Norman Allan
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we are like a sphere of light
and our wounds tune us

for Linda



do we have to  she whispered
and that sent me away off
to Gaza    and another life

I tend the mules
I am alone
and these are not my people
   another life
   with no joy and no reprise

yes  we have to  I answered
and it sent me away
with the infinite dragon      Ouroboros,
tapping my shoulder as
I spun through mirrors
into what many lifelines

the last lap behind the mirror
I was an Edwardian gentleman
walking my fields
shotgun in hand      and
I was a mother partridge
wondering whether to break cover

was there a boom
and I was back in the room
awake gazing at the "gas fire"
(a British room's,
mid-twentieth century
gas fire    they glowed    red    and blue)

the child! something's wrong with
the child's imperiled

It was three months later
the motor vehicle accident
the child through the windscreen
minor injuries
but her mother mauled
(no wonder she hadn't wanted to stay
for the long haul)

and what is the relevance
    somehow it relates
    to the "doom"


I was sitting meditating
a lifetime later
and boom
like a shotgun's blast
in the guts
under the diaphragm
like a kick from proverbial mule
I've never felt a greater pain
a full thirty seconds     more
oh my God

Irritable Bowel Disease
is a diagnosis of exclusion
so there we go
it was     "paroxysmal"
and it returns on occasion
though only when I'm "flying" high
and less and less
   three years on its devolved
   to a nausea
yet still
this doom    looms
down in the belly


I was flying
with you
and Moon

you pointed to your crystal pendant
a tangerine quartz
a small pendant
wrapped in copper wire
smaller     much smaller     than your little finger

Moon gave me this you said
and it was aglow
a glowing star
spiculated      symmetries
unlike     not like a snowflake
more like something out of Star Wars
small     gentle     yet bright     light

I gasped
mother     it shines!


so sitting beside you
after the ceremony
the "puja" chanting
the other day
flying again
(we'll use that euphemism [with this apology]
for a pot-stoned psychedelic what'sit)
holding your hand with
a walnut-sized ball of light
between our palms
a cool light like the tangerine starship's
that light present too
here now then just out of view
and a while on   a while gone
my mind tracked to that doom
and a little epiphany bloomed
in my belly

we are like a sphere of light
and the wounds tune us
pain brings     pain rings a tone
that colours our being

and that's the tale
the little I've tumbled
of the tune
of the doom

(and there   too   then
I was massaging my "pecs" a pain connected
and Mel injected
what's going on there?

I'll write you the story   I said

so this is the tale
so far
my gleanings
of the wounds
that are shaping
my world









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