spring 2015 is like libra's with boxcutters below their lips, smiling at disputes in the afternoon train, after school is let out and cuss words cut the deliberate silences of straphangars hanging for their lives.
snowfall in ithaca. it always snows in ithaca. always is the word of experts who spend two weeks, two years in a town and write guidebooks. this is just the way it is, the business world of everyone who has converted to the color of neoliberalism, tells me.
chris holds out, still writing plays on a time of butterflies, still goes to the rez to oust nuclear war heads planted like cattle corn. chris in his mid life now, still carries real like my dad in his golden age.
my abba stares at the buildings in front of us at the bus stop on 34th and reminisces of movement, underground conversations between bangli immigrants in 70's new york, about bagels and coffee. he tells me about the coffee shop he used to goto 20 or 30 years back, in midtown, of how he used to get a coffee and people-watch for moments.
think about spring in terms of seasons of life. what season is spring when someone passes? my little homie by my name, passed in the spring some years back.
think of spring as always present, no matter the season, as it is always a time of new beginings. there is spring in the winter, summer and fall. there is winter, the end. it is always as well. all the seasons appear all the time - the begining and end.
the end never ends, which is a testimony to ALLAHuakbar, ALLAH, the 1ness, is greater than this moment, as ALLAH is always.
this moment is beautiful, an opportunity to grow past the frequency of a brutal winter, of beginning again. rebirth. time never repeats itself, no moment does.
whats in season is you, is what is pregnant inside you, is the Real You. come out. play. be a Lover. not a moments rest without You...
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