Buckthorn, as a med we ate
to ease a belly ache,
cascara sacrada, relaxative
peristalsis
pro-vocatuer, speaker to the gut beyond
first taste, you
spew
buckthorn berry purge, my gut
for goodnessake
swallow whole, don't ever
ruminate and appear
not to know
in
sacred
cow stupid-blissity, duhll, un
honed
to an honest cutting edge, behind
a persistent point
piercing,
insisting on forming, con forming me,
the ego in main-mode, re
maining reasonable in face of facts,
leaked:
liars prosper.
Good enough. Now, betting begins.
Will, mine or thine, one is free, the
other is me, a mind in a word world with
vectoring paths into any ever we image,
conversation, forms of words
filled with saliency,
line after line,
salutory aspirations to rise above the fray,
someday,
to see,
-- the lie exposed is the truth.
So simple a five year old knows when she's caught.
Willow bark tea and chamomile make me smile at what my grandaughter imagines knowing after a walk with me, in my dottage, in the purple phase of spring.
