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Morning Instructions

Open a door behind
the left ear - rooms
of light pour their seeds
into the mud where
you'll bend down to scoop
them up.  This moment -
when everything touched
becomes yours, brimming
with the heat of overworked muscles
(pushing through)
with the cool movement of water hands
(giving way)
- makes the mind
split like a log, still
green inside.  A child
sprouts from under
the axe.  Blood flows
in rivers through
the eyes and mouth.  You say,
"I see what I want."  "But,
you've already eaten
everything," I tell you.
We catch the fresh
fish of desire still
writhing in our hands, cut
their heads off, and throw them
into:  buckets
         brains.  You know what this feels like -
to drown in self-doubt without
a line or a word to carry you.  
You might think, "I am cold,"
being pulled out of this thick
stream of pleasure, sticky
as tar.  But, when sucking
on each sentence, catch
yourself - breathing - and forget
why you've come.  Do not
imagine the taste
of milk chocolate or
of rotting fish.  Do not
imagine your head rolled
in butter and cinnamon, slipping
under the sheets - one sweet
dream after another.  Do not
imagine these places:  attics filled with old toys,
                                 caves of severed limbs,
                                 knots of wire in the bowl of
                                 your stomach.  Don't
imagine absence, either.  Don't
imagine the room without
light or matter.  Don't
give isolation or
presence a second thought.  Don't
think of another or
of yourself beside you, sleeping -
keeping the body warm.

26 Dec 09

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Good poem full of great imagery and imagination. Of course not thinking about things described is not possible, so defy description and wait for the flow to begin again.
 — JohnW