{Charles Mingus::01.02.13}


scar tissue matrix

marked up on the soulmind

like the holy text of a fervent parishioner

eyes on fire, tongues strangely spoken

a certitude that she exists

in the same state and frame

of bio-chemical reaction

the demure and the coy

charged by engulfing and salacious


the man in charge of the hips

bangs out his ecclusiastics and we wail

at full speed of crashing atoms

and a rhythm evermore sexual

pounds out from the heart of the piano


and every time she makes it okay to be

it’s a supernova of gratitude

reaching at the preaching rafters

even the wood in the room

seems to sway under her spirit magnetism

with my home planet in tow

and knows that ‘heal’ sounds a lot like ‘howl’.

there is an esoteric knowledge,

in the heart




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