I Bet You Don’t Know It’s You
It’s made for me
The world is
The way i am made for me
i am the World Herself
i adore You World
You adored me first
– i just noticed
In wonder
It’s made for me
The world is
The way i am made for me
i am the World Herself
i adore You World
You adored me first
– i just noticed
This moment touches you
Oh, we’re here, here, here
Joy and you hold hands just then
To breathe,
the atom splits again
Again, again, again
Normal
What’s normal?
Who’s normal?
When normal?
How, why, normal?
Who says what’s?
Mine’s as mine as my foot size.
Defined, solidified by National Geographic
Boxes and shelves of people who almost must exist, sort of, because there are pictures
They sorta exist
You know, to be in here, to strike me
Look at that!
So I can dig in the boxes for the most shocking naked, huge, wrinkly, big bright feathery, tiny, adorable or sinking bony.
Curious dark friendly eyes slanting behind skins and furs
Naked painted long breasted moms
All that stuff on their heads taller is than they are
funny expressions
why would anyone move like that?
And in public.
Measuring the world with my foot.
Green nice
Let me see
Oh,
Orange!
Show me
Please
Come in
Through
The color of
Fresh squeezed
Fruit
This elixir of fortune
That coffee of fate
A whiskey of accident
Territory of your story
Drink it now or wait?
By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please
Simple ritual
For renewal
Bake some soup
Play the fool
The Wind
Has got
My back