I frolic in the garden of gods and goddesses

with fairies and figments of my id.

I frolic on roads with lotus flowers and chalices of rum,

on pastoral roads with warm breezes, lack of scrutiny and amoral love.

I stand naked in moonlight mist with arms outstretched

defying smirking faces and complacent stares knowing full well

it is my own judgment that matters.

I have danced to a lyrical romanticism as my superego analyzed every step.

That sweet pantheism rebels the Victorian ethic

as it pushes the ideal into the lost dream where Arthur

wandered and Prufrock lingered with Selwyn’s yellow eyes,

wasting away in early decay.

Birds are fed by the earth, free of karma.

With clenched fists, I open fingers and fall asleep

back in the forest, after the gods have turned to stone,

and history has explained itself as fallen angels or ambitious egoists.

I reckon the desire to kiss the abyss

without falling into black waters, drunk on a temptation

or an ease that might be heaven or a nu age

or nothing new at all.  And in the reckoning

comes the answer, the snap-snap of sacred eyes.