elbow room

and so we lost ourselves in music and sex, add a healthy dose of drugs to boot and you have the basic picture of what we were up to, all loose genitals and undone headpieces, lashing about in the frenzy of hedonism. And why not? Society had failed in providing us any meaning to our overly easy existences, and the mandate of the modern day tribe demanded that we share as many genital yeasts as possible, in order to create pheromone signatures that embodied us as a group. We were surprisingly lacking in violence, and to this we were latched: our mission was love, an amazingly irresponsible love yes, very little caring involved, but as long as we stayed warm and fed, little else seemed necessary; nevermind the slow cavern building in each of us, as the more we pursued our internal joys the more the became something indistinct, even sentimental as we were, and are, always seeking some perfect balance to reflect upon, some soft toned rhythmic music to make our heads float up above our emotions, not quite touching them, but again, feeling their yawning weight pulling out our souls.

"We live in an age where nobody is unbroken, nobody is pure or simple, and what do we do?" we dance. We dance into forms that only we can understand, past sorrow (thanks mama), into appreciations of the present moment, a new formulation: there is no past nor present nor future, just the enduring Now, brought up over and over again by our remembrances, daydreaming, plots and so forth, if only we stayed balanced we would have never had to deal with this mess in the first place.

What do you mean a mess?! she cried, feeling heartbroken, all these damn thoughts this boy had! what nerve! shame!

He turned upon himself, what a fool? indeed what a mess he had created with his own thought process: there is no shame but in the making of one's own world, he turned again and saw her beautiful as the moon, sun, all the good things combined, and reflected again: shining: what would you pass up to feel happy? all our own incomplete thoughts grasping at reality, the shining shining present, burning through our petty grievances, making us dumb, as in speechless...

wait! a feeling remains, that of this grasping at the unraveling of things, leaves unfurling:

the sky is grey and up above two geese are calling: not all have flown over yet, many feathers lay scattered over the landscape, there is poetry in the sky even though tis heavy, swollen. These damn puzzles keep us busy to the point of exhaustion, I cast myself upon the wind and open my wings: good she said, beaded lips upon the brow, breathing through the third eye down past the base of the spine, the heart straightened out now, music bristling neath the surface of the soul. Now take that sufi and dance.