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Blakean Consciousness on a Rainy Day

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“thro’ tiny chinks in his cavern”
And the Blakean consciousness bleeds on
throughout history’s alive pages,
and I, 24, without dishwasher
            in heavy sky of the unusual day,
                        consecutive rain
                        and a single window,
            out from the cavernous city-dwelling page
                        into a corridor,
                                    a bound perception
                                    thro’ metal bars forgiving the balcony height
                                    to molded vegetable juice
                        and the tears of higher neighbors
                                    formed as the litter of bare living,
                                                a recycled bicycle
            and out beyond through the thinly apparent walls of Chinatown
                        broken alleyway light,
                                    a perspective insight
                                                from my Judy of mothers in Peru,
                                                and an orange  
                                               
                                                this day,

                                                tasteless,
                                                breaking as styrofoam
                                                            between bloodied teeth,
                                                            and my reddened lips
                                                            taste stomach in the nervous dark,
            looking out into the scented air, pungent
                        with an all-encasing human night,
            peering steadily to see the weary raincoats
                        and automobile phantoms
            pressing on into the hard-packed moisture of regularity,
                        and behind a vehicle, motionless,
                        a single tree’s risen purpose touches
                                    the first windows of a parallel residence,
                        and immediately at the beginning to green goodness
                                                amid the forlorn grays and subdued reds
                                                and awful greens and flushed yellows,
                                    an English sign reads,
                                                “LD WAR,”
                                                            incomplete lettering foreshadows
                                                            the re-emergent world ploy,
                                    blanket of war over the marketplace of western
                                                            eyes

(to westernize with western eyes)

                                    breaking ice out over their green windowed
                                                            homes
                                                                        whose life rings clear
                                                                        in the tasteful wind
                                                                                    bringing cold and rain

with true knowledge of her leaving,
the door closes behind you twice,
            without word,
            in absolute Love,
a vacuous throat
                        shaped by the corridors walked
and now stared through
            sitting in the awesome lesson of the moment’s own home,
                        a dream over 10 years,
            that this cave is positioned to open towards a passage,
                                                one’s only point of departure
            and perceptual environment is no more or less than passage,
                                                whether through the mixed celebration
of alcohol and music
in Iquitos jungle vibrancy
on the neon drug night
of America’s wandering life,
                                                             whose footsteps perambulate
                                                                         an obvious clarity:
                                                                         to heed the passage
                                                                         and await patiently
                                                                             the end
                                                                                of world war

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