Connotations Of Reality

Rolling, washing, awakening:	in an ocean where probability waves its gnarled hand like fingers stroking a breast

Every triad of waves clashing producing a congruence of effect that sums to certainty

Leading hand shapes what following hand wrests from the dirt Clay Feet of Hands of Hands in, shaping

dependence, Father, in, truly my sin How could I have dared to be proud, since you stood there watching, unseen waiting for me to achieve waiting to strike me down for making and thinking and shaping the earth, my life

How could I dare when my only care was to avoid the dirt in my mouth, molding the underworld

waiting always; it teaches me nothing being nothing, nothing in being has to say anything just a finite loop in a nameless, name-needless, numinous infinity

But now, Father, I've done everything you've demanded I no longer dream Cringing in bed, instead of sleep, there is only the voice of my worthless soul crying to you Father thank you, thank you Father for having taken everything, even me

Now I lay across the grass rain sweeping, soaking my rags into my skin;	I've given everything to the poor, now I am poor; who will give to me?

But just before I've inhaled my first breath of mud, I remember

to shape the soil to by my toil nurture growth training interchange, both he shifts my fingers, even as I mold him a tiny figure on congealing soil he stands free and alone and turns on me with blue eyes sparking freedom

him gone tears of rain coursing my flesh uniting my flesh, my corpse being born whole at last entire to begin life before death putting it in order

to shed a skin of irrational patriarchs, rinsing my frere from my body

allows me to pour metric tons of metal like liquid flowing light like sun raining across my mind into molds of soil Filling in nanosecond digital realization my only one grows with movement and toil

Hands in, shaping Hands of Feet of Clay:
	what following hand wrests from the dirt Leading hand shapes

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