my stomach,
stained with blood and coffee,
and I drink with a consumptive gaze
greedily at the tip of the root hanging from Earth's core,
the Indian tree,
swelling as it sways
to the rhythmic tuning of the cordial universal spring,
and so the strung chords of the world's birthing are plucked
duly, with grand motion over the starboard ocean rains
tunneling into a thunderous vision,
the pierced hawk
eyeing ground from atop the archaic skies of timeless dream,
the soundless above slips beyond the social canopy,
and Confucius prays for love
in the Taoist grave of Saturn's eyeless pupil
memorizing the pages of our life's trunk become engraved
with a stoned ape's tug,
at the hairless chord,
our once upraised wilderness
now chained
to European drug lust
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