Streaming No. 24 in F Sharp

She, sinewy, willful and playful. An exotic, striking pet (my pet). The best pet around, danced and grooved. For she couldn't say nothing at all. Women never can say nothing. They know too much. Like a wave through a meadow in a thunder storm. It makes little sense to me. But, it is powerful and unrelenting. My nostrils flair and I must take deep breaths. Slowly; one, two, three. It brings feelings and in the end; is that not what we have? Or, better yet the common calling we gallop to?

Once, maybe a thousand years ago, in the cold shower of realization, I said, shouted even in my head: feel, feel, feel! A thousand years later, here, unobtrusive and calm I am a flickering lightbulb. Coming and going, giving light but not enough to shine on the world. Yet, the muse is not without electricity but a constant switch that comes with a swift air of self destruction. sprinting up the steps and almost reaching the top, I, for it is I, stop. And, I step down three steps at a time. Stepping over the same old ground. Repeat the cycle.

Up and down those steps, there are things. Shiny and dark things. Cold and warm things. Likable and mean things. The understandable and confusing things. And a great Mystery up on top. Without a scent or a sound but so alluring. A thousand years ago the Mystery annoyed all the voices in my head. Keats, old boy, you were right; negative capability is my dear friend. Poet or not, human or humane; the Mystery is to be. Forever open handed to it but knowing it's an uncatchable butterfly.