potential

You say goodbye to the messianic sky, the bygone blues, the gray and laden clouds. You say goodbye to the books and baubles of the shelf. Rifle through the boxes, turn every pocket inside out, put aside the labors you owe to ghosts as you wander these avenues of the labyrinth. No one answer will ever do. Every traveler down the same shared path has a journey all their own. You lean against a pillar. You sit upon the bricks. There goes the scrub jay, there goes the crow, all these inseparable alones. The green anointing every crown, the roiling at the roots. 

Heaven in the grip of blue, sunlight slathering the opportunistic greens, grim and ebullient in the same smoking skin. Two or three beasts to feed in the deep belly, tricky wishes and fiddle fights, skull stuck schemes become breath and bone in the knucklehead domains. Some fief lord or haughty daimyo, some weird claimant to one realm or another, the monkey always ready to show its ass. Reading the crowd sourced world with the gaffed hierarchy of us angst ridden apes. Everything happening all at once, somehow always ending up about us.

The words strung around the tree, the palpable anticipation of that forever imminent eminence, the allied appetites and that tragically eager urge towards the precipice of yes, ands. We pass the sacred phrases back and forth, sewing the saying into the say so, at once sacred offerings and melodramatic grifts. So we sing and serve the thick of matter, the dreaming we drift through, the passing of the visible spectra on a soap bubble’s surface. I smoke and grumble, the bardo between the ruins and the dust. Another fuse lit to spark and fizzle. The trees as green as I can see, the earth speaking in everything.