The Papaya Tree

With one pebble, one ripple,
one wave,
the ocean moves, shorelines erode,
highways disappear.

There’s always something else,
something more, I crave,
yet,
everything I want is right here,
right now. Inside me.

One line, one poem,
one heartbeat.

I’ve known angels and demons
and roller coaster rides.
I’ve sailed into sea caves and
gone to sleep on silk sheets,
but I’m happiest when I’m typing
one word.

This
one.

I’ve chased money and women and drugs.
Looking for love in the weirdest of places.
Didn’t know all along it was behind my breastplate.
The best case scenario: I’m late to my funeral.

The wind sighs. Lungs winterize.
My eyes conspire. Mind pacifier.
No longer a seek-or-hider.

Spoiler alert. Twist ending.
I’m the thing I was chasing.

Each tree, every branch, and
all the leaves are a manifestation
of the sun and the rain
and the Earth
and me,
in the shade,
reading a book,
writing a poem,
dreaming about a pill
of memory, a hit of love,
a shot of divinity, an absolute
moment where everything comes
together perfect and pure,
a purple sky,
a parade of stars,
the point on the end
of the sword
plunging into
the abyss…

Oh, cruel beauty,
photogenic monster,
this schizophrenic symphony
of pleasure and pain and mundane
Mondays through sundry Sundays
have me swivel-necked and Twizzler-dicked;
superfluous poetics stuffed in my pockets have me
weighted like anchors and juvenile gangsters
with a gun stashed in their waistlines.

I’m carried away by the slightest touch,
whether a fist or lips, they both leave bruises,
one disappears and one’s invisible. So hand me the thorn
or hand me the rose, they both come from the same
cold ground, where I stand, on tulips and tombstones,
humbled and heroic, looking for a hymn to hum.

A song to sing.

A singer, a singular lyric, a note that makes me tremble before
this bliss and madness, the all-encompassing everything,
the cloudless days and the mist, transpiring into a
typewriter ribbon spelling out…
this is all I have and this is all I need
as mourning doves settle on the wire, and nighthawks
sleep in submersible serenades, I wax moon-spun
tales of my eternal, infinite being and the dementia
of its spiraling shadow. They dance together,
tangoing underneath the papaya tree,
for 16,000 years or a half second,
it’s all the same in a
gravitational
wave.

There are 8 billion of us, but there is just one me.

I’m everything I’ve been looking for.

Custom-made.

Square. Circle.

Radius.

Six-squared
Nirvana.

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