Three cheers of a dusted dawn;

electric angels sweep the streets, and light
clouds skip stones against the still lavender
waters of the canal. Earth sings
her morning tune, low and orange
against the cool palm breeze.

Creation calms and tells
me I must start today
from the inside. No half
expressions.

Where might you be going,
I inquire of myself:
and may I meet you there?
If I bought you a cup of coffee,
would you drink it?

In the house of this morning
is permission
for re-invention. I attend to you,
my soul,
in the fruit of the day–
in the brightness of the mid-morning sun
I invite you to say your piece;
here is Emerson’s coat rack for which
to shed the prison uniform
of the parties they’ve asked you to serve.

I have
such ideas,
such ideas as to form catalogs;
layers upon layers of
contradicting ideas–
mistletoes of the stuff, gouging
holes in the concrete walls with
hairy roots that won’t stop;

to turn the page
is to turn the head and wonder
what layer of life I must have been in
to have written this.
Knowing it to be the same day!

I drape a linen picnic blanket
of permission; permission for contradiction
for continual and holy re-invention.

Feeling and knowing

it’s the only way.

Ferociously
myself, and gently
so.

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