Cringing cobalt that dips into salt
is all one crude call of equality needs
to endure times of ill prepared unity.

Sing song statements of good intentions
flow in dark folds, never assailed
by ineffective fissures of empty phrase.

A dared skyline blows shifting ways across
dancehalls of pale queens and tails
that never fall behind.

Dandelion dares of never let go
thrives in winds of flow snow
and all that is left behind.

Thus it is said: and this is true…
Call all girls of inventive ire
while I sit here alone, ok then, blue,
by a dark and felonious fire.

I have no part in all bells doing
and yet when all done is gone
with but I in its memory
I can only hope for a last slip
when all straying sleep is all
man may deem relevant.

There must be more
to what we call here and going,
to the story we all call gasps
at the end of intentions line,
at the end of moving
from all now, all gone.

I move to the swarming will bees:
Om Mani Padme Hum!!!
Chant, pray and dance
for the Olympic mandala’s making.
Hare human host and more!
Ave all mysteries man may marry,
driving down making it.