A sacred world

 All is sacred of the world
Yet inside many things are also frivilous
where's the path? Covered by the wind blown dust
And yet the world is sacred, but you didn't pick up the broom

So it was hidden under the dirt and grime
Now a shovel is needed
Dig your treasure
Blunt the shovel

The world is sacred
the way we absorb it might be iniquitous
interacting with the liveliest parts
ignoring the quieter ones

People are reckless 
motorcycle brains
Running on lard carbs and sugar
Covered by wind blown debris

Yet the world they live in is sacred
A holy rolling stone we sit stationary on
yet the restless ones try to accompany the spin
The drive and the hype

The world's invisible balance
Is seen by the rare spiritual one
The vision is the treasure
The seeing is the value

Winning over my eyes

 She sat on the bench i'd often exercise my chest on.

That is where the heart physically lives.

She crossed her leg over the other one and chose the song she would finish the exercise on.

She started tapping her foot in such a way I was drawn in.

I had to use my keen peripheral vision.

I knew If i looked at her directly the possibility she thought I was a creep would become ever present.

I guess she'd found the song she was searching for.

Because it went from a foot tap, to a bouncing knee.

let me tell you something about me, I can't pass up a woman's bouncing knee.

Perhaps the coup de grâce was when her head started nodding to the beat.

Slowly and elegantly.

I tried to pull my eyes away. Because now I was looking at her directly.

Where was my shame, my self control.

Nowhere, I just wanted to see her sitting on that bench like a miracle listening and lip syncing the music for my pleasure.

No longer worried if she thought I was a creep.

She wins my eyes everytime.

The flow and flush

 

You might want to check your plumbing

 Maintenance is key for the great S bends of life

 Before those stinking shapes accumulate

 Avoid giving yourself yourself a blockage

 The cleaning never ends

 Negligence is a world for diseases

 Life is about flow, grab a plunger

 For when it all gets backed up

 Hide your problems though smell lingers

 Too much paper clogs the system

 Use the duck and don't forget to brush

 Enjoy it all before you get flushed

A place in the hills

 The restaurant sits in a grassy hollow.
Exposed to the sun.
The sun hits each blade of grass.
The grass rises in response.

Absorbing the intensity.
Then speaking up.
With a subtle golden language.
inside bright tips of reflection.

The restaurant is tucked into a clump of tall dense tropical trees.
Providing the sharp catching contrast between the exposed and the shade.
There will be eating and satisfaction there, joyous gatherings
It will be built. 

Carpet stain's in the mansion

 The mansion was for hosting parties
Low ceiling living room 
Few windows
Long colorful sofas

Overfilled with cushions
Still warm from yesterdays party
That finished early this morning
Nothing had any symmetry

The restrooms were like tombs
A sense that anyone attending these parties
Was admitting a certain disdain for their life
The usual cocktail of drugs

With atleast one local surprise
How excess and disaster make such likely brothers
Usually turning up and reeking havoc together
One advising the other to join

By that time the hosts are elsewhere
far from the ambulance sirens
Or the screams of some fabulous drama
Only there at the beginning

To welcome you in like parents
Like obsessed friends guiding you in
Then offering you up to the night
Like a pagan sacrifice

To be a spider of fiber

 The spider's legs unfold and it rises slowly.
It crosses the floor in the quiet of the night.

Under the fridge it goes.
Where other insects sit in hush.

Witnessing it's arrival in terror.
Not willing to move incase it invites an attack.

The spider turns its body looking across the hunched insects.
Partially exposed out of the dust.

It tries to identify a bite size creature.
That would offer little resistance.

The spider registered movement from the back.
There a gecko appeared furious with energy.

The spider turned and crossed the floor.
Back to it's little crevice.

Folded it's legs back into itself.
And asked itself- Why didn't I just weave a web?

The chest

 It was an old tool box
locked up with treasures inside
Padlocks and chains
Thick sheet metal

You can't get inside
Many fine things sit inside
Waiting to see the light of the day
The light of someone's eyes

But the treasure is confined
All the onlooker has is imagination
For whatever's hidden inside
It may just be rusted tools

Not even usable anymore
But rumours are there's gold
Opals and gems
You can't break it open