I can’t stomach another bite, of reminders
That up-percolate for catch and release, so that
The flame of the third eye rises, out of the dense
Family unit, what's been separate, if not equal --
The place where every world is conjured and nurtured
In the think tank of being isolé, what I
Am not now, so never have been. Let the birthing
Fire rise above these evergreens, to the eye
Where lessons learned wait in the void for the taking,
To stain their black on white, darkness will be spoken
As creation, the horses of Altamira
On the walls, while the free ones refused to be frozen.
How far can they go past their own outracing ghosts?
Beyond the confidence games that made bids against
Their souls, the crocodiles that kept them in check,
And the white wolf in line, known by its translucence?
We cannot recall which feline pigskin won the game
Or how we ate our feelings from the once-clean plate
Of family dysfunction, nor why we fell again
To the inevitable gorge and purge cycle
That gives no breathing room for transcendence at all.
What’s remembered plays again with details missing,
Stuffing added, as if it comes from the future,
At 4 am, with chills, effervescing seltzer.
It clicks in outside time, that venerable tool
To keep the icing spatula clean, free of astrals
Who clog the air with similar experience
In endless iterations of the eternal.
Every facet of the one is illumined
And, once lit, dimmed, but not to conserve energy
But to let more in. So that the rutabaga,
Lost even to memory, can be fresh again.
