The Observer

the joy of…

sex, cooking, painting, creation,

the joy of the ordinary, the joy of why…

in the last kiss, the last breath, the last cry.

neither dismal nor romantic,

the joy of wrinkled acceptance found on a youthful face,

the joy of ambivalence,

the joy of a simple domain from the blood of the stones. 

who is supposed to keep the gods alive?

we walk, we roam, we thrive

with music drinking a Le Sang des Cailloux.

if we can change the structure of reality, should we?

the viewpoint character, the observer,

a mysterious stranger wondering in empty eternities.

who is supposed to be a thief of fire?

the forlorn walks in ecstatic pessimism 

on the trajectory of a night of pre-drinks,

house party, after, after-afters, and the aftermath of it all.

you are but a thought. truth is the wellspring of causality…

sunset smells of breakfast for dinner.

butter and egg days easy scrambled with biscuits

and sausage gravy. 

optimism is situated in immanence. 

the joy of the joy messenger…

a good sign. follow the hummingbird of the south

in a torpor ‘frozen’ on the snow-covered feeder.

slip into the ground holding your last cup of hot bilberry soup,

into the soil recycled green rain lily,

sustenance for bees in the bonnet and silk britches. wands and bottles for the panty drawer,

that’s what’s left of the lavender.

slip into the most unique act, as unique as birth.

hope reaches out tethered to the quantum thread

free of illusion with nothing to dread.