Six Tiny Poems That Tickle The Imaginarium

Wormholes That Lead Inside the Muse’s Head

In the centrifuge of the riddle,
under the Persian rug of paradox,
past the parable’s impasse,
inside the core of the koan…
these are the rare places where wormholes dwell.
She is waiting for us to come home (inside).
With a brave dash,
and a leap of faith,
we enter her kitchen.
Milk and cookies for the soul.

El Dorado

Golden body, golden nation.
Light corona armor.
The city’s shiny battlements.
Coruscating, encrusted jewels
of lustrous power.
Homes bleeding St. Elmo’s fiery opulence.
Did it breathe and live, or was it a nothing but
a conquistador’s dream?

The Bathroom

Inside the tiled place
where the mirror reflects
the morning yawn and the midnight
stagger.
The curtain is pulled back.
Behold!
A tub filled with delicate hairs
and the dirt that wears us.

The Traffic Outside

Non-stop.
Assiduous.
Trucks and cars.
Cars and trucks.
Using precious resources,
the planet’s viscous blood.
And for what?
To beat time or save time?
What’s the point in being a bipedal species
if we sit in metallic quadrupeds all day?

We’re Perpetually High

We’re never sober individuals, so the very
idea of a sober civilization is errant and anathema
to the truth.
Exotic tastes and perfumes take us into the air
as we sail on an updraft of gratification.
Drugs stir the neurochemical soup.
Even eyesight itself,
that regal sense,
imparts to the mind symbols that
disturb the calm waters.

Source

Moments that were and
moments yet-to-come pass through
the Now circuits of us.
They fill us with all the pleasures and pains
and existential currents known to all
historians, sensualists, masochists,
and dreamers.
What we must do with them is take them back to
the Source;
collate and unite.
If we don’t, disasters always strike.