smell.
But it may have been me stepping in your mud.
Pedantic note to knowing more or less,
In pagan Rome the vates resided
on the Vatican Hill, the Hill
of the Vates.
We are currently doing as Vates did, don't you agree?
A little leaven, in the right forest, at the right season.
Fine day in my valley, Saturday. First weekend of Spring Break,
seen from a future I imagined, even then.