July 15 by The Running Son
۩ • tabula ɼasa • ۩
Hemingway couldn’t narrate
the experiences we’ve been through.
We’ve seen fate pretzeled, put to the test,
(almost snapped), stretched thin
until it’s see-through.
From him to her, me to you,
inside our private chat room for two,
diets of sin were served (tasted first)
and tables reserved.
But I’ve heard
when tables get set in flowers and words,
courageous confessions follow,
turning heads and sounding the crazier
being absurdly sent
via two chat-window dimensions:
Then, meanings get bent, go uncorrected
(the moon herself appears low, and half crested).
During makeup sessions and lessons learned
my eyes drip with that same tack with which
old candles burn.
I bet your world was raining––flowing in verbs
of reaction––tag clouds placed
to block a facebook all-systems shut-down
The way we blasted, and launched fantastic
cannons of attack, my best defense was that
of no action.
To give in will never happen.
It ain’t about winning or self-satisfaction
but me hoping my plan of action
will narrate an etch-a-sketch magic gate,
a place (and table) to set a clean plate,
accepted with gratitude
in the spirit it is granted:
Manna from heaven,
tabula rasa: a brand new
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.