|on a hill overlooking the Hudson River|
some call of the June ago...
"don't worry darling it gets hard again..."
we used to wish for lingering moments
of transparent infinity to hurl us
into a void or some portal boil
of marshland low tide collected shellfish
and bi-valves, ears of corn
and small stone potatoes sea water,
spices and some apple cider vinegar
we had made from last year's
squishy mushy underfoot found harvest...
the Spring undulate fashion-ing
of rooster and ring fetish
worship was underway...
tacit Winter birds could hear
the rumbling of southern songbirds
journeying northward on the wind...
they knew seed, sprout and crocus...
all the paper and licked stamped lies
held inside the blue mailboxes
I used to shit perched atop of
on a dare when in high school...
it seems every year around this time
there are movies with jesus,
moses and abraham in them...
the serpentine circular motion picture water(s)
what they say not to look into
but you think it's divine
you strive to feel
find nothing works
and you begin
from there to understand surrender
is only a path to your own self...
this oblique processing will ensure
a brain is held indefinitely capable
of being uploaded into the future,
no matter how carelessly
you have taken care
of its corresponding body...
an imam, priest and rabbi play usher
at the town's house theater, Spring
is the time for resurrection tales
and many an army has been raised
to trumpet and drum the future
as a singularity of our own personal design...
of course you realize, heaven
has no mercy for you...while hell
is sympathetic to your cause...
you have the fear of label...
I have the fear
of once knowing better...
Frank J. Tipler went bowling
in the low slung clouds above
the Hudson river valley just
to see the wee men and their woman-kind
ambling about in boisterous concavity
and reflection...shoot those pins
be a-wobbling he thought
as he drank too fast
hurrying to catch up to them
going through the zero
to one hundred miles
of separation initiation fees...
the omega point resort
as a final sanctuary of forever...
was logo-ed onto every surface
we could stitch into...
everything else was
spun electric glide amplification
and retina manipulation hijinks disguised
as therapeutic end games...
every one had a home
it was said as we were ushered in
we only had to come to know
it was somewhere hidden
in the crooked fannies
of these old mountains
that fed the river...
and the brochures all had mentioned...
some bare footed thick sole place
where people, mostly stayed
out of sight and out of their minds
and most times they sat around fire
and watched time
by way of all the rituals
of the leaves in their lives...
the rhododendrons right now
are conspiring in spiraling conical blooms,
leading a pursuit of the higher angled Sun
this March leaning past April into a May day...
I saw nothing but old bones being ground
for some paste to slather onto our roots
and of course the most thirsty ones
are at the hungry head of the line...