~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water
~

A Blue bird flies
in a flock of red fellows,
and he is the only one
to notice the Difference.

He sees,
but all is in black and white.
He understands,
but does not Know
Why.
He hears,
but there is no sound.
He feels,
but there's no touch.
...Not love...

This is not love he feels.
This 'thing', this, new
'feeling' that is indescribable...
An Ampullae of Lorenzi of some sort
What is it??

It is not love; No,
Not love.

This is just black and white to the rest;
in a two-tone world

This/His Difference
is much easier to comprehend
once comprehended(perceived/grasped) beyond just/ the/ 'weakness'
of being
"different" (seeing that you're different isn't the problem. why are you different? if you are "so" different, there must be a reason.  a blue bird sees the diff in a b&w; world not bc of the color, but because of capacity. capability. power. 'force'. Emily saw she was different. and identified. when she speaks of telling truth on a slant and gradually, it's due to the incomprehnsible ability to take in of "the people". she locked herself up bc others didn't get and will chastise her. she was a blue bird who noticed she was blue in a black and white world filled with red fellows.  it was easy for her to see bc all were so blatantly different. dramatically different. blue versus red in a black and white world.  below is going to explain that now, in times of the same dramatic differences, people wear different clothes. they think they are of all different hues and colors of the rainbow in a black and white world. it is much more difficult to understand what this 'feeling' is when it can't be diffcultly yet blatantly seen in a black and white world of blue and red birds. especially when 'power' pushes all to find individuality yet manipulates homogenization).  

When a blue bird flies, in a flock of red fellows,
all who wear clothes of hue, and texture.
brightness and scale
cashmere and rubber  (these lines above are supposed to have 2 things that have nothing to do with the other...shows how 'much' there is to add to....materialism for identity I guess)
in a multi-tone world
Spoon fed a (false) (all-known) (media-passed) vision
and encouraged a sense of "self difference" of indifferent similarity (to the next(fellow)) (supposed to be a contradictive. feel, "we are all so different, in the same way")

The blue bird's view is much more convoluted now (raw it down)

hard to see and understand and comprehend a difference when we are all made the same
hard to see and understand and comprehend a difference when we are all told to be different, but made the same.

I like swimming in the fur,
fuzzy feelings tickling
when you pet the peptides in my skull.

It has always been her.

Sounds enjoyed so similar.
Our cochlea cuddle as they spiral in,
manifesting as melodies when spun.
Everything is in time when two metronomes become one.
Our cadences coalesce and the line begins to blur.

It has always been her.

Radiating her energy I only feel when near.
I must have ampullae of Lorenzini for real, I fear.
But tuned only to this one frequency I now infer.

It has always been her.

Now my lighthouse in the fog is fading it seems.
Floating back into a sea of darkness with waves crashing down,
as cephalopods come to caress and crush these waking dreams.
I hear the faint whispers from radula saying they are here to drown,
the one who is his own saboteur, and that yes…

It has always been her.

Sunlight filters through the branches
As warm air following the cold
Hisses at the leaves
And mingles with the half-heard voice
Of a not-too-distant neighbor.
An occasional bird-call
Keeps time with a squirrel’s jerky progress;
A dog sighs and briefly imitates the trees.

And slowly in this tranquillity
Comes a sense of recovery
Last night’s excesses, felt viscerally
These past several hours, turn
To a contented glow in the afternoon sun.
Inner trembling starts to feel
Controlled. And less visible.

Breathing deeply, tasting at last
The warm freshness of the clean air
As it permeates, so softly, the tortured frame,
The gutted pores, the brutalised organs
Of this body.

Time now, too, for the mind, busily
Analyzing complaints for all this while,
To feel some ease
No more pumping
Frantic aid to disturbed ampullae;
No longer succouring the fevered nerves
Or fighting for a woolly lobe’s attention.
Now  comes that ease and relaxation,
Long fought for and hard won.

Now the battle is over and with minimal casualties,
Now reason takes over and forward progress
Can be seen clearly in the mind’s eye.
Now once again the saliva flows sweetly
To the abused palate.
Now the rasping throat is
Pacified.
And one succumbs to that sense of
Pastoral  anticipation
As the brain
And the spleen
And the  bile
And the liver
And, inter alia, the noble ascending colon
All agree
Now is the time
Now the blessed moment
Now
We can begin again.

Set ‘em up.