The present
is a lost state, open, on the verge,
just about to;
an abstract phenomenon
- but undeniably here,
just like falling over;
yes, the present is falling over,
always in view but out of sight,
rainbowish, horizontish,
a closed universe, the door out
is the door in;
an open prison,
handcuffs serving as wings

The present is jumping off a cliff
with folded thoughts,
kissing your loved one,
burying a cat that gulped the world;
a room, vacant, still, silent
between your heartbeats,
each beat stringed on a rosary,
as the theory of the present
lets loose a storm of bravery
and a tornado of cowardice
as you gasp, falling down the chute
of a narrow escape

You and your present
soar with the wind
through the forest;
the snow, fresh and cold,
lashing down your neck;
a fresher than fresh Satori flash
down your spine;
a hot rod shooting up
through your place in space,
a cat calling for your attention,
small birds
smoking like Marianne's hair
across Leonard's pillow
outside my kitchen window
1st February in minus 20 C,
as a hot mug
of Twinings Earl Grey
throws the golden gate
of 1967
ajar
Ravi Shankar's
1965 album Portrait of Genius
playing fucking loud,
permeating the whole house
with sitar and tabla
and the uncanny magic of youth
bursting
with life and death concerns
across from Sune's beautiful
mid-sixties sorcerer's face
gallantly opening world upon world
for me to tread
in the wild intoxication
of the holy flavour
of exotic tea,
setting the course for this life
of exploration and amazement
right there and right then

The cat sits on my lap
as a write,
looking up in my face
as if I was a god,
and I breathe into his fur
behind his ear,
between these words,
and he is happy,
and I feel warm and unworthy,
and Ravi Shankar is a beacon
of spirituality
out of a 1965 that stays far behind
but changes with every day