my slippers 

are old and ratty


and old TV shows

are on the tube


and Iā€™m not sure

if I can find a way

to express myself

and stay attuned.


And I tread across

white hot coals and splinters

and the ravages of time

are worth the cost of freedom

we ever assume to conduct.


Oh, but to dance along

to the pulsing organ jazz;

the urge to move

continues to plague me

as I can not stand still


and the later we get;

the denser the hazy glare

of sandalwood incense

that dictates the tempo

and the fever of the Koran

is settled into melody.

But what will remain

is a simple memory

of the drumbeats as they hammer

and another page is written

and a new wrinkle unfolds.


The wind is still whipping up

a racket as windows are rattled

and raindrops pound the roof.

I am yet awaiting 

that grandeur of inspiration

as new illusions are born.


The fissures in the ceiling 

are squeaky and threatening

to reveal concealed secrets 

and I can only think

of ways to pulverize the vision

into accessible cadence.




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