by Lance Larsen
When will we evolve past he and she, past skin, past desire sweeping our bodies like tulipmania through a lowland country with too many windmills? I'm still waiting for the Reformation of wanting, for some witch doctor of eros to dissolve the space-time continuum and replace I, I, I, with diffusion: an unwalked field of grassy light, sun dogs and gimply clouds above, the slow grind of plate tectonics below. To sing and be sung, like mitochondria channeling Song of Songs. Can't we learn from sky touching earth everywhere, but preferring salt marshes and junked cars to Arcadia? The chaos of birds landing on a winter wire, then sweetly bruising the sky in iterations of winged thirst? This too is desire. Shouldn't wanting be more like water, with its devouring patience, more like particle and wave, morning saying Shalt and Shalt not out of one clean mouth, forgiving, ionizing, rearranging snow into glacier, glacier into trickle, trickle heated into steam that pushes a locomotive through a stunned village in Nepal, where all jump on, ghosts, paralytics, mourning grandmothers, and no one checks your ticket?
minus the distracting questionable font choice of the publisher. ha