Love, here now.

I didn’t write this poem, you did,

it’s writing itself, as you hear it,

and here’s what it sounds like,

right now:



And these noise, cut with silence, come to you as words,

beautiful phrases or gobbledy-gook, and they do so,

right now.


Or maybe other thoughts appear, 

of holidays, or what to have for tea, or how to fix the toaster

and these words and thoughts are mingling, together,

right now.


And all of this is happening in a tiny hanging moment,

and the past never happened, and the future never comes,

and the words and language don’t exist, all there is, 

is right now.


And there is no you or me, no us or them, no here,

no there, no outside, no inside, no upside, no downside,

no atoms, no particles, no space in between, 

and yet there’s still colliding, 

right now.


And everything is love, 

(or whatever-you-call-it.)

The voices

the spaces,

the people,

the places,

the trees, 

the flowers, 

the hamburgers,

the dog shit,

the gas bill,

the toll booth,

the mustard,

the traffic jam,

the television.

And the planet.

All a shared dream, 

happening right now.

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