left holding a needle
still trying to weave
one lonely strand-
stranded on an island of ritual
in a sea of potential.
We're aliens ripping out,
from of a covetous womb,
always contracting, always labor,
always “plenty to do”
for this “Lord” or that “Savior”.
Yet no birthing, no drugs,
no knives, no release.
Experience is only
by trial and inquiry.
Experiment is both
birth and abandonment,
a duality of life and death,
but still just experiment
to what is left of the world
there's no name-tag in place
only sinister feelings
between your conventions, your faiths,
we're prepared to consider
but unable to trust.
Is it abuse, is it dogma,
is it magic, is it us?
We won't believe
left holding a needle
still trying to weave
one lonely thread
threaded dismissive gray
into all tastes and rebels.
An elaborate product,
never warm, never comfortable.
decorative stitching
into the loose, tangled heap
stranded on Ritual Island
in the Potential Sea.
Just drop anchor right here
Just new. Just believe.
Just do and live and add
to this whole sweet mess of things.
