An open ended letter to Jeff

There are seams in our reality, Jeffery,
Places where during the first six days
God left gaps for the world to create
A bit of itself; they appear sometimes
As stitches or belt loops in the fabric of time
Where the dimensions fall inward
Onto themselves, in much the same way
As people fall into and out of our lives.
One of these places is on Showalter Road.

For certain you have seen the lights
Above the cities you have passed
Fields of awareness that flash
Beckoning, signaling, warning,
And many other –I-n-g words
High above your transient place
On the surface of this manna called
Your life, not excluding your dreams.
They descend upon these voids
Filling them and making them
Into words that you can never
Have the courage to speak aloud.
If there ever were a way to be burned
By the heat of those phosphorescent
Lamps; it is in this strange pasture
Of wisdom in Maryland, a detour
With a farmhouse and some cattle.

I have seen the imaginary man dancing
in the buff, all about and around
these brilliant sky flares of seduction
As if he were a bitter cloud passing
Over the thresh-hold of consciousness.
Much like a child prancing bare feet in
The wet concrete of forgotten possible
Futures, his jig pulsates a prescient
Rhythm reiterating rather loudly in
Action rather than words the first
Thought to have plagued the conception
Of man; that same idea which we are
Forever cursed to seek, find, and know.
We three wise men, two prophets and myself,
Sat cold, cramped, alone, and traveling
Misguidedly through an revelation of rosin
Gripping the left hand of god on this road.

In a wilderness of idea reflections,
Perception mirrors, and thought traps
That led to four right turns in the night.
We found no courage to investigate this
Sideshow attraction during our human
Knee-jerk response attracting us to the
Shiny things as if their promise of
Understanding was tinsel on the tree
Of knowledge, decorated for the holidays
During a Christmas in July bargain
Extravaganza, this acre of serendipity
Set up like a flea-market dealing in the
Buying, selling, and refurbishing of creativity,
The epitome of what we call in the business:
“prostituting the muse in hopes of the divinet;br>© Lewis Goldfarb

Goldfarb.....
SEE HIM