paradox of distant closeness

paradox
in a distance
12 universes away, multiverse explained
living a duel life, not ordinary
alive and colorful
complete
married as lovers, as elite humans on a crooked edge of love’s hold
a perfectly constructed tree house in front of a blue ranch
a river in back
us inside
me playing with kids
wrestling, tickling, laughing
you watching and smiling
delighted in us
in a distance not close
not even slightly attainable
in paradox of distant closeness

and then i knew you

i knew everything
and then I knew you
spellbound by synchronicity
cosmically divine chance
again
and it wasn’t supposed to happen again
but i know it well
undefinable nuances that push two unwilling souls together
i’ve been versed, you see, on how to fine tune strings of theory
no longer someone else’s student
no longer an amateur
and through meditation
they speak
two connected souls
and through a mystical universe, unyielding to love
they, unable to be hand in hand, connect

sunday morning with ginsberg

lying in bed, embracing a poet’s solitude. sorting out visions from last night’s meditation. sitting by a stream, peaceful. vibrant, deep hues of lush bushes and leaves. so green as if in a painting of an irish landscape. a butterfly, sparkling in sunlight, deep-ocean blue. i follow it to a steep mountain. suns’s glare blocking peek from sight. hand over eyes, shielding, attempting to see. and then him, appearing like a vision in a vision. majestic. he stood, looking down into me, beyond eyes into angelic soul, beyond skin into a river of connectivity between my art and my thoughts. his head blocking out glare. taking my hand, steadily walking up steep mountain as if his presence lessened burden of task. we sat on mountain’s peek which opened into a grassy field and stared out at foreign cities and forests ablaze with cosmic vibrations. my heart to his and his to mine, touching, speaking their own language and us, just smiling, knowing. and so, reaching out to ginsberg, swallowing his words whole, sweet juicy peaches, sunday morning. what thoughts i have of you this morning, naked friend, staring at me from your own mystic visions. father poet, did i inherit gift from you? does madness i embrace echo your own? share some grapes with me. we can discuss supermarkets, blake and sunflowers over the sun-rise dynamo in machinery of our enlightenment.