Saturday, December 25, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


I celebrate the virtuoso organist, latest descendant of E. Power Biggs, whose vinyl I would check out from the South Bend Public Library at age 16. Would crank to sky that feeling of commingling. Now I feel as tall as then. The principal endeavor, being here. My thanks all go to privilege, being ever the servant of escape from my mistakes. Such plural individuals. Now shining daylight presses on a toned reciprocal entwining. I have listed everyone in prayer. I wear a jacket laced in black with dark blue-red tones. I have spoken early to my neighbor and her sweatered dogs, and to others who have made quadruple shots of caff-. What kind of daylight is prescribed for underlying darkness? The soul amounts to what we think will last. So much connection, day in day continuo. As bandwidth focuses the possible, posses gather to protect who will be served. An insistent person tasked with how the love will be distributed, to amend the prior days. Poor souls damaged, having been so like ourselves, each coming day in tune with north forever.

Magnum opus, variation on an opulence, calisthenics lending tacit strength to what seems usual

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