Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Candida Blues

Stay away from all the processed thoughts
in the cosmic grocery store,
for people no more know God than they know you.

Stay along the edge, where the fresh dirt gleams,
without the sweetness of your mother's voice
or your father's factory salt,
for what ferments inside you
can only rise so far.

It is not you, waiting
at the dome beyond the aisles,
a kind of sun, a kind of sky.

4 comments:

Hannah Stephenson said...

But the processed thoughts are made with no-calorie sweetener...

The second stanza is my favorite in this one.

the walking man said...

Naw until you know the processed thought of the cultural construct then they remain a hole and a pitfall.

Approach them objectively and the error of them becomes readily apparent and you do as Buddha recommended on his death bed--"...find your own Path"

Ah that beyond the dome, *shrug* it is as it knows itself to be. It needs no definition from me to know its own being.

Jack said...

The gleam of fresh dirt usually attracts my feet.

Tailoring a God-recommendation probably does not have an expert...

erin said...

i'm not sure if no one knows of god but if they do they certainly are where the fresh dirt gleams and far from the mother's sweetness. yes, i am with hannah, i love this stanza. the father's factory salt! the ferment.

we never come to fruition, do we? we never rise far enough. and yet the yearning to do so, to discover, to put our tongue upon the word god is our leaning motor. candida blues is in fact our state of being. if fruition were possible, would there be life?

xo
erin