become recurring indigestion in the belly of the beast,
make a documentary about what’s below the tip of the iceberg,
go through the eye of the needle,
become the eye of the storm
 
i’d get to the end of the line then begin a spiral,
get to the end of my rope and . . .  hang on . . .
i’ll think of something . . .,
be up to my eyeballs in trouble but still see you,
be the wind that keeps the straw from breaking the camel’s back,
the droplet that starts the watershed moment
that keeps you in the flow of life,
the feather that tips the scale in your favor,
the child’s laugh on the see-saw that creates a happy tipping-point,
i’d walk the plank then grow wings
then land and become the hundredth monkey
 
with your love I would not swim
but would clean up any ocean,
would not climb any mountain
but would take a hike if you told me too,
i’d see your smile and raise you one,
after the last dance tell you jokes
then convince you that the colonized mind
can’t admit that it could learn from a tree
or a rock or a butterfly
because all the colonized mind knows is to
divide and rule, enslave and destroy, heartlessly mass-produce
 
with your love i would show you how to be your original-self
so you don’t forget while battling the beast, the iceberg, the needle,
the storm, the plank, the aimless straws not used for weaving baskets
 
they say a line is the shortest distance between two points
but it all depends on where the line is headed
and who is in the way,
with your love i’d travel benignly serpentine
your hand with mine
aware of space but oblivious to time