We have declared freedom is for profit,
as our own prophet.
We have given blind allegiance to simplistic causality.
We have lived for war, funded rhetoric for armies,
remembered victories and defeats,
and carried on the surrender to the storied accounts,
that we keep alive in otherwise gelatinous time.
Yet desire finds its way into each of our lives.
Confoundedly, we, within the every possibility,
still hold our selves as separate from each other,
beleaguered and strung up on time.
If we understood freedom,
we would see that desire is laughing at us,
every step of the way.
We make choice a precision decision
as if that is the horizon line
to every painted canvass account we have of ourselves.
But desire influences the colors, the scale,
the vision, the deftmanship of hand,
even the impetus to transfer from mind
to the paint of being.
Desire is the Iwo Jima of doing,
the talons of vision’s forth-coming,
the unexpected gravity of up,
the sumptuous lips on an artful kisser,
the swarm of yes-bees
chasing the desire-queen’s calling,
the perfectly camouflaged octopus of desire
yet now revealing,
the g-force of your body embracing the evidence
of desire’s wherewithall lift and speed,
and the acoustical magic
of desire’s loud and incessant whispering.
Desire is honest, interpretation is suspect,
and choosing as if from the menu of life’s prior account,
is not the permission of spirit on desire’s behalf.
The discerning of desire,
your personal and intimate desire,
is freedom’s ascent . . .