The Original ‘Productive’

Supine, paralyzed in absence of your affection. Home
is where the love lies to rest. Glimmer in the eyes.

Sobriety - no such attainable finality, when blacked
out and wasted on the spell you cast upon me.

I could never blame you but only bow down in
worship of God, the force so far beyond yet inside.

Tears refusing to land, I hear the distant sessions of the
artists’ beautiful sounds of sorrows imprinted in song.

‘No self, no problem’ - a convenient wishful thinking
sort of approach to the human condition. For,

the observer in me screams to you - this little part of 
the self. I cannot hear you if you will not speak to me.

I will try to not hesitate, although sometimes the most
needed action is watching myself cease to act, replace.

In the dream, they approached and voiced suspicion
that the messages I deliver stink of insincerity.

No, no! Trust that this piece knows what it is doing.
I know how to deal. I see why you run. I too, find it

to be madness. When everything was lost, time 
returned to their rightful everlong. I become ok.

Part of the story, this infinite telescoping zoom - begin
with me here in this soft, safe bed. Upwards, enlarged,

diminished. Mirrors on the walls, street, waterway. Bird’s
eye view as I fish and await the right-sized minnow.

Nothing will obscure the way of one destined to handle the
root of it all. Your presentation leaks from your chest.

Cerebral and spinal.
Honey in spirit of love.

Turn around