Psycho-Babble Social Thread 16119

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poem for the new year, (( NEW YEARS )) 01/01/2002

Posted by kid_A on January 1, 2002, at 19:06:55

NEW YEARS

There is a fountain
inside the belly of God
it's insides filled
with golden
chocolate coins
each coin is a body
each chocolate a
spirit; they shine like
Maui's lasso
and some, truth
be told are as empty
as paper, as is true
of my coin.

If you want to see
yourself you must look
into the eye of God,
when you gaze there, that
which is white as China,
unblinking, and without
bound, you will see
both past and future,
once, only, I had looked
upon it, and like a
candle lit at both ends
it mirrored itself--
and I knew what it was
to be a golden coin
the red herring, a
con man, void of
an honest living--
you see there wasn't
even air inside,
all sucked out
by the water, which
was like wine, if
you might taste it--
and it was nothing
as it was everything
which is to say
it was no thing at
all.

Every year there are
new coins, each has
a beginning and an
end, it is all planned
in a book of empty
pages, wordless and
full of words
it was all without
meaning, which is
to say, it was
all meaning, which
is to say almost
nothing at all--
if I might whisper
to you, if I could,
you would touch
my shoulder, like a
hollow Easter bunny
and that moment
would disappear in
an instant
as all moments do
and it would be
as quiet as
flowers
and we would see
ourselves,
stretching
boundlessly, into
the past, and
headlong, into
what we might
call, some kind
of future.

Re: poem for the new year, (( NEW YEARS )) 01/01/2002

Posted by Lini on January 4, 2002, at 13:41:19

In reply to poem for the new year, (( NEW YEARS )) 01/01/2002, posted by kid_A on January 1, 2002, at 19:06:55

smile damn it,
children in africa
are dreaming of
oranges.

my sadness
always seemed
selfish and accusatory.
Just what God needed,
another mental
liability.

yet, yesterday shards of light
danced
from my showerhead
into a warm and
naked afternoon

some neurotransmitter
was returning
from vacation,
allowing me to find ginger tea
at the very back of the cupboard.

we journey through
pills and missed appointments,
thankful for caller ID
and Jack Daniels

patiently
waiting for the smell
of wet mittens, or the nape of a neck,
something peaceful
deep in limbic memory

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