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-- for John, a dear wise wise friend, a guru and a prophet.
For twenty years he passed by the projects,
Staring at the gray square of courtyard
Free of the drug dealer and pill pusher;
Where the knotted buzz of colored girls
Was the pumping of thighs pushing up and down
Like pistol-hot pistons purring under
Skin tight torsos, flat as hard floor boards,
Heads mounted solid, somewhere in mid-air,
The two taut ropes, tip-skipping, snapping
Tight-spun arcs, spinning round one's still center--
Their soul center, he thought-- ball of dense air
Somewhere over toe-tapping, rip-splitting feet.
Many a day with wonderment he gazed,
His sullen, unseeing eye vaguely fixed,
Pondering when and where she'd jump in,
How and if she'd pop up and spin back out.
He would learn though, with his own sober grace,
The blind dive in-- deep down, limbs tucked under--
A yellow yoke an eggbeater's bowl, spinning out
Intact, shaking the sharp splintered shells.
...But he would first hit the bottom--
The concrete bottom-- where I would sit,
Staring, lump-slumped with pricked eager ears,
Fanning the flaming sparks of his bright eyes
Doing-double dutch-- learning of soul-love,
The joy of trust and release, from whence it comes.
He said it is given-- the letting go:
The jumping-off point, the point of free flight;
Flinging off the nets; the spinning noose of coiled rope,
A sober, star-bound soul on the air's delight.
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