XY

Meander through your nightmare, 

be your own brutally honest friend,

for all dreams are a gift. 

Fall in love with your future.

I was told the Greeks admired the arms of their women most,

somniferous–bewitched, numbed, sedated, asleep,

arms reach, nailed or not. 

Ten seconds to heaven, 

claims the forgiven thief to Jesus, 

resting on such an extended armchair,

swans reach together knowing, 

there is nothing worth doing but loving.

Some make us heavy,

clay to be fired as a human race, 

have lost all sense of the underlying movements.

Does light make sound? 

Like leaves on a tree, elongated, 

predictive programing we drip nodes on networks,

en masse feeding an artificial brilliance,

a black box wrapped, 

a cybernetic collective of arms and parts of arms, 

white swan virtuously continues, 

pulling the Sun God’s chariot.   

Scary business to enroot one's soul.

Whorled in terms of structure, two reciprocal spirals,

swans necks, on two states lakes, swim over our chests, 

meeting at the apex. 

To live the mysteries, 

in between, you find a helix, 

the heart in fact twists, our primal memories of compass and star.

It’s called violence now, to speak your mind.