You could call it Saturcray, or Whatever

Saturday died, it is Sunday.
It's a beautiful thing.
Which we could not have if we have not the ugly.

Funny how that works. And, also, grave.

And with the passage of time I will learn quietude and I will learn slowness,
and in these beings I will have a unparallelled loudness and a mystical swiftness. Only through this change will I find Free.

I met Allen Ginsberg today. He is in a new body, bright and burning sweetness.

I met love too, in eyes and sounds and lights and tree's embrace.

I write a song of a final chapter of a book written long ago. To whom I am addressing you know:

I won't swim the river
for you
above my bones
runs blue

I wont swim the river for you
when there are so few
that know
red turns blue
what bleeds grows back
again
my friend


dont make your river
for two
its you, yours
a brilliant blue

here's a tribute
to your airies
just the fire not the sign
all you see

swims away from me

your rivers not my river
your place not my place
I wont look down the river
down the river floats your face

dont make your river
for two
its you, yours
a brilliant blue

dont believe your river
a desert
i see the current
blue and unfettered


how can you know
if you've never got in
that theres an unending depth
it's just stretched thin

dont make your river
for two
its you, yours
a brilliant blue x2



 Love, Infinite,

M .A. R