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 . . .
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