--
He could not say how;
it simply 'is the way' events are connected
to one another,
Like the way glass is connected to water
as the 'glass' 'of' 'water' is drunk down
in the midst of the desert who helped create it.
They arrive
(The stories, the patter of a child's
new-to-this-world feet
running for the fairytale,
running for dragons who appear
and disappear,
leaving a scale behind to weigh himself
after the cease of each long sprint.
This glowing great lizard's
blinking off and on,
for the sake of such chases,
searches that keep Hydeandgoseek
as the last name of a rich oil barren
that no one ever meets,
never greets,
because he's tied himself to the
end of a drilling rig's drill bit
in order to circumnavigate his deep,
narrow world
as many times as possible
before this world finishes its of him.)
These arrivals;
nearly ready for you
to dream into them
any story wanted
and yet they too
take something back with them,
spinning it to weave the high opposite
of lackluster luck,
crocheting this into their existences,
New spider webs built upon old silk fasteners,
new spider webs built upon smashed coffee
cups so to catch the emotion
buzz-orbiting it,
To esophagus-drain the yelling
between such radiant,
gloss black holy-pinchers,
To process the disappointments
at the tips
of millions of years
of arachnid evolution.
They take something back with them.
To give in what was given out of themselves,
without altogether knowing how it is that 'they'
are 'They' and a He & She can make a him or her
all over again for the sake of a happening or
happenstance,
No planning on the 'parents' parts,
and yet a significant 'part' in the Stage's ageless
reciprocating quality nonetheless...
While what the child really feels,
(unbeknown to the mirage's so-careful-oasis built)
goes alongside him
deep into such jungles as these,
'As these'?
Imagine the jungle who keeps your heart beat
sacredly by the fire's side,
neither a warring thumping
or a celebration's promise of an end...
With Regards;
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