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Glorious shining light notorious shine down upon me today. Just one ray is glorious! |
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Purring came from the kitten smitten, no whisker stirring, sounding sleep on the cushion, paws pushing for the purring. |
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Figures flying ice resemble assembled blades bigger when time's trigger trembles for wind's icy figures. |
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Birds fly the sky swiftly cackling, crying, "cuckoo," culling curds, dropping turds, and tightly baffling butterflies fearing laughing birds. |
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Butterflies, hosts of rare bounty, beauty often under-buys time's fluttering. The wing replies: erase lies to butterflies. |
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The godly boy bore the laurel on his elfin head with his grinningly selfish, sail-fin, tail-spin shimmering, sensual, secret smile. And oddly, he much wanted to bodily be the godly. |
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Bill drove down the isle of delight not once disappearing with fright at the thought or the breath of scandal's quick death nor Starr's obscene pounce from the Right. |
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First to arrive on the wings of Hades was artificial inseminations, next, the Petri dish and test tube babies, then AIDS soon swept across God's creations, the Lewinsky Disease ripped up nations to blight the career of the greatest Rex and introduced to male politicians fear and a chilling effect upon sex. Then came cloning: sheep, mice, loss of ladies. Perjury bloomed, Elephant confections. Crime! cried Starr, and McCarthy-like crazies. Like AIDS he swept across God's creations. Throughout Washington shriveled erections made men's lives both public and private wrecks. Whoever indulged in fornications must suffer chilling effects upon sex. The Witch-hunt escalated like scabies. Luckily the people of most nations ignored the Press Corps infectious rabies, mourned AIDS sweeping across God's creations. They allowed for pleasure's recreations, for men and women's reflective, complex deep'ing horror of manipulations, refused to chill love of God-given sex. The wine is gone and the songs are gone, moral AIDS sweeps throughout God's creations. The demagogue, led by a harlot's hex, manufactures crimes and chills via sex. |
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The air fires around me at night, by day the sun cremates the world. The little candle for light burns until the leaves are curled. |
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Devayani opens Rumi -- again to emptiness spilling across time's light. Dimly aware of the deep and terrible yen that lies like wind in the West, shutting the night, inexorably cloudless, moonless, nothing's horizon, dotted with stars, covers the site of unforgotten dreams. What were those things Devayani remembers, opening dalhias of the mind, bongo-ing round resounding rings? But pause, listen to the subtler hum of the bayas conjuring the infinite layas, the lore, the intricate pattering beat of the playful dayas across time's and eternity's shore just before the jhala, still in the jor. |
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What speaks, O Wind, what drifts from the sea? Where? Why she? She listens. She learns. Her heart a quorum, transparent, glass, needing its full share of soft, elemental, poisonous thallium. Highly charged, the East blows from the West. Nor can one ignore the inevitable sum: the distance of time, of land, the soaring poor, the delicacy of plucked feelings, maya's stress, genethliacum's celebration, and war against nature's distress. Mankind's jayas shatter Nirvana's peace with an awful roar, of fruitfulness piled up to rot, like papayas tenderized, devoured by buzzing flies that soar in populations too rich within earth's store. |
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Listen to the music, the music, the music, in the Wind, the Wind, West Wind blowing East, East Wind blowing West, crescendoing, pyrrhic confrontations between the mind and the eye, and, crucially, the pain to underscore the raping leap over half the sky from where older, wiser Gods still pour favors for libations once sprinkled by kings. More than ever, music touches the core of what can be loved, exchanged, restored. Singings sough in the evening light, opening the door to vines that shall reveal overt entwinings: earnest, root and leaf, deep and low rapport, searingly white as the frosty, colorless hoar. |
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Mankind's creation, made from nature, is the whore. As the wind moves, silk among the silver stars, live in the air and lyrically dance, pore over chandas and ragas that heal the scars of gouged wounds pliered by needs, wants, loves -- patterned boons like rugs from Isfahan, Fars. O Wind across the desert, the sea doves fly beyond reach of man's revisioning mind, while to hawks he offers his hand-skinned leather gloves unaware of the inter-meshing of kind, of the galaxies spherical wholeness within the tears of being. Will you run out of words, of tined dreams of pain, Devayani, of enmeshed careers fighting for triumph, igniting wily fears? |
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The winds blow across the desert, the sedge. There's nothing to stop the sand, the dew. The solar winds circulate. Call it sargam or solfege, beneficent notes inhabit the world's jar of clear sounds and rasas. Drink deep, hear well, circumambulate, turn the hunter's radar upon heaven and earth. Search. Listen. The bell, the chrism await the wind, the wind awaits recognition, the bronze gong's awful knell. O Devayani, emptiness fills up fate's space, space fills emptiness. The double helix twists like Pele's hair, gossamer fine plaits, and black. Blown in the wind, the flickering wicks extinguish nothingness beyond the Styx. |
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There's a fine little horseman forty miles straight to the right, beneath the slope, near the slight rise where the land appears in tiers and one bird cries, where the sun now spills enough gold to create shadows to illuminate the bones of fate, and the silence lies like feathers, and vies with the wind to inhabit the land while wise creatures scuttle from the bright light to vacate the world for God! who made the sand and the salt, who hoisted the mountains and flattened the plains who watches with one jaundiced eye the assault against the world's highest, white, sinistrous chains, against the cold desert, the colorless vault, who, from sincipital cups, drinks at my veins. |