May 25 by The Running Son
And Leo ̊Ŀ̍̉aughʂ
Well bust my dome.
Been byzantine blown.
Top-offed, tossed out
to dark-star soul yards as chaff
And girl, I hit ground hard.
Made it to safety in a Lazy-boy.
Sat back and cracked Tolstoy,
and Leo laughed.
I said, “daft jack-bastard!”.
Then he kicked my sorry cali-ass.
Leo laughs last, and breaks domes
like God breaks math.
Old poets phone home
to find ET fast asleep and dreaming
of Our god reaching, touching man,
dome-head seeking Unkle-Sam
and his white-washed band
for background music.
I’m too sick for math and dream juicing.
Licked. Thrown back to
the oldest geometric past, mad-dogged
and told to sit.
So I sat, til new roots passed
through old boots.
Then grass and new chutes took me back
to first blues–
where no domes block time-views.
There, moments closely know years
like old groans,
like odd Thomistic news
of God finally proven through you.
Odd, if not moving the way
matter explodes into energy, shock waves
back to first matters, your first loves.
Tattered by shrapnel from above, perhaps,
but falling will do that.
Fall and Winter slow roots.
New life makes leaves shimmer
and the skies all quiet
And you, leaves
working by all laws of growth,
conceive of a wind
to carry you, off, and high up
to the land of domes:
white and red, and cream,
and home to mockers and drones.
You will be the head.
A woman atop domes and able to see heaven,
And the throw-back comedy of stars
passing stars going home.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.
blu butterflies live freee.