some name i forgot from another brrrothel of i

[Guest guest]

Dogwood trees, Do you love me wood

and Mazie trees, all born

fom One Viable Seed

so viably very Yes to the most married lip-service to Lovekind.

Kali O Kismet O Karma, and yet,

and but, this very air around here,

which b breathed to be b, teaches me surrender

and the samba of solo steps and and a silly little smile

so wit-filled in white and wait a minute wooing.

A simpleton grin gouges my face

like Teddy

on Rushmore in reverse.

Vamping like Theda Barra, bhava-bare-breasted and Light-chested,

the necessity of verity, verily I say this –

It disappeared!

A so-spearing insight of swimming

in a smooth circle, archetypal-type sunfish of I

and mine,

it is, it is severed fom the ties to setting myself up,

like the bheda-bhava bowler’s dream,

undaunted by being set up by the Friend.

Very cute vasana going vamoose feets

fearing nothing are furrily

falala-ing fearlessly

and all this trip’s

gone gold and little girls we're thankful for,

they are the Name of This today.

Girls in pre-pube gab garbs,

bards of Nubian Goatness, nubile and mobile,

garnered wisdom in a pit with bodies half-eaten…

Silence and the Seva to Sunyata is all around us now.

The sound of snow falling in Donner Pass

was subliminally loud.

i heard it in Oroville in Astral Orbit of "Uh-Oh..."

In this Unfathomable Tableau of Tat,

of Shiva Nataraja nodding in umber

as we slumber in sapphire stitch,

fathoming the fur-fathomness of Hari,

i longed to be had and the had hitched up,

head to head,

bone to brain in bright blush

until the head was led off

on a leash acoss the wide plain of Wonder.

I wonder….hmmm ummmm yummmm…

This Heart has no walls.

Only fire and ash dash-dance....

slash and burn churn out chinks in the armor.

i am become the moving night

of sky

sparking and mooning

God's "Hello Playmate!"

Scattered fffluuufff as human stuff, and gorge,

and oh, and by the way,

conceptually harvested chaff of the Laugh

by way of folks liken’ and jai-ing it and yikin’ it too -

a ruse to confuse the head still attached to outcomes!

And Hey! Kheyala!

Kiss the Zacksters and Anandaji reeeeeaaalll gooood, girlfriend,

for Moi and Vous and et tu Brutus are but a mumble of Mirth

that the First Jester jested in as the truth of trotting us out

as Mothers of Madman Mystics.

i think sometimes all mothers "Make His Day."

And in the color of the Dharmic Dogwood’s thoughts,

I introduce

my self,

if it’s quite quiet and and the cosmic carpenter's next door to me

dallying and doing the 'dig it, can ya dig it, Baby,' stage,

Love and Jnana joints are buzzing

up

in the atmosphere with mantras of Om and Oy,

and Baby Baby Baby,

they’re ae so darned enjoyable to fizz open,

even and especially when etched in frustration!

In the stretch & bloom and burn away of I as experience ,

I drink the inbetweenness of the zoom,

of the zero around the circle of think.

In the bare branch stage,

the age for the wanton calyx to bud,

to blossom in its own twig and stem,

jade finger leaf and lilt lets it all out

and Auld Lang Sygne,

a swan of a signature greeting and good-by in the bad spelling,

breaks all time constraints

and paints

the entire tree

in pink

or white

or pink and white delight and sometimes,

sometimes my so-sweet friend,

the trembling liana and leaf of belief

and torridly tantalizing tint of dharmaic dogwood petals,

falling,

gets a woody for Wu and even you,

a fully ripe rose in the know,

glowed-open,

gobbling light like

It was sustenance,

a simpering Jacob's limp of sure-fire Fire

offered as yoni-dogs.

Whining for the self-same sensation of the first heated flush

of blush, begins the fast-track

to the Pond

in the Sky of Heat.

The perp in this cyber claim to comic crime?

Teehee.

Why it’s I, it’s me, Dear Dogerels of our dog-earredness

of the book of Life,

the lip-synch of the Dogwood clan of man.

"I think I can…I think I can….i think I can…."

And the little blue engine that couldn’t and wouldn’t,

it could and did.

I coulda been a contenda for blue-belted bliss.

I coulda been somebuddy burst from the into of blue bags

of peanut men

parodying the Parrot-God around spreckles of lake, but

I was cut in the split of light's precision of decisionlessness.

In the sighting of I,

sighing casually and yawningly, Love flames arose,

calling out in curled singed fronds,

limbically lawning and lauding into fresh fern fables…

and the sun that would cool-burn at high lift,

It lifted off the foggy-goggles of

"God,

oh God

oh my, and my this why stinks of couldawouldashoulda.

Can’t never could and I couldn’t claim any doership then,

or now

or ever if I am really really reveling in the wisdom

of Weatherlessness as my whoop and howl.

It was a gift to green and the thing is,

The thing IS, that I is you

and you is me,

and in-between that lump sum of Love,

the Lotto of Love, Won,

we is thee, ala umni

and Alley Oop is giving it all up now, swinging

cowless and yes, YES, free of tree or liana-wannas.

See and say says it like this, like Rumi said to Shams-i….

In digressionlessness of the ditty -

My love wanders the rooms tint,

in Rapture real and red and dead to don’t and no,

most melodious, me thinks,

flute-notes, plucked wires,

full of wine-spills on the rug

that the Magi drank in draughts of starlight,

in quaffs of Heart-Light

on the way to Bethlehem,

in the ambling onwards to Mecca and Carlotta.

Ruby-hued with Rumi's view, in this, we were slain -

"We are three. The moon comes

from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water

down in the center. The circle

Of surface flames.

One of us kneels to kiss the threshold.

One drinks, with wine-flames playing over his face.

One watches the gathering,

And says to any cold onlookers,

This dance is the joy of existence."

Dogwood and Dovewood does me in.

The Friend, the flashy Friend for Fana

kindles

the fire mounted on all fours

for our funeral,

already attended.

Fling a fistful of flowers in the hole

of who we thought

we were

or are

and watch a blossom rise,

Fragrant,

from those dead flower bowls!

LoveAlways,

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