something playful

there is light in my garbage

I know not from whence it springs, large and unseemly

places inside of places

black coffee, rum, and constructions

of badly sculptured cigarettes

what the fuck do you think you are

some kind of fucking cowboy

some hipster detritus

pastiched from a world that has

equalized virtue

imagized virtue

virtue responds:

hey, I shine, as if shining

would ever be enough

to burn the sugar and mix the paint

emerge into intrinsic value

submit to extrinsic death

the doom-that-comes-from-without

perhaps bogie plays the role of bogart

in celestial noir; perhaps the cake

perhaps the painting

consume themselves:

exchange of value and virtue

rusting wheelwells on the river-bottom

are playgrounds for the fish

contextualized by water

they breathe themselves

I wear waves like fins

oxidized on my cowboy's brim

disclosing:

a hundred years too late

to exist

the body of the eye

Detailed Explanation

Sorry, I've been out for a while, woolgathering and collecting shards of a life.

A Gatha:

Surely, as you crept through the mazes and tunnels that compose transition

as you were born, and equally as you died,

as you fell into falling and rose, the arising again to fall,

you were made through your searching lost?

*

O Shakyamuni

inwardly folded

Embroidery of Light

The diamonds and pearls

of your mirror-garment

are the skins and husks

Of lifetimes

of the cell, proliferating

ten thousand lives