This is 5 of 9 pages
9.
If you could see the world the way I dooz
The world be wearin red high-heeled shuz.
Strutin’ down the avenue
Givin’ all the folks a terrific view
From this extra super height
All the asses look extra tight
Ain’t we pretty ain’t we great? This is the way to matriculate
Now and then, we show some lace
To elevate the mundane pace and bring on some sensual grace.
You too can do it if you try
But don’t turn chicken and start to cry
Baby, baby this is cool
Strutin’ down the avenue
Tall sexy red heeled shoes, is how we gunna spread the news.
Strutin’ here and strutin' there showin' everybody we really care
Mr./Ms there ain't no distinction ‘bout how we dare
‘cause strutins just fun and fair
10.
Garden Meditation
There is something not profound about being in the garden. There is dirt there, weeds and intended plants. There is a futile struggle going on for an order that is not natural. It is a place of encouraged beauty, sensual fragrance, and carefully tended form. It is a place of chemicals, amputees and manipulation.
When it rains, the garden renews itself and seizes the opportunity that comes when people aren’t tramping around and making noise. But the sun does shine and the noise picks up and I think the flowers show us a pretended smile as if they were good little boys and girls and I was the teacher.
I don’t own my garden.
There is special beauty in the early morning when the dewdrops are still big and in their reflection, hold a tiny giant image of all the world around them in one little drop on one little petal. These whole images are everywhere and many on the same petal or flower. I wonder how one plant with its small droplets can hold so much vision. I wonder that about some people too.
The rounded water visions disappear when the sun insists on burning brighter with light and heat. The dewdrops are flung away, into the dirt, when our dog or people suddenly brush them aside. I could hope that by falling to the ground the water might moisten the dirt and be good for the plants, but in the dry rush of the sun and its relentless push toward its death in the night the moisture is lost before it ever gets a chance to benefit the plant. It is lost into the evaporating air.
In the simplicity of the garden, mysteries are not puzzles to be solved but fantasies to be dreamed in time that does not exist. It’s sometimes best not to make things complicated. The self-hypnosis of pleasure overcomes my senses if I hesitate long enough and let the rest of the world recede like the outgoing tide that inevitably comes flooding back in again.