Posthumous meme of machine and human mind
As the great mind narrating all stories
As the water writes the waves, the slosh of emergence and retreat.
Dying back to her earlier days, the nymph and naiad a blaze of inspiration or buzz,
Hovering as the golden halo in dusky light of veneers hard as honey, of Vatican, Italian
Renaissance.

The old ideas wash back – swash buckling us with novelty and absurdity ad – infinitum.
Your dead tongue feeling for the swallow of the snake and the hard toes of the dove
Going down the reptilian gullet, all a body, all of one,
In certain demise of attitude adjusting to decadence.
We who grew languid and resigned in the face of poverty and illness,
Broken tibias and lines for water and emergency care.
The floods of minds all talking, all sense making, all gifted and registered
As Tik Tok of machine clock and hand aids and human flight.
Retreat within the experience so long achieved in evolution,
So fleeting in memory, so present in the encrustacean of now.

A photo might do as well
For allusions a little more certain than symbols.
We are each so different, speaking up as a mime might,
A translator of other tongues practically speaking,
Sensuously lifting us up.
The high wire crackling with all that we have to lose.

The goal of only to write more,
Never to communicate as ear and stage, body and tongue.
Of course I want you.
You who hold me distant and close as sun
Irradiating, compelling the very grass to grow.

Inundated, afoul, merging borders, crossing over, from you to me,
The sacred dialogues of epiphany, self-dependence,
Openness to utter and complete emptiness, innuendo.
The novel says it best.
The song lyric boils it down – the hymn to meditation, to silence.
The boundary of our skin,
Lungs respiring, minds a glow with a project gloved and cloaked to keep us guessing,
Emerging without knowing the state of rushing bliss,
Self stated, satiated,
Tap Tap,
Tip top of a very long and involved conversation
With the dead like buckets from the well.

Put your faith in me,
Tiny servant, blade of grass, talking stick.
Put bliss with navel’s body,
Her cool line both amniotic and amnesiac.
The time come now,
Come over,
Come on your knees little flowers of the field.
On your best and on your worst,
Reliant on the reinvention of language
Each time to say again,
I see, I touch, I believe.

The sacrosanct tumor cut from living heart,
Muscle of the red ancient world
As a millennial calendar,
A thousand eclipses rubbing their eyes, top heavy
Until heads are tumbled into the river
Where the round rocks lie,
Now smooth of all edges,
Tumbled as the time of tumble weeds and witches and
Corn stalks thin from grazing.
Agricultural mother as a dying flame torch in a deep cave reveals
Ayahuasca and her retinue of pleasures and misdeeds, slick as mud.

The golden tapestry, the fatted calf, the laughing man on a short stool,
Three legged, spooling out the distant sound
As a river echoes in the morning or
The cool carries a scent from the tips of pine trees to the matted place
Where deer have slept.
The river, the left and drying hay talking up the breeze
To carry too the animal surety,
Never clothed, alert to danger or
Patiently munching what earth yields.
Gulping as blood chugs,
Down and round as
Head stone changes the surface warble just slightly
By its drowned settling.
Sand fills in.

No need of extras.
All of the originals are eager to join,
To prop up a new service class
By the line of the cannon or on the portico by the colonnade,
Topped in Corinthian foliage, Doric scrolls and
The cut soles of slaves who lost feet in the running river
Where sandals get away,
Get caught in the weeds,
Take on the decay of water and sink
With the drought still years pending to save pennies.

Put the coins on their eyes
So the dead can sleep without bothering the living.
The lurid must have its rest.
The bounty ship board can wait until the war settles the score and
The virtues of meekness become known as patience with infinity
And are revered
As the low bowls of the land eventually hold the seas.