See April's 2006POEM** //THis one is a RED FLY tip

Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now yrs ago. The mayhem-tree (as such I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the CURRENCY of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--it's a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise which would leave me gainful of expression: I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of this life's edifice--a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial worshipped space) w/ expectations on par w/ the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief & knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other side" into Mother Earth & define their opposition to it i.e. to that of the "other side" the sitra archa--the ch is a Kuh sound as in cuss. I am the convergence of wanting in & getting out.