A different kind of story.
I’ll write it across the sky:

I am a poet of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.
I’m a 12-year-old poet.
I am an original poet.
I’m a muse poet,
no help given
to the writing of this poem.

We have as little as possible to do with bounds.
Everything,
if you think of something divine,
it lights up.
Grape juice,
what’s the price?
To get this boy’s poem published?
Use the excellent hunter witchcraft.
This is by far the best boat.

We have an epiphany of being.
It lasts.
It shoulders reality.
It doesn’t go away.
It will be there when we get back.
That’s an ankle torn,
lavishly spent on nature.
I think we disappear awhile
into our compellings.
This could be a shade of grey,
or the self-righteous crowd.

We hang there.
We brood there.
We don’t know what it means.
I think Earth has taken us by the hand
to stumble some.
Are we workin’ things out?
We’re an operation reality.
So many meanings made clear
where we go wrong.
Can you see this?

It reaches us
right there where we’re at.
There is no perfection slave point.
We arrive there,
post-stumblings.
It’s as certain as Earth.
This is all in a car now.
We hump it some.

I can’t show you the Earth.
There are no fields there
perfection’s sum,
the arrived at.
I can only show you time
in her suspended miracle.
Each failing of Earth
gathers us.
It fixes us
where we find wounds.
I think the urge there is to heal,
in humanity,
and in ourselves.

What have we done to the Earth?
And you think this is out of step
with nature’s plan?
Of course we rob/ruin it. [words heard spoken simultaneously]
No other animal would do otherwise
in the glory of its day.
So how do we naturally put on?
Give the Earth time to heal
its man-plan.
This is far away from us?
You’ve got it in your hand.

We open Earth with it,
one story at a time,
stories big enough to see us,
because they’ve hit us in the quick of ourselves,
in what it means to be human.
We lavish such stories
in exaggerated can.
There are all humans to meet,
who spiritualize themselves
and bring out of them soul.

You can’t see this plan.
The story has made us discover ourselves
in an avoidance of Mars,
the tribe of our taboos,
that can make you vomit
if you find it close,
that can heal your scars
when you find it redemption.

What do we do with this?
He’s a pedophile throw him away.
You nincompoop,
this blesses us,
if we know it arrives at noon,
if we can call it our own,
sit with it
and not react.

I can’t spy this in for you.
You’ve got to see it yourself.
You’ve got to be there with the Earth
where she most needs.
You’ve got to be open to chance,
and from bad things can come good things,
if we arrive there.
The Earth is a joy shout out.
It means somethin’.

Every separate thing
loosened from its coils
came from her divinity’s roll out.
Some have become perverted in the mask of space.
They have a divine element.
They come back to themselves,
over and over again,
if we can find that purpose put.

And the pedophile becomes a purpose maker
in the intensity of small children.
Instead of sex he gives them stars.
Your disbelief is operating now.
It blights this page,
and I’m stuck with it,
have to sit with it and stare at time.
You won’t release me.

And we’re crowdin’ in on time.
My boy has submitted his first poem
to a literary showcase
here in India.
There will be others.
He’s 12,
and comes upon us another snag:
did he write this?

You maniac,
you are horrible disbelief.
You would destroy the world if you could,
rather than read his poetry lie down.
I’m making it visible now,
Nithish’s hotspot,
where he finds muse.
This is in our certain poetry together
in the soliloquy of love.

A shapeshifter,
I’ve morphed into my true form:
hello there boy,
I’m intensity of consciousness open up
to intensity of purpose,
hanging your own star.
Watch that glow.
Good God that’s purpose,
smellin’ salts.

Stories that make you puke,
stories that rhyme with the Earth,
calculate us
and make us see.
They involve with us
to every hand’s on healing.
Do tell,
and here I am in that yard.
Wrap me around the world, will yah?
I’m certain.
Watch it,
a fuller opera,
a zero point ignition,
reaches Earth.