—Ohh, but what a memory I keep!

In this box beneath the bed.

My friends are many moments of Passion

moments of Love

moments of Lust

moments of Sorrow

and, excitement.

—Ahh, yes! I am all that I am!

In this box beneath the bed.

I keep company with a boy who walks

Circles upon circles with voidless conversations,

Whose every thought of tongue formed:

—advanced and lay dormantly dead

among the cold and lifeless,

as mere mystical ideas:

feather-like flowers sifting

through the veins of some

sweet, sweet girl chanting

she loves me, she loves me not

he loves me, he loves me not

every exhaled breath is a weighted world

full of Eden's Gardens with thousands of

little hands eager to pluck, ply, and pull

leaving the busy buzzing bee's world

without its sun to shine upon

always echoing buoyant blankness

as mere words gallop of the little lips

with a not!

But always so eager to set a firm vice

On the next tenderly soft water-silk,

Anticipating the precurious providence of pedal picking.

I keep company with the Rock of a beautiful African King,

So proud of His precious queen he, with all of his being,

Commissioned the highest demand on the greatest of Hand:

Hounding n pounding round' bout the fire,

Iron Clinched fists are rounding n sounding

My beautifully christened friend, smithened

With the highest of Demand

Of whom the days night belong to the sorrow Hand,

Fashioning alike only to the God of Man!

So pure,

The hounded n pounded fire rounded Rock of an African King,

Commissioned to be positioned not upon the Right Hand of the queen

Is so Pure its tide is clearer than heavens crystal sand,

Never again to lie in Glory not upon her right hand