Regardless of what “society was founded on” and blah blah, deep human defies Dark Alleys: a third way, a fourth, a fifth, however much it takes…
But we can have our dialogues with Time, our pleas with Time, our diatribes against Time, at any time. We can say, you know, “Just stop. Cease. Desist. Beat it. Leave me alone!”
Like when she complained, “The psychic told me I’ve no aura. She looked at my palm and said that. She doesn’t know how I lost my aura, it’s just gone. At ten bucks a year she would research my life to find out where my aura went to, which isn’t so bad on the surface, but she brought up the possibility of ‘pre-birth’ experiences, past lives. It could cost me, this psychic doctorate of hers. ‘Apply for a grant,’ I told her. Madame Kava Kava or Java Beans or something like that. Didn’t really catch her name. I tossed her card. Why? You really want to see her?”
We know the pleasant smell of skin; beginnings entice us to rise, still, yet, again, despite redundancies of mourning (transformed, through practice, into ecstasy), pleasure the first thing on our minds.
Take another look. Painters of the screen might startle us with stark imago, but outdoors we are safe. It is (has always been, really) within our power to elude sophisticated instruments, come face to face with Angels.
NOTE: Not flat-foot tattle-tales of yore; spooks, gumshoes of Almighty’s seraphim surveillance 24/7 and forever; but lusty, meaty spirits like ourselves.
Listen to me: don’t fear the next line. Masturbate, soliloquize, expose yourself, defy legerdemain of Master Puppeteers, again again again, even unto curtain call and Reckoning.
Subvert The Judgment, so much hype and ballyhoo, into The Blessing.
Latent, for now; not specifically “what God decreed,” unless red smolders pink, and lifetimes, that is, Lives in Time, declared mere hiccups, sneezes, fads between Eternal Before and Ever After, by The Righteous — in their perverse obsession to be led.
Never. Never. Never. Never. Never.
We shared a cigarette before the dance. And no one else in her peculiar t-shirt, boxer shorts and pointy boots, her Panama hat and hyacinth tattoo. When Beauty doesn’t knock, but batters down the door.
We recognize such moments in association with background music and olfactory stimulants. Hopelessly nostalgic for moments never known. Sooner or later we’ll wise up to all that.
Or maybe, in some later innocence, the desire to say what is Profound and Meaningful will drop, a dead weight from our tongues. We’ll know again plain longing — for Union, inexorable, though deferred.
So don’t say “Can’t get any better than this,” because it will.