The present

is a lost state, open, on the verge,

just about to;

an abstract phenomenon

- but undeniably here,

just like falling over;

yes, the present is falling over,

always in view but out of sight,

rainbowish, horizontish,

a closed universe, the door out

is the door in;

an open prison,

handcuffs serving as wings

The present is jumping off a cliff

with folded thoughts,

kissing your loved one,

burying a cat that gulped the world;

a room, vacant, still, silent

between your heartbeats,

each beat stringed on a rosary

as the theory of the present

lets loose a storm of bravery

and a tornado of cowardice

as you gasp, falling down the chute

of a narrow escape

You and your present

soar with the wind

through the forest;

the snow, fresh and cold,

lashing down your neck;

a fresher than fresh Satori flash

down your spine;

a hot rod shooting up

through your place in space,

a cat calling for your attention,

small birds

smoking like Marianne's hair

across Leonard's pillow

outside my kitchen window

1st February in minus 20 C,

as a hot mug

of Twinings Earl Grey

throws the golden gate

of 1967

ajar

Ravi Shankar's

1965 album Portrait of Genius

playing fucking loud,

permeating the whole house

with sitar and tabla

and the uncanny magic of youth

bursting

with life and death concerns

across from Sune's beautiful

mid-sixties sorcerer's face

gallantly opening world upon world

for me to tread

in the wild intoxication

of the holy flavour

of exotic tea,

setting the course for this life

of exploration and amazement

right there and right then

The cat sits on my lap

as a write,

looking up in my face

as if I was a god,

and I breathe into his fur

behind his ear,

between these words,

and he is happy,

and I feel warm and unworthy,

and Ravi Shankar is a beacon

of spirituality

out of a 1965 that stays far behind

but changes with every day