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born a virgin
but with an itch to corrupt another's ways,
with a technology of modern that demands
to inflate
faster than love has learned how to go,
born a virgin
with eyes that opened
born with hands
that would not sleep until they'd closed
around something,
born like grass is
that gets mowed by fear for a neighbor's judgement
and tries again to make a tomorrow,
born like everyone
like everything
else
to try to get along.
Now
I am older
with a cellular phone in my pocket
that sometimes rings,
with addictions to fight
until I'm out of ideas for joy,
with loves to collect and dispose of
while the sun rises and sets.
my friend says that someday
we will get There.
I tell him
that There
never knew how to leave Here
behind.
write me a letter.
get in touch some way.
I've grown innocent again
because I've stopped waiting
and started to look,
but like the songs that the singers
have yet to write,
I'd like to think that you'll
get (T)here
too
someday.
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You have a powerful voice, my distant friend. You have values. A keen warrior.
Here's something I've picked up. When you love Here hard and true enough, you get a change to leave Here (which is really there) and go to There, which is where the real Here is. And once you are truly among the Living, you have the greatest influence (power) upon the glamour of the world because the Living know you don't really want the abstract rational material trinkets, or the fame, but that you are interested in boosting Love.
Ah, I recognize you: the Suicide Kid; Bodhisattva. |
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