Song of myself:
with the subtlesea of octopus kite
moving, rippling. emerging from the deep bottom dark of sleep.
Doing an ancient sacred ritual dance modified by what its like now
Scuttling like crab on tippytoe sideways.
Then whiptale accelerating up as one smooth fish past
bubbles of light.
Breaking surface in the zoom lens of morning.
The witch who knew Columbus, daughter of the Gypsy Queen and Portuguese king is mixed up with my sister and me. Last night she made me aware of surface setting for chakra in my pineal, actually set like a giant gem in my forehead where there would be an inner eye if there were such a thing. It looked a lot like the antique glass skylights embedded in ship decks I saw in a catalog. Admitting light to the hold. Other jewels sprouted in my palms and soles of hands and feet.
So now Iım stuck with these things. I like them.
They make five. Another five.
poem goes on...
now adrift, awash, around in the pond.